Brad’s DVDs are organized alphabetically by genre and then alphabetically within the genre as well. I had no clue he was this damn neurotic. I do my best to work within his system as I fit my DVDs in with his. Between Action and Comedy there is a lone, unmarked DVD case. For a moment I consider that it might be porn, but then I remember back in high school how he kept his porn in a rolling bin under his bed. Knowing Brad, that’s probably where he still keeps it. He truly is a creature of habit. Curiosity gets the best of me and I grab the unmarked case and open it, only to be shocked by what I find.
‘The Notebook.’
Like, the chick flick, ‘The Notebook’. I can’t believe I’ve found this here, and he’s hiding it no less. But then I remember the whole gang going to see this movie in theaters. We had only just resumed being on friendly terms without it being super awkward between us after The Heather Incident. Brad sat at the end of the row and I was next to him. I had a large supply of tissues handy because I just knew I’d cry. But I didn’t need a single one. No, Brad used them all. That’s been our little secret ever since. I hadn’t even been tempted to ever bring it up to torture him with. It just didn’t seem right since it was such a significant turning point in our friendship.
I take the DVD out of the case and flip it around. It’s covered in scratches, both deep and shallow. It’s so beat up that I doubt it’ll even play. And I have an idea! I know just how to show Brad that I want to try to make this work.
I rush to the kitchen and look for baking supplies. Of which, there are none. I can’t bring him homemade cookies at the station if I don’t have anything to make them. So, I improvise. If there’s one thing I learned from Darla, it’s how to fake being a domestic goddess. To this day, James still doesn’t know that Darla’s famous lemon squares come from the corner bakery.
THREE HOURS, ONE shower and four stores later, I’m walking into the station with a wicker basket in my hands, looking for my husband. I am so proud of myself for my forethought. I was lucky—the corner bakery had some reject chocolate chip cookies they gave to me. Old Mrs. Neilson even had an old Tupperware container for me to put them in. She wasn’t very helpful at first; that is until she found out the rumors about me marrying “The Patrick Boy” are all true. Everybody loves both Brad and James and if I didn’t love them both so much, it’d be sickening.
Love?
Um…
Yeah. Yeah, love. You know, like best-friend-love. Like first-kiss-love. Like I-might-get-some-love.
“Miss, this area is restricted!“ the woman at the front desk calls out to me as I pass. She has pale skin and beautiful strawberry blonde hair with lovely grey eyes. I have never seen any woman look this good in her dress blues. She is stunning. I sort of want to s her already.
“Pardon me,” I say in a faux nice voice. I look at her badge and try not to sneer. I have an irrational hatred of her name. “Vicky,” I say, drawing it out. “My name is Colleen Frasier Patrick. That means my daddy is the Chief, my brother is Detective James Frasier, my godfather and father-in-law is John Patrick, who is the Assistant Chief, and my husband is Detective Bradley Patrick. Please remember that.” My tone is snotty and I know it, but this “Barbie in Blue” needs to know who she is dealing with. I grew up in this station.
I breeze past Vicky, ignoring her muttering about policy and waltz into the squad room. Brad is seated at his desk with James hunched over him. My dad and John are flanking them on both sides. They look so serious.
I walk over to them and offer a timid, “Hello,” so as not to startle them. They each look at me with sad eyes. Each of their hellos is something akin to a gruff bark. I don’t even want to know what they’re working on. I’ve spent years blocking myself off from the gruesome world they work in, never asking many questions and always respecting their boundaries when it comes to what they’ll share about their work—and this is why—all too often they’re working on a case where someone has lost someone dear to them.
Brad stands, crosses the desk and hugs me tight. His body is rigid and he’s burrowing his nose into my hair. I set the wicker basket down on his desk and curl into him. I know this hug. Brad needs this hug. When he’s working on a really bad case, he needs a hug. It grounds him, lets him know that he’s still here, with us. I’m more than happy to be able to be that for him.
“What’re you doing here, pretty girl?” he asks and we pull apart. My dad has collected all of the papers they were looking at and has them safely in a manila folder far from my line of sight.