Marital Bitch (Men with Badges)

Chapter ELEVEN

(Colleen)

I’m going to try.

IT TAKES ME approximately eleven minutes to clean up and get changed into something more acceptable than damp boxers and a wrinkled Red Sox t-shirt. All of the clothes I have with me are pretty casual, but I don’t have time to make it to my condo before going to the office.

I’m in so much trouble. So, so screwed, and not the kind I wanted to be.

I put on my white sundress that I wore the other day and rush around looking for my mobile phone. Brad comes down after using the bathroom. We haven’t spoken since my mother’s phone call. He watches me as I sift through the sofas for my mobile. I divert my attention, uneasy under his gaze. I don’t want him to tell me that being intimate is a mistake. I don’t want to be rejected. But above that, the most pressing issue is that I don’t want to be fired. Finally, I crack.

“Have you seen my phone?” I practically beg as I toss cushions aside.

“Yeah,” Brad scratches his head, yawns, and casually walks over to the kitchen. I practically leap over the discarded cushions as I race for the kitchen. Brad picks my phone up and tosses it to me. I catch it mid-sprint. The battery is dead. I run to my luggage and pull out my charger, plugging it into the nearest outlet. I wait with bated breath as it slowly comes to life.

“You want coffee?” Brad hollers over the repetitive dinging of my Blackberry’s alerts. I’m too focused to answer him. 28, 29, 30, 31… Thirty-five one text messages, eight voice mail messages, and fourteen e-mail messages; and my palms are sweaty. What have I done? First I check my text messages: one from James telling us to make him an uncle; one from Darla telling us to ignore James, he’s drunk; four from Emily telling me that we need to get together soon; and twenty five from Thomas Nate. I am so screwed.

The first message from Thomas was sent last night just after he left the party. He needed help in court this morning. The next five are also from the previous night from Thomas; various instructions and a few pleas for me to contact him so that he can brief me on the Perkins case. The rest are from this morning. They start out friendly, but the last five are to inform me that once I pull myself from my husband that I need to meet with him in his office as soon as possible.

Tears stream down my face. I can’t even believe that I didn’t set my alarm for this morning. I didn’t even bother to charge my phone. Missing a morning of work without notice is bad enough, but that I can muck through. Missing court is unforgivable short of a life or death situation. Dry humping the husband is not a life or death situation, and for the life of me, I cannot imagine an acceptable scenario to tell Thomas. I’ll just have to go in and accept whatever punishment Thomas deems necessary. I just hope it doesn’t cost me my position at the firm.

I stand up, careful not to yank out my charger and I look to Brad with tear-filled eyes. He’s calm and cool, as always, and it angers me. Nothing shakes this man. This house could probably get foreclosed on and he would still be calm and cool, like there’s nothing to worry about. The coffee maker beeps and he pours himself a cup, drinking it black.

“How can you be so calm?” I yell at him. He barely notices and just shrugs his shoulders. I scream, stomp toward him, and grab the mug from his hands. The steaming hot coffee sloshes out of the mug, scolding my hands; which only makes me even madder. Brad just watches me, still half asleep, an amusing smirk playing on his lips. It’s not really his fault that I’m late, but his aloof attitude has me spitting bullets.

“Oh, calm the f*ck down, already, will you?” His eyes narrow and he takes his coffee mug back. Now he looks like he’s getting annoyed. Good. “You can’t blame me this time, pretty girl,” he yawns lazily. I grumble in frustration and spin around, grabbing my purse and my barely charged Blackberry. I don’t have my car here, it’s across town at my condo. On my way to the door I eye Brad’s key rack, and an idea comes to me. I grab his keys and run out the door. He’s calling after me, trying to offer me a ride; but I don’t want to be driven.

“MS. FRASIER OR should I call you Mrs. Patrick?” Thomas says, bite in his voice. My stomach churns in fear. He waves me in. “Shut the door, Colleen. We don’t need the entire floor aware of your short comings.”

I shut the door behind me and sit in a guest chair, awaiting my fate. Thomas and I are close in age, but he’s the golden child of the senior partner. Thomas is not known for his people skills, but he’s a competent enough lawyer. He’s also not one for beating around the bush.

“When you were hired here, Colleen, the firm made it perfectly clear what our stance was on our associate’s personal lives interfering with their commitment to the firm. Need I remind you of the commitment you made upon being hired?” I shake my head. No, I needn’t be reminded, thank you.

“Employment at Nate & Caldwell is high sought after. Had it not been for your father’s connections in the D.A.’s office, you likely would not have been hired. Based on your University scores and your interview alone, you were not an ideal candidate for the position.” His words cut me to the bone. During my interview, Mr. Nate, Sr. asked me about my father several times, but I never thought much of it. And my scores from University? That must be a joke. I went to Harvard.

