Marital Bitch(28)

He nods his head and shoves a piece of paper and pen at me. I peer over at the paper to find that it’s a performance contract. I pick up the offending paper to find that I am in more trouble than I had initially thought. This contract basically says that I am to not miss another court date, that I am to be in the office on time every day, and that my personal life—namely my husband—are not to interfere with my work. This feels extreme, even for Thomas.

“Mr. Nate, this contract feels a bit presumptuous considering this is my first offense. This was my first time missing any time at work since coming on board at the firm. I cannot believe that all associates are sanctioned at this level for a first offense.” I feel confident that I’m being picked on and I don’t like it.

“Ms. Frasier,” Thomas says and then clears his throat. “Err—Mrs. Patrick, you are not yet a full associate. You are still in your probationary period and can be let go without cause. This here,” he waves at the paper, “is a professional courtesy.” Suddenly, I feel like I’m a small child and my parents are disappointed in me. I doubt the legality of the contract, but I feel boxed into a corner.

“So,” he says, the smug sound of superiority laces his every word, reminding me of my place. “I suggest that you sign the contract so that you may continue employment with Nate & Caldwell; otherwise the firm will take your objection as your resignation.”

I sign the form. I have little choice, apart from unemployment; and in this economy I doubt that I will have many job prospects having been fired from my one and only place of employment as a practicing attorney. Thomas, The Toad, as I will now take to calling him, dismisses me for the day. He suggests that I go home and get the honeymoon out of my system so that I can be in top shape for tomorrow.

I slink out of his office and keep my head down on my walk out. I hear murmurs from my coworkers, all wanting to know what happened and whether or not I’ve been fired. For people with such heavy workloads, they sure are spending a lot of time focusing on non-work-related affairs.

I make it back to the truck before I break. Sobs rack my body with such force that it cripples me. As people pass by and become more inquisitive about the sobbing woman in the pickup, I collect myself enough to drive home.

Home.

Home is my condo; my condo with my desk and my laptop and my filing cabinet. Home is neat and orderly and quiet. Home doesn’t have Brad and his shenanigans and all the bullshit, childish crap he talks me into. No, home—my condo—is my safe place. Back at my condo, my job isn’t in peril and my career doesn’t look so hopeless.

So I drive to my condo. I decide that I’ll figure out what to do about Brad’s truck later. Right now I need to collect myself. I need to work on my case load and to be productive. I need a bit of normalcy before I crack under the pressure.

I sigh, contentedly, as I slide the key in the lock to my front door. Home is just a step away. I open the door and put my keys in my purse and stroll inside, feeling only slightly better than when I left The Toad’s office. I turn on the living room lamp to find my condo nearly empty. I’ve only had this condo for a few months now and it was sparsely furnished to begin with; but now even the basics are missing.

My books that once sat in the large bookcase across the room are gone. I walk to the dining room to see that my dinette set is now missing two of its chairs and in the kitchen even my coffee maker and toaster are gone. Just when I’m sure that I’ve been robbed, Brad walks out of my bedroom with James and Adam and Lindsay.

The boys look tired as they each have large cardboard boxes in their arms. But Lindsay looks energized and she’s box-free. Horrified, I realize that they’re packing my stuff up to move it to Brad’s. We didn’t really talk about this, but it makes sense. The outside world would expect a married couple to live in the same house, and this place isn’t big enough for Brad to live here. Not that he’d leave the neighborhood, anyway.

Brad spots me and he sets the box down. It’s marked “Girly Shit.” He walks over to me and holds my face in his hands, studying me. A tear slips down my cheek and I burst into tears. He pulls me tightly against his chest and holds me. I wrap my arms around him and sob.

Ever since we were kids, Brad had a way of comforting me; and this is no different. He’s still here for me, still comforting me. I make a vow to myself that I’m going to try. I’m going to try to be a good friend and good wife, whatever that means. Thomas’s indication that I can’t handle being a married woman and having a career as well makes me livid. It’s everything my mother told me growing up—that I’d have to make a choice, that I would always regret choosing a career over having a family. I have no intention of any of them right; so I’m going to try. I just hope Brad wants to try, too.