Marital Bitch (Men with Badges)

Chapter TWENTY EIGHT

(Colleen)

This is going to kill us both.

TWO WEEKS AGO I quit my job. I’d threatened my boss—practically threw my chair at him—in what Brad would proudly call a hormonal rage. He’s always been all about labeling any type of outburst as a hormonal rage. The shit head. I didn't tell him—haven’t told him. I will… eventually. You know... after I get caught in my lie. But for now, I'm going to keep right on pretending that I'm an employed, capable adult who did not throw the mother of all temper tantrums and quit her job.

Yeah, that definitely wasn't me last week.

And it wasn't me who kicked a dent into the side of The Toad's car.

Nope.

Didn't do that, either.

Not that we’ve talked much. I sort of stopped talking to him and now he’s sort of stopped talking to me. He and James have been thick as thieves lately. They’re always talking and quietly and if I try to inquire about it, they clam up. Not that I’ve been a peach. Brad can’t do anything right lately. One minute he offers to help me with coffee in the morning and I’m swooning over this man who offers to help with the little stuff like making coffee; and the next I’m cursing him out for thinking I’m a moron who can’t make her own coffee. He can’t win for losing, so I can’t say that I really blame him for backing off, any sane person would.

So, I got up this morning and tried to put on my requisite work uniform: black slacks, comfortable pumps, white pin-striped button-up, and black blazer. The slacks were uncomfortable so I opted for my period slacks. Work slacks have been uncomfortable all week. I must be bloated or something, because everything fits abnormally.

Then again, I am unemployed and I’ve turned into a major snacker, according to the old ball and chain himself. Yesterday, I read a study that detailed how the unemployed have a higher probability of being overweight than the employed. I really shouldn’t have kicked Brad’s Knicks hoop when he called me the Snack Queen for the first time. I just really hate that hoop. And I’m not terribly fond of the new nickname, either.

I left my hair down and put on very minimal makeup. Brad commented on my hair and makeup. I just shrugged and said that I didn’t feel like doing much today. It was the truth, but more so, I was tired of squeezing into clothes that didn’t fit to go sit in a park and feed pigeons and stuff myself with uncooked pasta. Don’t judge me. I like to snack on uncooked macaroni. Everybody has their thing.

Anyway, Brad being Brad, he tried to make me feel better. He told me I looked great. And I almost cried. I hate my period and the emotional rollercoaster that comes with it. But I love my husband. I really do.

So, today I decided to be proactive. I had a few main problems on my hands and I needed to figure them out before Detective Patrick caught onto me. I didn’t have much time. My daily trip to the park would have to wait until after I’ve met with the real estate agent.

I’m selling my condo. Unfortunately, I’ll be lucky to break even. I bought high and now I’m selling low. But I’m also unemployed right now and to be quite frank, I’d much rather break even or have to dole out a few grand to be rid of the debt than to hang on to a place I’m not even living in and let it get foreclosed on. Because you know, the unemployed don’t exactly have a lot to work with in regards to finances. And my husband—God love him—doesn’t have enough money to support the both of us as well as my debts, which are substantial. Being an adult blows.

My cell rings. It’s Brad.

“Hey,” I say, looking around nervously. I don’t want him to hear anything he’s not supposed to. To the best of his knowledge, I’m in my office in a high rise in downtown Boston right now; not around the corner from the station in Southie to meet with a real estate agent. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says. I smile. God, I love this man. His voice is smooth and low. He’s at work and most likely doesn’t want the boys ragging on him about the way he’s talking to me.

“What’s up, pretty boy?” I ask, trying to withhold a giggle. I can practically hear his eyes rolling from here.

“I’m gonna be off early tonight if you wanna go to dinner at my parents’ house. Ma’s been bugging me to bring you by.” I spy Carol’s office door open and she’s stepping out.

“Hey, I have to go, but I’ll be home soon. Bye,” and I hang up. With a final, resigned sigh I smile at Carol, my agent, as she makes her way down the hall. I stand up and we shake, and walk back into her office.

“Colleen, it’s so nice to see you!” Irina coos. She’s nice—nearly my mother’s age, though—I just wasn’t about to spill everything to her. We chat for a few minutes, going over the basics.

