Marital Bitch (6 page)

(Colleen)

Okay, let’s play, pretty girl.

BRAD AND I
came up with a few rules. Rule number one was that we both need to be discreet. To the outside world, we’re married, and we need to behave as such. If either of us gets into a relationship, that person has to understand the situation. Deep down, I know that Brad is right—this plan is going to fail miserably. Neither one of us is sneaky enough to pull this off-- not for long anyway. I didn’t quite think this whole “let’s stay married” thing through when I suggested it, and now, now it’s just too late to change my mind.

That conversation was yesterday. Today we’re at McCarran, about to take off on a non-stop flight back home. This time we’re flying
coach, which is fine. We’re all seated together and thanks to the six mimosas that I drank this morning, I’m feeling pretty relaxed. Brad calls it tipsy.

“So,”
James begins. I look to my right at my massive brother. I’m wedged between Brad and James, and I mean that quite literally. These seats in coach are small and neither the husband nor his partner-in-crime is particularly slender. In fact, they both look like they’re nearing the end of their first trimester… James might even look to be in his second. I wiggle my arms free and raise my eyebrows for him to continue, but he seems to be stalling. From across the aisle, Darla smacks his arm and gives him a look. You know, that married people look. I wonder if I give Brad that look or if we’d have to be like, really married for that to happen.

“Mom and dad are sort of…” he pauses, looks at
Darla, curses under his breath, and then looks back at me. “They’re, uh, planning a surprise party for you guys, like, right now. Just so you know.” I huff and turn to Brad. He looks as calm as can be. He’s always calm and it’s pissing me off.

“Hey Bro
,” Brad says. I get excited, thinking he’s going to tell James that we don’t want a surprise party, but he doesn’t because he’s Brad, and that would just be too kind of him. “Can you make sure Mama Frasier bakes that chocolate cake I like so much?” I muffle a scream and start elbowing them both rapidly. Quickly, they each grab an arm and hold me still while Darla, apparently, takes it upon herself and calls my mom. Darla’s phone is up so loud, I can hear my mother from over here. She’s thrilled. Of course she’ll bake her new son-in-law his favorite chocolate cake.
Of course
.

Lindsay
is seated between Darla and Adam. She peeks her head around as much as she can and starts apologizing at rapid speeds. My arms still bound, I lean forward as much as I can to hear exactly what she’s apologizing for. There’s no telling. Really.

“
Colleen,” she squeaks, “I’m so sorry! When Louise called to ask me about giving you guys a surprise party, I just got so swept up in the planning! I mean, Colleen, she called me!” Lindsay’s eyes glaze over and she is absolutely in heaven. She loves to plan parties.

“I mean, really. I just gave her a few little pointers, but then when
Emily got on the phone, well…” her voice gets small and I know I’m royally fucked. This is bad.
Bad. Bad. Bad.
“Things just got away from me.” She slinks back into her seat and I slink back into mine. She yells a quick “I’m sorry!” and I yell back a quick “Shut up, it’s fine!” in response.

The rest of the flight goes pretty smoothly. Well, as smoothly as can be expected.
Brad and I explain the situation with everyone, and they all agree that we’re doing the right thing. Everyone loves my Grammy. Well, she is pretty much the shit. They do take bets on how long it takes us to screw up and either sleep together (which won’t happen), or for our little sham to be exposed. Adam has the least faith in us. He’s betting on 5-7 days before everyone figures out what we’re up to-- including Grammy. He claims that it’s not a lack of faith, he’s run the numbers and he doesn’t see any strategic way that we’ll be able to pull it off. Too many factors and too many variables are going to make this impossible. His suggestion? Just fuck and be married and quit pretending.
Whatever.

All too soon, we’ve landed at Logan and we make our way to
Darla’s minivan. Since my mom has a minivan of her own, we were able to take Darla’s so that we’d all fit in one vehicle. Somehow, Brad and I get shoved in the far back into seats that smell like Goldfish crackers and silly putty. He sniffs the air and finds the putty wedged between the seats and starts playing with it. He’s like a child himself. No wonder we never got together. I avoid touching anything. Again, I love my nephews and my niece, but damn, they’re a bunch of dirty birds.

Lindsay
and Adam sit directly in front of us and Darla plays copilot to James as he adjusts the driver’s seat in the van to accommodate his large ass.

“Ah,” he breathes in deeply. I look at
Darla and she seems to be doing the same thing. What the heck are they doing? This van stinks. “I miss my brats!” James exclaims. He grins at Darla and she nods, wiping away a stray tear. From way back here, parenthood looks a little lame. I turn around to see Brad grinning at me.

