Marital Bitch (Men with Badges)

Chapter TWO

(Colleen)

Marry me, pretty girl.

IT’S LATE, BUT we don’t have much time here, so we dress out for a few hours on the strip anyway. Ten years ago, when we were in our mid-twenties, we could have stayed out all night, but time is no longer on our side. James is already complaining about how tired he is. He doesn’t care that it’s still early in Nevada—back home in Massachusetts, it’s nearly midnight.

Dressed in our best stylish I’m-not-really-trying attire, the six of us make our way down to the casino. The boys wear jeans and button-ups and we girls wear jeans and heels. Darla and Lindsay say, “Go big or go home,” so I suppose going big includes heels. It’s been hours of tense silence and I’m more than ready to blow off some steam. We wasted the entire day stuck in the airport and we’ve missed the comedy show and dinner we had bought tickets to.

After losing some money and spending some time in a nearby bar, we’re all loosened up, and I’m well on my way to being drunk. After the day I’ve had, this warm, blissful feeling is welcome. It’s been so long since I’ve indulged in anything more than a pint of rocky road.

I peer over my right shoulder to see Brad at the bar getting another beer. He is not one for hard liquor, only drinking it when he’s having an especially rough time. He walks back to our table and I signal for him to stand by me. I nudge him gently upon his approach. Graciously, he gives me a half smile, the corners of his mouth turning up. We’re making amends.

At some point we’re going to have to figure out if this friendship is worth salvaging, but not tonight. Tonight, we’re just Brad and Colleen. Tonight, we’re the little kids who used to steal their dad’s badges and ride around the neighborhood on their bikes arresting people. Tonight, we’re just the kids from South Boston. Tonight, I won’t try to hide my accent.

“What can I do to make you smile, pretty girl?” This is Brad’s way of apologizing. He’s never really done the whole ‘I’m sorry’ thing. I bat my eyes, burying the hatchet, even if it’s in a shallow grave and just for the evening.

“Well, handsome,” I say, my thick Boston accent flowing through every word. Brad’s eyes light up. It’s been a long time since anybody has heard it. I’ve spent years hiding this side of myself.

“Are you gonna take me to play cards, or not?” Everyone at our table lets out an enthusiastic shout as my speech transforms from my alma-matter-approved Harvard perfect English to my native Boston Irish where the letter “r” always sounds like an “h.”

“That’s my girl!” Brad leads the cheers as he shoves his beer in the air and he and James clink bottles. He’s laughing a full-on belly laugh and in this moment, he is breathtaking. Tonight, it feels good just being little Colleen Frasier from the neighborhood, not having to prove a thing to anybody.

“Well, well, well, baby sister still has her accent,” James says, dimples on full display. I laugh and look around the table at my closest friends. I feel a case of shame coming on, no matter how hard I fight it. James and Brad have always been proud of their heritage. I always wanted more.

I wanted to know what it was like across town, in the fancy high rises overlooking the river. I became a lawyer because I could, and because it was about as far removed from my blue-collar upbringing as I could get. I’m the only one at this table who has ever aspired to be anything other than who they are.

Thankfully, my sulking doesn’t last. Brad sweeps me away to play blackjack while James and Darla excuse themselves to go upstairs. Darla needs to pump her breasts because she’s still nursing. James is going along for support. We all waive them off, not needing to hear the details of motherhood.

Adam and Lindsay disappear, but Brad and I don’t worry about them. We just play blackjack and laugh, and we drink. Brad is dismayed with the “beah” selection and gripes to the cocktail waitress. She smiles politely tolerating him, I think, because despite his best efforts, he’s still charming. The night wears on and we continue to drink.

An elderly couple sits beside us at the blackjack table and they comment on our accents. Brad grins and put his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, telling him we’re from the best place on earth: South Boston. He’s a proud one, that’s for sure. He also manages to throw out the fact that he’s a detective for the police force back home.

The day Brad got promoted, everyone south of the basin heard about it. The elderly man was a firefighter in his day, so he and Brad bond over their civil service. Brad calls me his girl, loudly, and lays a big smacking kiss on my cheek. His breath is rank, but I’m tipsy enough to not care. I blush under the attention because people begin to stare and Brad is so loud.

The elderly woman asks how long we’ve been together, if we’re married, and if not, when we will be. This is not the first time we have been asked this. I choose not to wonder why. When we inform her that we’re not together, the elderly woman dons a look of pity. I don’t like where this is going.

“I don’t understand your generation,” she says. “When I was young, a girl was lucky to genuinely like her husband, much less have him as her best friend. You two are clearly very close. I just don’t understand it.” Her husband tries to quiet her down, but it’s obvious that he’s only making the attempt in an effort to be polite because he backs down quickly and lets her continue.