“You mean you married that guy?” she asks, taken aback. I nod and smile. She’s not quite scowling, not quite smiling, but definitely not as happy about our union as I am. Carol met Brad once and she grew to dislike him quickly. Every place she showed me the day he tagged along, he went about telling her how unsafe every neighborhood we looked at was.

‘You know what neighborhood is safe?’ he asked. Carol remained tight-lipped and frustrated, but she’d played along.

‘What neighborhood, Mr. Patrick?’ And that annoyed him. He’d asked her to call him Brad—twice—and she’d relented. Meanwhile, she’d been calling me Colleen for weeks.

‘Southie,’ he stated, his arms crossed over his chest. She scoffed and he continued with his stare down. ‘Know why Southie’s safe? It’s because I’m there and so’s the rest of Colleen’s family.’

At the time, I wasn’t exactly swooning at his feet when he’d referred to us as family; but now it held a much different meaning.

“Save it, Carol. I love him.” I’m a little shocked by how it rolls off my tongue. I giggle and then grin at her. “I love him.” She nods slowly, undoubtedly thinking I’m insane. I am. After a few uncomfortable minutes, we dig in. She gives me the riot act about selling in this market. Her business can’t be doing too well, but she’s cool enough to try and stop me from a big mistake. The thing about that is, I’m getting really comfortable making big mistakes. Married on a whim? Check. Sabotaged career? Check.

Nearly had a baby with my new husband who I’m not sure how he feels about me? Sadly… check. This one, I’m still working through.

Aside from the fact that I’m no longer in a position to keep on affording the condo, it’s not big enough for more than just me. Not that my womb is hospitable to growing life… apparently… but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want a baby. It just means I waited too long and all of those horror stories my mother warned me about are true.

Which brings me to my next big mistake—getting pregnant on purpose without Brad knowing—and believe me, I know it’s a mistake. I’m sure if I told him I want a baby, he’d be all for it. The guy has baby rabies even if he won’t admit it. Honesty always seems to get me and Brad into trouble, so I’m going for what does work for us: stupidity. The only problem is that my libido is shot right now. And I’m very, very moody.

So, while I’m sitting in Carol’s office, my mind wandering—something it’s prone to doing lately—I’m thinking up ways to get my libido going again so I can steal my husband’s sperm… but only if he doesn’t give it to me willingly. Carol drones on and on about what we’re going to try to make off the condo and honestly? I couldn’t care less. My mind has already moved on to painting Brad’s spare room in either blue or pink. I like the idea of pink, but a little Brad… in blue… that would be cute, too. Absentmindedly, I rub my stomach.

“Colleen!” Carol snaps me out of my reverie and I move my hand, hoping she didn’t catch that little move. My eyes shoot to hers and I try to make like I’d been paying attention all along. “You’re pregnant!” She sounds surprised and somewhat relieved, like if I was pregnant, that would make sense of this whole marriage business. What is her flippin’ problem with Brad, anyway?

“Not yet,” I say and I want to crawl into a hole. “We’re,” I stumble over my words, “Trying.” I smile politely, nervously. She nods and asks if we’ll need to look for another house. I shake my head and inform her that we have a room for our baby when he or she arrives.

Our baby.

For a brief moment I wonder if I should be planning on tricking Brad into fatherhood after all. We’re supposed to be in this together. We said we would try but we haven’t been speaking. No doubt Brad would still be in if I told him; but then that’s like telling him I love him. I’m just not ready for that one yet.

Once we get all of the details squared away, I set out for my daily visit to the park not too far from the house. My first day as an unemployed woman, I went to the park just a few blocks from the house. I didn’t even think about the fact that anyone on the force could drive by and see me. I thought about that on day two, but by then it felt kind of good to be bad. I’ve never really been bad—not much anyway—and this small risk felt good. So I did it every day just daring someone to drive by and see me. It was a rush and I felt like a daredevil.

It’s pretty cold at the park, so I change out of my slacks and into my sweats. On day three, I gave up on the yoga pants. I’ve gained weight since getting married and the yoga pants don’t look the same. Not to mention that they are a little tight now. My ass is wider, my thighs are bulkier, and my hip bones seem to be disappearing. Even certain shirts are getting hard to fit in… my arms have gotten fat. So, sweatpants it is. To complete the outfit I put my Uggs on and a sweatshirt.

