Marital Bitch

by Jc Emery

  “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 fuck are you even talking about?” He shoots up, yelling. “You are Grade A fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  (Brad)

  Flashback: The Heather Incident, 1999

  “SO,” SHE SAYS, trailing off nervously. “Do you love her?”

  And the world stops on its axis.

  My breath catches in my throat as I try to claw my way out of my own head. Minutes seem to pass, but in all likelihood it’s only a few moments. I don’t know what to say. Her green eyes stare at me awaiting an answer.

  How do I tell her the truth? After all this time, how can I be honest with her? My stomach churns and I think I’m going to be sick. I feel like I’m cheating on them both. My best friend, my girlfriend—the truth is, I love them both.

  But that’s not enough, is it? It’s not enough for a woman to have to share her boyfriend, but that’s all that I can offer. I can’t just stop loving Colleen. Believe me. I’ve tried. I really have. All that I’ll ever be able to offer Heather is half of me, if even, but I’m going to try like hell to be good to her. I’ll treat her how I’d treat Colleen, if she’d have me. But she won’t. I’m not good enough. So, whatever.

  “Yeah,” I say as calmly as possible. I stare at my pretty girl with a sad smile on my face. She beams back at me, completely unaware of how I feel about her, how I’ve always felt about her.

  “Good,” she says, her smile getting even bigger. “She loves you, too, Brad. You be good to Heather. You know she’s like my Monica.” I nod. Yeah, I’ve watched the show, Friends, with them enough to know what she’s talking about. Colleen is Rachel, and Heather is Monica. Best friends who share everything. Except, they don’t share a man. Only, they do, but neither of them know it.

  “This doesn’t change anything, right?” I ask Colleen seriously. She looks perplexed. Of course this doesn’t change anything for her. I’m still Brad. I’m still pretty boy. Always have been. Always will be.

  “You’ll always be my pretty boy,” she giggles. I roll my eyes. I hate when she calls me pretty boy. I don’t think she’ll ever understand that it sounds really fucking gay and the guys on the force pick on me for it. I don’t even know how in the hell I can love a woman who calls me a pretty boy.

  “Is it serious?” she asks. I just want to hit something. She has no clue what the fuck it is she’s asking me. It’s serious enough. Serious as I could ever be with anyone who isn’t her. But I can’t tell her that. Our friendship would be destroyed.

  “Uh,” I stutter, “yeah.” Silence fills the air and smothers me. She nods.

  “So, like, how serious we talkin’ here?” Gone is the smile that once split her face in two. Her eyes are scanning my shirt and then they dart over to the wall behind me and continue around the room. She won’t look at me and that just makes this so much more awkward.

  “I dunno,” I mumble, shoving my hands in my pockets and rocking back on my heels. “Serious, I guess.”

  “You wanna explain that?” Colleen is pushing and it’s pissing me off. I don’t know why she is pushing me to talk about this. Can’t she see how uncomfortable I am? I can see how uncomfortable she is. She won’t even look at me. So I get fed up.

  “I’m gonna marry that girl,” I say, finding my voice much to my surprise. Colleen’s eyes shoot to mine. She looks like she’s been hit in the gut. Good. Maybe she’ll know how I feel all the damn time now. “She’s nice and she’s smart and she loves me.”

  “Being nice isn’t a reason to marry someone,” Colleen stands a little taller as she says this. “Neither is them loving you.” These never-ending games have worn me out.

  “Well, I am going to marry her, Colleen,” I snap. “What would you know about getting married, anyway?”

  “I know enough to know that the only reason for marrying anyone is because you can’t imagine a single reason not to; and that you want to be tied to them in every way possible.” Her lip quivers, but I refuse to let myself care. She’s acting like she’s jealous, I think. But that’s too much to hope for—that she could possibly be jealous. No, I’m imagining it, I’m sure.

  The front door opens and Heather, Lindsay and Darla rush in, putting a stop to our conversation. I forgot they all planned on getting ready for Charlotte and Peter’s engagement party over here. Colleen turns away from me and plasters what I know to be a fake smile on her face as she greets everyone. Heather gives Colleen a passing smile and rushes over to me. I smile as best I can and pull her close. She’s wearing the perfume I gave her for her last birthday—the same perfume that Colleen wears. It’s fucked up, I know. I close my eyes, breathing her in.

  Heather stretches up and kisses me. I kiss back, but am somewhat hesitant. I feel awkward showing affection in front of Colleen. And after the conversation we just had—I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to kiss a woman comfortably in front of her again. Even if she’s not mine, she’s still my pretty girl.

  WE LEAVE MY parents’ house a little after eleven. It’s late and both my girls are drunk. Heather isn’t so bad, but Colleen can’t even walk on her own. I have her thrown over my shoulder. Despite her initial protests, she is giggling and smacking my ass like she’s playing the drums. I want to be annoyed but she is telling Heather how firm my ass is.

  “I know, right,” Heather laughs as she hangs onto my left arm. The right one is holding Colleen in place so she doesn’t fall and split her head open. “You should feel his ass during sex, Col,” Heather says. I puff my chest out, because damn, any man would be proud to hear his girlfriend talking about how great he is when he’s fucking her. “His ass is like rock solid. I love to grab it.” Colleen squeezes my ass repeatedly.

  “Oh! It is firm!” she shouts and then starts to rub it. I shift her so that she can’t reach it anymore. I’m getting
hard with all the patting and touching and spanking, and it’s making carrying her goofy ass just a bit difficult.

  We get to the car and I load Colleen in the backseat with the intention of giving Heather the front; but as I make sure all of Colleen’s limbs are inside the vehicle, I see Heather crawl in the other side. Colleen squeals and they hug telling one another that they missed each other. Drunk Colleen is open and funny and silly. She’ll tell you things that sober Colleen never will, which is unfortunate.

  “Seriously though,” Heather seems to sober up for a moment. “My Bradley is really sexy and he is such a good lover.” Heather’s voice takes on a dreamy sigh.

  “Well,” Colleen snorts, “my Bradley wasn’t very good the one time we tried.”

  “Hey!” I interject. “We had both been drinkin’ and you know that. I don’t care how drunk you are, Frasier. That ain’t cool.” Why I feel the need to argue with drunks, I don’t even know. Truth be told, being the first man to ever get it in—even if it was only part way in—with Colleen, will always be something for me to brag about. Even if I can’t remember much because the moment I got past her barrier she freaked out and pushed me off her.

  We get back to Heather’s apartment in record time. I must have been speeding. Heather crawls out and rubs her butt against the outside of the backseat window for Colleen’s amusement. Both girls burst into giggles. I coax Colleen out of her seat after promising her that I’ll let her rub my stomach for good luck. She’s so weird.

  “You’re my pretty boy!” Colleen shouts making me take a step back. Heather sides up to her and they link arms.