by Jc Emery
It was a little after 2:00 p.m. when we were in an all-hands meeting and The Toad kept giving me curious glances across the table. At one point he even had the nerve to ask me for a bite of the cookie I was munching on. I politely told him I was sick and proceeded to cough on the cookie. I wouldn’t have shared that cookie with Jesus Christ himself let alone The Toad.
There’s a knock at my office door. Before I have the opportunity to acquiesce to the intrusion, the door flies open. It’s The Toad. He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, looking rather shy. I know better. He’s a snake.
“Thomas,” I say, smiling, and gesture to a chair in front of my desk. He nods and walks in, closing the door behind him. The Toad takes the seat I’ve offered him and he leans back in his seat, making himself at home. I really wish he wouldn’t do that. He has no right to feel so comfortable in my office when I’m so uncomfortable with him being in here.
When he says nothing, I blow out a breath and decide it’s going to be up to me to get things rolling. “So, what can I help you with?”
“Colleen,” The Toad begins, “Is there something you need to tell me?” I stare at him blankly. Several things come to mind: you’re a pig, I hate you, die in a fire… but none are things I can vocalize. I raise my eyebrows, asking for clarification. “I just mean,” he stutters, “You’re eating a lot—a lot” he emphasizes.
I narrow my eyes and slap my hands down on my desk. “What are you trying to say, Nate?” My temper has left me and so have my senses. I disregard the fact that he is my boss. I disregard the fact that I spent over three years in law school. I disregard my student loan debt, and the economy. If I lose this job, I can say hello to bankruptcy, because finding another one would be impossible. The trouble is that I just don’t give a flying fuck anymore.
He fumbles over his words. He fidgets. He opens his mouth repeatedly; but no words come out. Thomas Nate is stuck at the bottom of a well and it’s apparent that he knows if he speaks one wrong word, I’m going to drown him alive. So I throw him a bone.
“Spit it out, please. It’s nearly time for second lunch!” I snap, revealing myself as a closet “Lord of the Rings” nerd. The Toad looks unfazed. I should have known he was too lame to appreciate all that which Tolkien can offer. Idiot.
“ARE YOU PREGNANT?!?” he shouts, eyes darting around the room—looking anywhere but at my face—and a nervous sheen appearing on his forehead. Score one point for Angry Colleen.
“WHY!” I shout back, my blood boiling. He continues to squirm.
“I’m sorry,” he pleads, but I’m not having it.
“No, no. Don’t be sorry, Nate. I understand,” I nod my head, my voice ice cold. His eyes widen in what appears to be fear. Inside, I giggle maniacally. Good. “I get it. A woman can’t have a healthy appetite because either she’s a pig or she’s with child.”
“That is not what I meant!” he defends himself weakly.
“Sure, sure,” I say, wanting to throttle him. My arms twitch and the papers on my desk fly around the office. I stand up and lean over my desk.
“What do you want to hear, Nate? That I’m depressed? How about I tell you I’m a pig? How about I tell you that I just like cookies?” My arms twitch again and more papers fly around. And again. My desk is now cleared of every last loose paper. “How about I tell you that I can’t stand you?”
He stands up, having now found his voice. “This is unprofessional, unacceptable, and I urge you to lower your voice, Ms. Frasier.” I let out a muffled scream. How dare he! The stupid bastard. My last name is Patrick. I may not have Brad in every way I want him, but I do have his last name, damn it.
“Or what?” I challenge.
“Or you will be excused from your position at this firm.” His voice is condescending.
Without another thought, I make a decision. “DON’T BOTHER!” I scream at the top of my lungs. Leaning forward across my desk, I meet The Toad’s eyes.
“You will have my personal items boxed up and delivered to my condo—not my husband’s house. You will expedite a check to me for all of my recently submitted billed hours,” I raise an eyebrow at him knowing that he was likely planning on trying to swindle me out of my billed hours; especially considering the fact that I’ve put in a lot of overtime as of late, and that extra cushion will help me during my apparent upcoming season of unemployment.
“Do we understand one another?” I ask. Nate remains silent. It’s probably for the best. I’m one short answer from backhanding that moron right about now. I grab my purse and pull my apple fritter from the top right hand drawer and smirk at the pansy before me—and then take a huge bite of my pastry—and smile wide as I exit what was once my sanctuary.
“And one more thing—if there is not a sufficient enough bonus attached to my last check from this firm, then you can assure that I will be filing a civil suit against you and the firm for your horrid behavior. Surely, an attorney of your caliber should know by now that badgering an employee and then outright asking whether or not they are with child is illegal… and that, Toad, is one of your milder offenses. I keep good records, so don’t even try me, you swine.”
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.