My bench is cold, but it’s where I sit every day, so I refuse to move. With my favorite mid-day snack in hand, I begin to munch. I didn’t bring any bread for the birds today, just my uncooked macaroni.

I’ve been at the park for nearly an hour when I hear it. “Aunt Colleen!” My eyes dart left to see Alex managing a pretty quick run for me. He’s followed by Darla who is pushing Fitz in his stroller. I grin at him and scoop him up in my arms when he crashes into my legs.

“Monster!” I wrap my arms around him and cuddle as if my life depended on it. Darla clears her throat and I realize what’s going to happen. I’m at the park in the middle of the day when I just told Brad that I would be leaving work early for dinner with his parents. Darla probably knows this. Darla knows all.

“Spill it,” she says bluntly and plops down on the bench next to me. Alex wiggles from my lap and stands up on the bench between us. He places his little feet on my legs and grabs onto my neck and starts climbing. Accidentally, he knees my chest and I hold my injured breast like it will fall off if I don’t. That really hurt.

“Alex,” Darla whines and yanks him off. Eventually, he relents and releases me, but manages to take some hair with him. I give him a dirty look and the little shit gives me one back. He definitely has Darla’s attitude even if he is the spitting image of James.

“I don’t have anything to spill,” I defend a little too guiltily. She raises an eyebrow and smirks. “I don’t,” I continue. “Why would I have anything to spill?” I bounce my leg. “Can’t a girl just sit around a park and snack in her sweats? Can’t she? Huh!” I’ve morphed into a jittery, nervous mess.

“You’re such a bad liar, I almost feel bad for forcing it out of you,” she muses while trying to wrangle the toddler on her lap. During a moment of weakness when she can’t quite get him to sit, I snatch him back and blow a raspberry on his cheek. He squirms and giggles.

“Uncle Brad,” he squeals and starts looking around for Brad. Alex equates raspberries with his favorite uncle. Darla laughs, not missing a beat.

“You used to hate those,” she says, verbalizing my very thoughts. Brad used to drive me nuts blowing raspberries on me and the kids. I couldn’t stand all the spit going everywhere. And now I’m doing it, too. “Man, he’s gotten to you good,” she shakes her head and smiles.

“I love him, Darla,” I look her dead in the eye and speak with confidence. She seems a little surprised that I’m so confident in my words but she’s classy enough to not call me out on my previous cowardly behavior.

“So, about the sweats,” she says looking me over. I stick my chin out defiantly. “And the weight…” Her eyes grow wide and she pinches some flab on my upper arm. “How much have you been eating?” Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, I sit Alex in my lap to hide my fat thighs and bloated belly. She continues to inspect me, even going so far as to poke my stomach.

“Stop that.”

“Holy shit. Colleen, are you pregnant?” My eyes are wide with unshed tears. I wish I could blame the weight on being pregnant. If that were true, I’d be walking around showing off my belly, proud of my growing physique. But this is just fat.

Before I can stop them, the tears start pouring out and I’m whining/crying/filling Darla in on recent events. She listens and waits and gives me a look of pity that I did not want. I tell her that I quit my job but I make her swear that she won’t tell James or anyone else about this whole bout of unemployment. She agrees, but I’m still nervous about the whole thing.

“Chit,” Alex shouts but we ignore him, both having learned long ago that giving his potty mouth any attention only encourages him. He’s just like a little parrot, he likes to mimic. Besides, he doesn’t actually know what it means yet.

“You’re insane,” she says and then shrugs her shoulders. “But rock on, girlie. I’m not touching this one with a ten-foot pole.” A few minutes of idle chitchat pass as I absorb her words. Somewhere in the back of my head I know she’s shooting glares at me, trying to steer me away from my plan; but the other me who’s in control right now—the crazy one—hears that I’m a genius.

Eventually, Darla has to leave to pick up Lilly from kindergarten and reluctantly, I let my little monster go. She tries one last ditch effort to get me to tell Brad how I feel about him before I embark upon “Operation: Impregnation” as she has so fondly named it; but I can’t do that. I’ll just die if I’m not “it” for him like he is for me. I’d rather live in the dark, never knowing. Besides, I’m on a mission. If I tell Brad how I feel and he doesn’t feel the same, the chances for success with “Operation: Impregnation” are probably slim.