“This Bradley is a handsome man,” she gives me her full attention, “and he is smitten with you. I can tell these things. You young girls want it all, what you don’t know is that nobody can have it all and still be happy.” Brad is grinning and the woman quickly turns to him and berates him about what being a proper suitor means. She tells him that if he has any decency that he will marry me tonight. I scoff, but Brad promises her that were I to agree, he would have married me long ago. Like I said, he’s charming. But he’s also full of shit.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Thirty-five,” I say, hating the way it sounds. I just want to get out of here, but Brad’s on a roll. She looks horrified and begins to tell me that I’m getting up there in years. I’ve been drinking for hours now, nursing my drinks, but it’s getting to me. My mind is getting fuzzy.

Her words sting me in a way I’m loathe to admit. I thought that if I worked hard, I could be an attorney and still have a husband and kids. I had a plan. It was a rough plan, but according to my now-defunct plan, I should have been married by now and I should have already had two children. I never thought I would be alone at thirty-five. Unfortunately, the only men I spend any amount of time with are family or the very married attorneys at my firm, or Brad. I have no prospects and I think I’m starting to give off that vibe of desperation.

“My sister never married,” the old bitty says. Her voice is gentle and high-pitched, but her words reek of judgment. “She was a spinster at thirty-five.” I nervously laugh her off and avoid eye contact with everyone around me. Brad isn’t laughing anymore. He places his hand on my back. He knows I’m upset and in this very public place there is little he can do about it. He knows that being alone and unmarried at thirty-five has always been a fear of mine—which has now become a reality.

“Men don’t look at you the same once you’re in your thirties,” she adds. Her words are spaced out and I can tell she’s regretting saying anything at all. I suck back the tears that threaten to spill and pick my head up. I’m training as a closer at the firm. I know how to hold my own, but Nate & Caldwell don’t train you to handle little old ladies with big mouths. I need more practice. “But you’ve known that for a while now, haven’t you?”

“Let’s go back to the bar, pretty girl. I want another beer,” Brad says.

“Sure,” I put on my best smile and we excuse ourselves, taking our meager winnings with us. I start heading back to the bar, but Brad steers me outside. The hot air in Las Vegas is in stark contrast to the biting wind chill we experienced at six a.m., back in Boston. There is no wind here in the desert, just this miserable, dry heat. Only the heat and the dust, and the glow of the strip surround us.

I thought I would feel better, less on edge, once we were alone. But I just feel vulnerable, and old, and so very alone. Women who are married, especially the ones who have been married for decades, have this way of forgetting their own struggles being single. Even Lindsay seems to forget how she used to bemoan the dating scene. They don’t understand being a thirty-five year old woman and being alone. How could they?

“You okay, pretty girl?” Brad has his arm around my shoulder, comfortably tucking me into his side. I nod weakly. He sighs.

“Look, you aren’t any of those things that old woman said, okay?” I break out into a pathetic wash of tears at his words. He wraps both of his arms around me and holds me to him, tight. My tears soak his button-up. Petty arguments aside, he is always here for me. I collapse into him, sobbing.

I wanted so much and I thought that if I just worked hard enough, it would come to me. I didn’t account for the 70-hour work weeks or the emotional demand that being a baby lawyer would take on me. At the end of a work week, assuming I take a day off that week, I’m much too exhausted to even consider going out and meeting new people.

I let the weight of the old woman’s words sink in. They hit me to the core. “I thought I’d be married by now,” I sniffle into Brad’s chest. I sound ridiculous and I laugh at myself.

“Me too,” Brad says. “Guess I haven’t found my girl yet.”

“What are you looking for?” I ask, without really thinking about what I expect to hear. This is as personal as we’ve gotten in years. I’m not sure if I’m crossing some kind of boundary line here.

“Birthing hips,” he chuckles. “She’s got to be able to pop me out a baseball team. And Irish, she’s got to be Irish—the fiery spirit and all. Working class, a girl who gets her hands dirty and ain’t gonna worry about no chipped nails. And she’s got to be tough to put up with me and all our kids.” I’m now slightly uncomfortable with the depth of his answer. I expected him to tell me he was looking for a 34D without a gag reflex. How is it possible that after all of these years, he still surprises me? How did I not know that would be his answer? I let myself feel bad for having spent so long putting such a large distance between he and I.

“What are you looking for?” he asks. I hiccup and try to formulate an answer, but he doesn’t give me time. “Let me guess—you want a hot shot lawyer like you. A guy who speaks proper-like and has some fancy title like you got at Harvard.”

Pretty much.