“I can’t wait until we have kids and have a van that smells like old cheese,” he says enthusiastically. I blink at him. I stare at him. I think my mouth is on the floor
. I can’t be sure.
What the hell did he just say to me?

“Don’t worry pret
ty girl,” he wraps his large arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him. My body is stiff as a board and I want to shove putty down his throat. “We’ll get you inseminated or something’. But that’s expensive, ya know? It’d be a lot easier if you just let me lay the pipe, ya know?” I push him away, aggravated. I really didn’t think this whole sham marriage thing out.

“Just grow up, already,” I mutter.

We pull up at Brad’s house and see an awful banner, tall as can be, hangs off the front of his little white city cottage, with the words “Welcome Home, Mr. & Mrs. Patrick!” Well, if the whole damn neighborhood didn’t know beforehand, they sure as hell do now. The street is clogged with cars all the way down the block. I recognize a lot of these cars, most actually. Reality is sinking in as I recognize my coworker, Thomas's, car. It was one thing for Facebook to know, and one thing for the neighborhood to know, but now my boss’ son knows. Crap.

We pass up
Brad’s house and drive four houses down to Darla and James’s where we pull into their garage and climb out of the Cheese-mobile. Darla and James walk directly out of the garage and into the street. The rest of us follow. I do my best to postpone this royal embarrassment, but they aren’t having any of it.

“You gonna walk or
do I have to carry you?” Brad asks. I pout, not liking either option. He lets out an exaggerated sigh and says, “Alright then, have it your way.” I back away from him, but it’s no use.

“I’ll walk, I’ll walk!” I shout nervously, but he isn’t having it. Before I know it, he has me over his shoulder and is smacking my butt. A few cars drive by slowly and I hear whistles from inside the cars. I turn my head around and recognize some of
Brad’s buddies from down at the station. I give them a small wave and try to smile.

“You don’t look very happily married, Mrs.
Patrick,” Darla quips. Brad laughs, shaking me in the process and smacks me in the butt again—this time hard. I yelp and start hitting him in the back. I really want to hit him in the butt. Not to check for firmness or anything, honest. It’s just… what’s fair is fair, right? I reach as far down as I can and I get another idea. I can’t quite reach his butt, but I can reach his boxer briefs. Without another thought, I yank them up as high as I can, laughing wildly. Darla’s eyes go wide and Brad freezes immediately. The whole group stops and Brad curses a string of profanities as he drops me to my feet, causing them to sting.

“You want to play?”
Brad unabashedly reaches into his pants and removes his boxer briefs from his ass. “Okay,” he leans in and kisses my cheek, “let’s play, pretty girl.”

(Colleen)

Around here, family is the most important thing
.

WE WALK THROUGH
Brad’s front door and we’re immediately assaulted with loud cheers and hoots and hollers. I’m grabbed first by my mother, then Emily, then Grammy. Grammy smacks my arm and scolds me for not telling her about our secret love affair… apparently we’ve been holding out on her. I just apologize, I’m not about to argue. My dad pulls me into a tight embrace and then lectures me for not getting to walk me down the aisle. My dad rarely expresses feelings of sorrow, and he never makes us feel bad for leaving him out of something, so I know walking me down the aisle was a big deal to him. I feel instantly awful despite the fact that this isn’t a real marriage. To my father, it is.

Brad
’s sisters get a hold of me and they each have their own opinion on my marriage. Like their brother, the Patrick girls are never short on an opinion—especially when it comes to me and Brad. Charlotte, his older sister, puts her hand on my stomach and she nods her head and says that I’m definitely pregnant. Yeah, my vagina just found that insulting since it hasn’t seen any action from a man in over a year. I swat her hand away. Brad’s younger sisters, twins, Mary and Margaret, gush over us all finally being family. I tell them that we’ve always been family and they take this as though I mean to say that I think their brother and I were fated for one another. It’s more like he’s a fungus that won’t go away.

Slowly but surely, I make my way through my mother’s sisters and her brother, and then my father’s cousins.
Crap. They really went all out for this. I can’t believe my Great Uncle Earl is here. I haven’t seen him since my first communion, and that was over twenty years ago. Grammy keeps shooting Great Uncle Earl dirty looks. They haven’t gotten along since they were kids and if you even try to make sense of it all either one of them will say is “potatoes.” We’re Irish; the source of most great conflicts seems to be over potatoes in one form or another.