Back at the house, I pull up a little surprised to see Brad already there. It’s not quite five yet and dinner isn’t until seven, I assume. Emily always has dinner on the table at seven sharp. She’s just that good. I need a shower and decide that maybe the old Ball & Chain and I can conserve some water and shower together. Besides, we’re now a one-income household, he just doesn’t know it yet.

I walk in the house to find Brad engrossed in a video game with James. I tell them that I need a shower, but neither one of them get the hint. I make a few subtle comments about not wanting to shower alone which go ignored. Stupid baseball video game. This is how I’ve found my husband and stupid brother every night this week: parking their butts in front of the TV, playing a video game, ignoring me. When I’ve asked Brad about it, he shrugs and changes the subject. The last time James hung around Brad this much was after the whole Heather incident.

I hop into the shower and try to wash away the day’s thoughts of listing prices, nosey sister-in-laws and my own fat behind. When I get out of the shower, I wrap a towel around me and sneak off to our bedroom. Inside, I find the sexiest thing alive: my husband… and he’s doing laundry. He stops when he sees me enter the room. His frame in arched over the bed, his hands frozen mid-fold. He’s wearing a wife beater and basketball shorts. His toned arms are on display. And then I notice that he’s folding my laundry.

The man is folding my laundry.

Who does that?

Nobody.

And suddenly, my libido is back. I smile wickedly at him and turn off the lights. He smiles at me. I’m not sure what I would call this smile. It’s not predatory, and it’s not needy; he just looks happy.

I cross the room as he finishes his folding job and sets my top into a tidy pile. I’m practically panting at him, imaging that he’s folding tiny shirts and onesies and matching up baby booties instead. I wait until I’m right up next to him and I drop my towel. His eyes widen and now he gets it.

Slowly, carefully, we push and pull and fumble with one another. I’m hesitant to let him really see me until we’re under the covers, so I work diligently at getting him naked so his focus is elsewhere. I toss the tidy piles of fresh clothing aside while pulling up the blankets. He doesn’t pause to be upset; he just continues his assault on my neck. Suck. Lick. Nibble.

No words are exchanged, none need to be. He towers over me. We fall back onto the bed. I scramble for the blankets and cover myself up. He’s gentle, cushioning my fall with his hand and using his elbows to keep his weight off of me. Brad kisses my forehead before he leaves me. Crouching down on the floor, he kisses my ankles and slowly, affectionately, slides his hands up my legs. Making his way up my body, he peppers soft, chaste kisses along my legs. His hands roam, gently kneading my pliant flesh.

The attention he’s paying my body should be relaxing me. It feels great; but I can’t help but cringe every time his hands grab at my flesh. There’s fat where there used to be very little. I feel out of sorts and uncomfortable. Half of me doesn’t want this moment to end and the other half is screaming for it to stop. I don’t feel attractive. I feel disgusting and I fear that I’m going to have a sudden bout of gas. My diet hasn’t been what it probably should be as of late and it’s causing control issues. I didn’t know at the time that sabotaging my career would cause this kind of downward spiral; and yet I don’t really regret it.

In Brad’s words, the Toad can suck it.

I try to pull him up but he isn’t budging. “I like this,” he murmurs as he crawls up my body at a snail’s pace. I roll my eyes, annoyed. I don’t need him to bullshit me. I just need him to ravage me—preferably with his eyes closed so he can’t see my expanding flesh. God, I’m fat.

“What’s wrong, pretty girl?” I close my eyes and cringe. I can’t explain to him what’s wrong because I don’t even know what’s wrong. Curling up beside me, I can feel his breath on my neck. My hands are clenched tightly to the blanket around me, unwilling to let him see me; not that he’s trying. “Colleen, you’re scaring me.”

I shake my head back and forth, panic rising. Brad seems to be picking up on my panic attack. He’s feeling my forehead and I think he’s checking my heart rate, which is undoubtedly abnormal right now. In this moment, I seem to be his only concern. I want to reach out and hold him, but I don’t. I haven’t done much but avoid him and sulk since the whole negative pregnancy test thing. Oh, God, I’m depressed. That must be it.