“Mr. Nate,” I say as confidently as I can, “I went to Harvard. I received above average marks, and I do not appreciate the accusation that I did not obtain this position based on my own merit—that I had to have daddy help me—so please. I have no defense for my absence this morning.” I choose not to apologize just yet. I don’t want to sound like I’m begging or kissing his ass. I know Thomas wants me to kiss his ass more than anything right now.

He nods his head and shoves a piece of paper and pen at me. I peer over at the paper to find that it’s a performance contract. I pick up the offending paper to find that I am in more trouble than I had initially thought. This contract basically says that I am to not miss another court date, that I am to be in the office on time every day, and that my personal life—namely my husband—are not to interfere with my work. This feels extreme, even for Thomas.

“Mr. Nate, this contract feels a bit presumptuous considering this is my first offense. This was my first time missing any time at work since coming on board at the firm. I cannot believe that all associates are sanctioned at this level for a first offense.” I feel confident that I’m being picked on and I don’t like it.

“Ms. Frasier,” Thomas says and then clears his throat. “Err—Mrs. Patrick, you are not yet a full associate. You are still in your probationary period and can be let go without cause. This here,” he waves at the paper, “is a professional courtesy.” Suddenly, I feel like I’m a small child and my parents are disappointed in me. I doubt the legality of the contract, but I feel boxed into a corner.

“So,” he says, the smug sound of superiority laces his every word, reminding me of my place. “I suggest that you sign the contract so that you may continue employment with Nate & Caldwell; otherwise the firm will take your objection as your resignation.”

I sign the form. I have little choice, apart from unemployment; and in this economy I doubt that I will have many job prospects having been fired from my one and only place of employment as a practicing attorney. Thomas, The Toad, as I will now take to calling him, dismisses me for the day. He suggests that I go home and get the honeymoon out of my system so that I can be in top shape for tomorrow.

I slink out of his office and keep my head down on my walk out. I hear murmurs from my coworkers, all wanting to know what happened and whether or not I’ve been fired. For people with such heavy workloads, they sure are spending a lot of time focusing on non-work-related affairs.

I make it back to the truck before I break. Sobs rack my body with such force that it cripples me. As people pass by and become more inquisitive about the sobbing woman in the pickup, I collect myself enough to drive home.

Home.

Home is my condo; my condo with my desk and my laptop and my filing cabinet. Home is neat and orderly and quiet. Home doesn’t have Brad and his shenanigans and all the bullshit, childish crap he talks me into. No, home—my condo—is my safe place. Back at my condo, my job isn’t in peril and my career doesn’t look so hopeless.

So I drive to my condo. I decide that I’ll figure out what to do about Brad’s truck later. Right now I need to collect myself. I need to work on my case load and to be productive. I need a bit of normalcy before I crack under the pressure.

I sigh, contentedly, as I slide the key in the lock to my front door. Home is just a step away. I open the door and put my keys in my purse and stroll inside, feeling only slightly better than when I left The Toad’s office. I turn on the living room lamp to find my condo nearly empty. I’ve only had this condo for a few months now and it was sparsely furnished to begin with; but now even the basics are missing.

My books that once sat in the large bookcase across the room are gone. I walk to the dining room to see that my dinette set is now missing two of its chairs and in the kitchen even my coffee maker and toaster are gone. Just when I’m sure that I’ve been robbed, Brad walks out of my bedroom with James and Adam and Lindsay.

The boys look tired as they each have large cardboard boxes in their arms. But Lindsay looks energized and she’s box-free. Horrified, I realize that they’re packing my stuff up to move it to Brad’s. We didn’t really talk about this, but it makes sense. The outside world would expect a married couple to live in the same house, and this place isn’t big enough for Brad to live here. Not that he’d leave the neighborhood, anyway.

Brad spots me and he sets the box down. It’s marked “Girly Shit.” He walks over to me and holds my face in his hands, studying me. A tear slips down my cheek and I burst into tears. He pulls me tightly against his chest and holds me. I wrap my arms around him and sob.

Ever since we were kids, Brad had a way of comforting me; and this is no different. He’s still here for me, still comforting me. I make a vow to myself that I’m going to try. I’m going to try to be a good friend and good wife, whatever that means. Thomas’s indication that I can’t handle being a married woman and having a career as well makes me livid. It’s everything my mother told me growing up—that I’d have to make a choice, that I would always regret choosing a career over having a family. I have no intention of any of them right; so I’m going to try. I just hope Brad wants to try, too.