THE PARTY WINDS down and slowly but surely, our nearest and dearest trickle out. Our parents are the last ones to go. I should be a little disturbed and grossed out that my dad high-fives Brad, but I’m not. Any other guy and my dad would refuse to leave the house and stand guard the bedroom with a shot gun. But this is Brad and though he remains mostly silent on the subject, my dad couldn’t be happier. Emily and Louise are disgustingly giddy on their way out.
They each rub my stomach for good luck. Brad slaps my butt and shuts the door behind them. When they’re far enough away, I turn to glare at him. The playful honeymooner’s thing is wearing on me. The butt slaps are starting to awake my hormones and it is better off I not go there. And all day, every time someone mentioned kids or I saw Brad with someone’s kid, my ovaries nearly exploded. I need to deal with my frustration in one way or another and kicking the Ball & Chain’s ass right now seems like a fairly effective means of letting off some steam.
“You better run,” I seethe. He throws his hands up in the air and backs away from me. I take a quick jump at him but I’m not watching where I’m going. My foot catches on our luggage, which has mysteriously found its way into the house, and I fall flat on my face. Brad rushes over and peels me off the hardwood floor.
“Oh, pretty girl,” he says, standing, with me cradled to his chest. I will admit that I’m surprised that he is able to lift me so easily and how hard his body feels next to mine. He always looked so plush to me. “What the hell are you trying to do, hurt yourself?”
I huff, un-amused. I was going for intimidating and instead I wound up with pathetic. “Okay,” he mutters, “I know this game. You’re embarrassed so you’re going to be silent. That’s fine. It’s late.” He walks up the stairs, me still in his arms, and takes me to his bedroom. If I weren’t so embarrassed and annoyed that he knows me so well I would protest.
He’s taking me into his bedroom. Thankfully, I know him well enough to feel comfortable in here. His spare room doesn’t have a bed, just a pool table.
“Thanks,” I say as he sits me on his bed. I look at his bedside alarm clock to find that it is indeed late. The clock reads 11 p.m. I yawn and kick my shoes off and crawl under the covers. Brad walks to his dresser and pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of sleep pants and tosses them to me.
“These will be more comfortable,” he offers and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him. Immediately, I undress and slide into his clothes. They smell wonderful and I might even give them a little sniff; but I’ll never admit to it. I lie back down and groan at how uncomfortable my bra is. Against my better judgment I go ahead and remove it, tossing it to the floor with the rest of my clothes. The freedom feels wonderful and I slide against Brad’s flannel sheets. I haven’t been in here in almost a year, and even then it was only for a few moments. This is the first time I’ve been in his bed since everything went bad between us.
I snuggle into the blankets and turn on my side, with my back to the door. I begin to drift into a calm sleep. I’m slightly perturbed by the fact that Brad didn’t even say goodnight, but I try not to dwell on that thought. Just when I’ve let it go and I’m about to succumb to a much needed rest, I hear the creaking of the hardwood and then the bedroom door opens. I’m just awake enough to know what’s going on around me, but too far under to react. I hear the blankets move and then the bed dips behind me.
“Colleen?” Brad whispers. He gives my side a little poke and when I don’t respond, he places a hand on my right hip. I want to ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. I want to swat his hand away. I want to remind him that I’m Just Colleen, but he thinks I’m asleep and that’s very nearly true. So I give myself this moment in time where I can pretend.
I may be very legally Mrs. Bradley Patrick. Everyone who matters in our individual and joined worlds sees us as a very real married couple; and at times I think we get lost in the role play. But here, in his bed, I feel like Mrs. Patrick. Brad’s hand on my hip wanders and it wraps around my waist, pulling me to him. I settle my back into his chest, losing myself further to sleep.
Tomorrow we’ll fight and argue and maybe even throw things; because that’s what we do. Tomorrow Heather will be brought up, because she is the proverbial elephant in the room every time we fight. And tomorrow we’ll have to talk and see if we can figure out where to go from here because of all the things said to me today, only one sticks with me.
You just gonna pretend to be married to Brad? That’s pretty fucked up, sis.