An hour after our arrival, I finally spot the old Ball & Chain across the living room, leaning against his giant Boston Celtics green and white and gold basketball stand and hoo
p. God, that thing is so ugly. I’d tell him I wanted it gone, you know, as his legal wife and all, but I’ve seen him dump girlfriends for less. Wait. Since when am I concerned about being dumped? I shake my head free of confusing thoughts. I haven’t a clue what is going on upstairs anymore.

Brad
spots me and calls me over. He’s smiling wide. His enthusiasm is infectious and I find myself happy to be in his company. I approach and do my best to look smitten and in love. It’s really not that tough an assignment right now. The Ball & Chain is surrounded by his parents, my parents, and Grammy. Our mothers comment on how much in love we look. Either we’re good actors or… no. We’re just good actors. He pulls me to him and kisses me. I kiss back until I feel his mouth open. This is just too much, I try to pull away but he holds me there. Reluctantly (or so I maintain), I open my mouth to him. Our tongues slide against one another’s. Neither one is fighting for dominance. There is no dance of seduction that people commonly describe during a heated kiss. He is gentle and loving and slow.

John
, Brad’s dad, clears his throat and elbows my dad, laughing quietly. We pull away, both sporting stupid grins on our faces. “Hey baby,” Brad whispers into my ear and pulls my back against his chest. He’s laying it on thick, a little too thick for my liking. But then I look around. Our parents look so… content? They look happy. I haven’t seen them look so happy in a long time.

“
Bradley,” my father says. He looks very serious.

“Yeah, Chief?”
Brad grins at him.

“You took my baby girl and married her in Vegas. What do you got to say for yourself?”

He just shrugs, knowing there is nothing to fear here. Anyone else might get pistol-whipped for such a thing. But not Brad. “You want a beer?” Brad asks.

My father laughs and the two bond over another beer. Neither one of them need another, but whatever. Their mothers can deal with it.

“So,” Emily says, sipping on a beer of her own. “When are you gonna make me a grandma?” She’s staring right at me and when I take too long to answer, both Grammy and my mother nudge me. “Well?” Emily asks. Brad leans in and rubs my stomach much to my dismay. The longer we continue with this lie, the more complicated it gets, and the worse I feel for it. Emily Patrick has always been a second mother to me. Not a fiber in her body would ever think we would be lying to her. If she knew the truth it would break her heart. In this moment, I want nothing more than for this marriage to be real. I want to love Brad the way he deserves to be loved by his wife. I want it to be real, but I can’t make myself love him. I just can’t.

“Don’t worry, Ma,” he says, “we’re working on it.”
Emily and my mother giggle and I shove Brad’s hand away. I don’t know if that wedgie I gave him outside was worth it after all. I look to John for help. He’s always been such a compassionate man. Back in high school when he caught me and Darla shoplifting at the mall, he didn’t tell my dad. Thankfully, John had been the officer to respond to the call. He hauled us off to the side of the building and told me he’d tell our fathers if we so much as spit on the sidewalk after that. That’s been our little secret between the three of us ever since.

“Son,”
John says, sounding very serious. He smiles at me and I smile back. Then something shifts and John gets an evil look in his eyes. “I think you should take a vote, don’t you?” Brad laughs and I groan, covering my face with my hands. I’ve been to enough engagement parties and wedding receptions to know what this is. Brad starts shouting for everyone to pipe down, and it does take some effort. When they finally do, he tugs my hands away from my face, and I just want to crawl into a hole… a very deep hole.

“My father
has brought to my attention that we need to take a vote.” The crowd goes wild with whooping and hollering. I see James and Darla in the center, each holding one of their kids. Where their middle child, my little monster, went I have no idea. He’s probably hanging from some piece of furniture somewhere.

“So,” he rubs my stomach again. I try to bat him away but he holds my hands in place. I see one of his fellow detectives and hear him hoot. I can’t remember the guy’s name, but he’s alway
s annoyed me. “Can I get a number?” This is a tradition. The bride and groom ask their guests how many kids they should have. I’m not surprised to hear numbers like five and eight. Brad shouts “higher,” and the crowd goes wild again.

“I’m trying for a baseball team here!” he shouts. I laugh at his enthusiasm and wonder when he got to be such a good liar. But then I remember the conversation before his proposal.
Brad wants kids. He’s always wanted kids, so I shouldn’t be surprised. What does surprise me though is that he’s talking about having kids with me. He’s been talking about having kids with me since we got married. I wonder if his biological clock is ticking. We’re both thirty-five now. Neither of us is all that young. At my age I’d be lucky to have one healthy baby, let alone five or eight. My mood worsens as I once again realize that in my pursuit of my career, I have possibly cost myself something very dear to me: becoming a mother. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. We’re not really married, anyway.