I flush and compose myself. “Sounds pretty good to me,” I say, trying to keep the shame at bay.

I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed by what I want in a man. Maybe it’s because this is Brad. He has a way of making me feel insignificant, less than, not enough; even though that’s the last thing he’d ever want to do.

“I figured,” he says, sounding smug as ever. “You’d never go for a guy like me.” He’s trying to sound hurt, and he’s succeeding. I don’t know where he’s going with this, but it makes me nervous. We’re in unmarked territory here. It’s off-putting.

“That’s not true. I just,” my voice trails off. “I know a guy like you won’t go for a girl like me.” It’s true. I’m too high maintenance as he tells me. I try to shake off the eerie seriousness of the conversation. Brad pulls back, places his hands on my shoulders and looks me up and down.

“You’ll do,” he says as he scans my body and his hands find purchase on my hips. “Nice and wide,” he sizes up my hips.

Wide? What the hell!

I gape at him, much too surprised for my own good. He has me hooked into whatever he is warming up to do or say, just like when we were little. Whatever it is, I’m so screwed.

“So, here’s the thing, pretty girl,” he grins devilishly. I’m sunk and I know it. “We got,” he looks at his watch and presses a button on the side, illuminating the dial, “a little over an hour left until midnight, and your birthday will be over. What do you say we make one of those wishes of yours come true, huh?” I’m confused. I haven’t a clue to what he is referring.

“Huh?” I ask. Before I can see it coming, he drops to one knee. Suddenly, things become very clear, but I just can’t believe what I’m seeing. Obviously, Brad has Vegas fever. People are starting to notice the crazy man on his knee and it’s making me nervous. They seem to have no apprehension about gathering around and watching the show.

“So, you wanna marry me or something?” He is still grinning, there on one knee, and I am mortified. This is so typical—he sees a problem and sets out to fix it.

Sanity be damned!

“What!” I screech, unable to find any control to my volume. I am half-past freaking out and he is the epitome of calm. At least our friends aren’t here to see this. I just want to crawl into a hole and die. With the best of intentions, he has managed to make me feel even more insignificant, and less than, and so terribly alone.

“Dude,” he laughs, “you’re my best friend. You wanted to get married by thirty, and that one’s past, so let’s just do it, okay? And can you answer me soon? My knee is f*cking killing me here.” The crowd is getting larger and everyone seems to have an opinion of sorts: Marry him. Ask him where the ring is. I’ll marry you. He’s hot, if she doesn’t marry him, I will. The comments seem endless, though not a one is against the idea.

“Yeah, okay,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “But you do realize that after the wedding we’d be married, right?” The crowd laughs in unison and it’s Brad’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Annulment, pretty girl,” he is winning me over with his logic. And the being on bended knee thing. In my drunken fog, this looks like a viable option.

“People get them all the time. So, come on. Will you marry me, pretty girl?” I shift my weight from foot to foot and back again, making him stew. There is something about Brad that always makes me lose my sense of reason. One time he even talked me into an impromptu trip to the tattoo shop. I chickened out and got a very small flower on my hip bone instead of the beautiful, but large, hibiscus flowers I had wanted to begin with. He didn’t let me live that one down for weeks.

I find my resolve slipping away at rapid speeds. This is Las Vegas. I mean, it’s sort of the thing to do here, right? And I’ll be single again before my vacation is even over, so, why not? Not that being single is so appealing or anything. And a teeny, tiny part of me may think he looks sort of, kind of cute down there, like that.

“Yeah,” I shake my head, “but if we’re going to do this we better get going. My birthday’s almost over.” Brad hops to his feet, grinning, and gives me a fist bump. Our onlookers begin to disperse. I wonder if this is, perhaps, the strangest display they’ve ever seen from a newly engaged couple.

We hail a cab and Brad tells them what we’re looking for. The driver knows exactly what we need to do and he drives us to the nearest ATM, where Brad gets out enough cash for the marriage license; then the cabbie takes us to the courthouse. We get out and Brad pays the guy an advance on his tip to stay put.

It’s a Monday night, so the courthouse is practically empty. Once we start filling out paperwork and handing over the cash, the reality of what I’m doing sinks in; but Brad keeps making jokes about being married and having a story to tell his buddies at the station. He’s really excited about this. Brad is all about having stories to tell his buddies back at the station. I try to convince myself that I’m going through with this in an effort to make my best childhood friend happy. It’s a pitiful attempt. Deep down I know I’m not trying to make him happy. I’m trying to make myself happy, if even for one night.

Back in the cab, Brad ruffles my hair and shakes me into giggles. He’s so carefree and silly. I can’t help but join in the spirit. I had a few stray day dreams as a teenager of what it would be like to be with Brad, and I may have scribbled Mrs. Bradley Patrick and Mrs. Colleen Patrick in a notebook a time or two—or a hundred.