“Please stop touching me!” The tears begin and I no longer have any control over my emotions. He removes his hands immediately. I don’t open my eyes. I can’t bear seeing him seeing me like this. I’m insane. The realization that I am, essentially, out of control in every manageable way only upsets me further. I’m spiraling down a rabbit hole and I just want to claw my way out—mentally, emotionally, and physically.

“What’s wrong?” Brad’s voice is soft, gentle. He’s intent on figuring out what the problem is. I need to pull it together soon before he calls the funny farm, or worse, my mother. God, help me.

“I’m fat!” I scream, unable to verbalize anything deeper that may be wrong—definitely is wrong—so I stick to the surface issues. “I’m a loser.” I swear, I feel the bed move lightly. If he’s laughing at me, so help me, God, I will lose the last strands of sanity I may have.

“You’re a successful attorney, you married me—smartest decision you’ve ever made, by the way—and you’re beautiful.” I know he’s trying to be kind, sincere in his own way; but the mention of my profession sends me into an angry tailspin. I sit up quickly—narrowly avoiding falling back onto the bed in a lightheaded haze—and glare down at him. He’s still on his side, worry on his face, but an encouraging smile playing at his lips. I smack him on his arm. Hard.

“Is that all I am to you? A show piece?!? Huh!” The look on his face is unmistakable. I’ve done a 180 in a matter of seconds. My tears dry up as the blood rushes to my head. Rationally, I know that the idea that he’s attached to my paycheck—former paycheck—is ludicrous. I just can’t help this emotional rollercoaster that I’ve gotten myself stuck on even though I so desperately want to get off of it.

“What the f*ck are you even talking about?” He shoots up, yelling. “You are Grade A f*cking certifiable, Frasier,” he practically spits his disgust at me. He stands up and walks away from the bed. I still there clutching the blanket like it’s a lifeline.

“I don’t know anymore!” I scream, and like the mature adult that I am, I kick my feet at the floor.

“Do you want out? Is that it?” My brows knit together. Why would he think that? He stares at me like I’m an idiot. Maybe I am. “If you want out, just f*cking say so. Quit jerkin’ my chain, will you?”

“Do you want out?” I yell back. I drag the blanket off the bed, wrapping it around me fully.

“We don’t get divorced, Colleen, or have you forgotten that we’re Catholic?” he’s annoyed, frustrated. I don’t know if I want to kiss him or s him, maybe a little of both. I scoff because that is such bullshit. It’s always bothered me about the Church. With all the crap that goes down in the name of the Lord and all the stuff those same Catholics do when they like to pretend that no one is looking, getting a divorce is mild.

“Let me rephrase that, Colleen,” Brad seethes, “I won’t get a divorce. Marriage may not mean shit to you, but it means something to me. Even if we have to be separated for the rest of our f*cking lives, we will die married to one another.” His body is shaking with anger. I have to look away. His eyes are boring into the side of my head. He’s watching me, chest heaving, refusing to look away. I’m intimidated, but not intimidated enough to show it.

“I don’t need your permission, Bradley,” I’m glaring at him with hate flowing through my veins. “If I want a divorce, I’ll f*cking get one.” I don’t hate him. I’ll never hate him. I hate myself. I can’t stand that I’m pushing him away, but I can’t seem to bring myself to hang onto him. Not like this—out of control with no idea what’s going on. I’d rather let him go than to take him down with me; so I push him farther. “We’re just friends, remember that, Brad.”

He stalks toward me looking menacing. I want to hide under the bed, disappear, or really anything that would stop this moment in its tracks. He reaches his right hand up and places it behind my neck. Leaning in, Brad kisses my forehead. He isn’t rough but I can feel the anger vibrating off of him.

For a brief moment I think this might be the moment where we both magically figure out what the hell is going on with me. I imagine that he moves to cuddle me in the bed. I dream that I’ve gone back five minutes and have managed to control the insanity long enough to stop this from happening. I wish he weren’t backing away right now, refusing to meet my eyes.

And I wish he weren’t leaving me, walking out on the crazy. But he is and as much as I don’t want him to go, I can’t bring myself to stop him. I am a worse mess now than I was weeks ago when we got married. My entire life is a disaster and if I can’t even let Brad touch me without falling apart, then we need some time away from one another; because this is going to kill us both if I don’t find a way to minimize the casualties.