I seem to be continually forgetting that little fact. We’re not really married. All of this is fun and it’s easy to get swept up in the hoopla, but it doesn’t change anything. At the end of the day, we’re not really in love. At best, we’re lifelong friends. At worst, our friendship is hanging by a thread. Some days I think nothing can split us up, other days I don’t even know why we still attempt at talking to one another. We’re both volatile and bossy and neither one of us will think twice about hitting below the belt in the heat of the moment. The problem is that the longer we play this little game, the longer that we act like the happy couple, the more I’m starting to believe it myself. I’m an attorney, I’m supposed to have my wits about me, but I can’t help but feel like I’m falling into something that I’ll never dig my way o
ut of.

“It’s decided!”
Brad shouts, “we’ll have 12!” I force a choked laugh. The crowd cheers and through the mass, I see Thomas Nate, my boss’ son, making his way towards us.

“
Colleen,” Thomas says, in a very formal manner, “Congratulations!” His smile is as fake as his blond hair and white teeth. I smile back as politely as possible and thank him. My body is rigid. Brad gives me a reassuring squeeze. Thomas doesn’t even have the courtesy to address my new husband.

“Well,” he laughs with a condescending smirk, “I’m hope you’re not really planning on having 12 children,
Colleen.” The way Thomas says my formal name just pisses me off, but I know better than to show it, it could mean my job to piss him off any more than I already have. First, turning him down for a date (in part because he is married), and now, getting married myself; he is displeased with me, but there’s nothing he can do about is as long as I play the model attorney at work.

Brad
snorts, “and why is that, and who are you?” Thomas’s eyes travel up to Brad and they narrow. This is a pissing contest in a civilized form, just barely.

“I’m
Thomas Nate,” he holds his hand out, but Brad just stares at it and shakes his head. I want to chastise him and tell him to play nice with the little blond weasel, but I remain silent. I’m enjoying this far too much to stop it. Repercussions be damned!

“
Colleen works at my father’s firm,” Thomas raises his eyebrows in challenge. He knows what my job means to me. “Twelve is just a lot. Don’t you think?” he asks Brad. It’s not like twelve children is even a remote possibility—even if we are Catholic—so this conversation is just ridiculous.

Thomas
really shouldn’t be asking Brad anything. They are polar opposites. I can’t see any good coming of this. Then again, I couldn’t see any bad in marrying Brad, and look where that logic got me…

“Ah,” I feel
Brad nod his head and then lean down and kiss my ear. “You’re not from here, are you, Thomas? You see, around here… family is the most important thing. A woman’s husband and her family come before any job does. And a man’s wife and his family come before everything else.” Grinning, he ghosts his lips over my neck. My hormones take over and I sigh, my eyes fluttering closed. I try to focus on what Brad said to Thomas—telling him how little my job means to me, which is a complete falsehood; but… Brad’s lips are… on my neck, and… it just feels so… good.

Growing up, James used to play cops and robbers with Brad. I tagged along more often than not. One of us would be the robber and the other two would be the cops, hunting down the bad guy. While Charlotte, and Mary, and Maggie played inside with child-sized kitchens and baby dolls, I ran in the streets with my brother and best friend. More times than I can count, my mother would ask me to play inside with the girls. She’d tell me I could be a mommy if I stayed inside, but I was always more interes
ted in hunting down the bad guy. And that’s what it was like growing up in Southie. Girls grow up to be mothers and wives. Boys grow up to be what they dreamed of when they were young.

“Well, I should be going,”
Thomas says, and before I can thank him for coming, he storms out of the house. I can practically see my career going with him and my heart falls. How did I ever get into this mess? All I wanted was to be able to have a career
and
be a wife and mother. It shouldn’t be an either or thing, even if it feels that way.

The firm was very clear in their position on where they believe my priorities should lie. No doubt
Brad’s little speech ticked off Thomas enough to send him running to daddy; but there’s nothing I can do about that now. I think I could use a beer now, actually. Brad hands me a fresh beer immediately. I’m half creeped out and half amazed. I take a sip, so very grateful. The beer is ice cold. He always seems to know what I’m thinking. I smile at his handsome face, looking past the stubble for once. When he’s quiet, he’s really very attractive.

“I know I’m hot, pretty girl. It’s okay, you can say it out loud,” he laughs and leans down, blowing a raspberry on my cheek. Like I said, he’s attractive when he’s quiet.