Little does Brad know that by doing this, I’m accomplishing two of my goals without any of the hassle of a real wedding or actual marriage. I resolve to find my old diary in my parents’ attic and jot this down. I’m totally going to make the sixteen-year-old girl inside jealous. Speaking of jealousy, I’ll have to make sure Lisa Wilks hears about this. That woman has hated me since we were in Kindergarten and Brad wouldn’t let her kiss him no matter how many times she tried. He always let me kiss him though.

The cabbie makes a few calls from his cell phone and finds us a chapel that can work us in so that we’ll be married before midnight. This guy is good and we decide that he’s getting a hefty tip. Excitedly, we call and text our friends where to meet us. The moment I say “chapel”, I hear Darla yelling at James. I can’t make out all of what she’s saying, but I get the distinct impression that she thinks we’re crazy—or drunk. She may think we’re too drunk to make such a choice. We could be.

The next half an hour is a blur. We rush through the explanations everyone is demanding and we try to laugh off their concerns. James is the most relaxed. He hugs us both and says “it’s about damn time.”

Darla is not pleased with his carefree attitude and she’s playing with her phone. Her inattention to us is worrying me. I can’t help but wonder what she’s doing over there; but being the bride is an exhausting process, even in a spur-of-the-moment Vegas ceremony. The Bridal Assistant talks me into the elbow-length white gloves and the veil. Brad opts for a blue-silver suit jacket. We laugh about our attire and joke that we’re business on the top with our wedding gear, and party on the bottom with our jeans.

I pick out a cheap gold wedding band for Brad. It costs me a total of six dollars. Brad produces a Ring Pop for me and jokes that my ring will last longer than our marriage.

Darla finally lightens up. She’s all smiles and taking a few sneak shots with her cell phone camera. I’m just drunk enough to not think anything of this. It seems harmless enough. Darla Frasier: 1; Colleen Frasier-soon-to-be-Patrick: 0.

She’s playing on Facebook, but I figure I can convince her to remove it all later. It’s late here and even later back home. Nobody is going to see it anyway, I reason, except maybe for Lisa Wilks. Yes, yes, Lisa Wilks needs to see this.

The minister directs us to our places. James walks me down the aisle, and half way through, he breaks out into the funky chicken, but stops quickly when his back starts to ache. For a fake wedding, James is really just too excited. Yeah, he’s drunk, but still. Nobody can keep a straight face. The corners of Brad’s eyes crinkle up in the corners and he can’t keep his eyes off of me. This is how I’ve always wished he’d look at me. It’s one of the best moments of my life.

Brad and I choose to make up our own vows. We agree that it would be wrong, a slap in the face of the sanctity of marriage, to recite the traditional vows. Darla points out that getting married for fun is also a slap in the face of the sanctity of marriage. It’s a slippery slope. I remind myself to go to confession sometime this year. I’m informed that I’m up first. I’m not quite sure what to say, so I go with utterly ridiculous. That seems to be the theme of this entire wedding.

“I, Colleen Frasier, sort of, kind of, take you, Bradley Patrick as my hubby. You’re like, my best friend, and my partner in crime. I promise to like, bring you beer and keep Tums and Beano on hand, and I promise to always be your best friend.” My eyes shift around nervously. I just rambled, perhaps, the absolute worst wedding vow in the history of marriage. Brad laughs and our audience is collectively dismayed that that was the best I could do, even for a fake bride. A way with words, I have not—and this is why I’m not a trial attorney.

“I, Bradley Patrick, sort of, kind of, take you, Colleen Frasier to have and to grope from this day forward until whenever you break my hand. I promise to make you laugh and to shower at least weekly; and above all, I promise to always be your best friend.” The minister asks for objections and James scoffs, muttering something about regretting not having dragged us to Vegas sooner.

“I now pronounce you, by the power invested in me by the state of Nevada, husband and wife,” the minister says. He looks like Elvis in a certain light, but not enough to be an impersonator, I don’t think. I reach out to hug Brad as a ‘thank you’. He leans in and grabs me by the waist with his left arm, pulling me full against his muscled frame. With his right hand, he holds my face and kisses me. His lips are rough and dry against mine—so very unlike the lips on the last man I kissed. Dale’s lips were soft as silk—feminine even—and they did nothing for me. But Brad’s lips are all male and strong as they move against my own. A small fire erupts in the pit of my belly and I open my mouth to him. We haven’t kissed like this since high school—before Heather, before Harvard, before I moved across the river into a fancy condo that overlooks Southie and everything I left behind.