Marital Bitch(4)
Lindsay and Adam seem to be staying quiet in an effort to avoid upsetting anyone. Brad’s and my silence is bringing everyone down. I hear subtle murmurs from Darla about how she knew this would happen—Brad and I haven’t spent more than six hours together in the last decade without getting into a fight. And it’s always about the same thing. It’s always about Heather.
The shuttle pulls up to Caesar’s Palace and we file out with no enthusiasm whatsoever. I can tell that our melancholy attitudes are wearing on Lindsay’s natural perkiness. Nevertheless, she keeps mum until we’re all checked in and heading to the elevators, where she promptly stops and turns around to face us.
“Okay, that’s it,” Lindsay says.
“Darla, James. You miss the kids, I get it. It’s only for two nights and they are in the best hands possible. You know this. Please, try to enjoy yourselves.” I nod a little too enthusiastically and she turns toward me next.
“And you, Ms. Birthday Girl, quit sulking and talk to Brad, will you? If you two choose not to be friends after this trip, fine. But we’ve all spent a lot of money on this goddamn vacation and I would really like if you two can just grow the hell up for a few days, okay?”
I gape in surprise. Lindsay intimidates me when she gets like this, which is seldom, but still slightly frightening. I have no idea why she’s yelling at me and not Brad, but I decide it is best not to ask. The pair has formed a tight relationship over the years. They have an implicit understanding. I want to get along with Brad; he just makes it so difficult.
Upstairs, I am surprised to find that they have rented a three-bedroom suite. Exquisitely draped, expansive windows and marble flooring surround us. It must have cost a small fortune, even though we’re only staying for two nights. I cringe at the thought.
I have yet to find out about the sleeping arrangements, but surely they don’t expect me to share a room with Brad. Thankfully, Darla soon hands me a key and informs me that the third bedroom is mine. Brad will sleep on the couch. I know he has paid his fair share for this trip, and I hate to relegate him to the couch. However, when I broach the topic he informs me he is likely to find another room and a lovely lady, perhaps a Latina, to keep him company—that stings, but I try to avoid him for the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER TWO
(Colleen)
Marry me, pretty girl.
IT’S LATE, BUT we don’t have much time here, so we dress out for a few hours on the strip anyway. Ten years ago, when we were in our mid-twenties, we could have stayed out all night, but time is no longer on our side. James is already complaining about how tired he is. He doesn’t care that it’s still early in Nevada—back home in Massachusetts, it’s nearly midnight.
Dressed in our best stylish I’m-not-really-trying attire, the six of us make our way down to the casino. The boys wear jeans and button-ups and we girls wear jeans and heels. Darla and Lindsay say, “Go big or go home,” so I suppose going big includes heels. It’s been hours of tense silence and I’m more than ready to blow off some steam. We wasted the entire day stuck in the airport and we’ve missed the comedy show and dinner we had bought tickets to.
After losing some money and spending some time in a nearby bar, we’re all loosened up, and I’m well on my way to being drunk. After the day I’ve had, this warm, blissful feeling is welcome. It’s been so long since I’ve indulged in anything more than a pint of rocky road.
I peer over my right shoulder to see Brad at the bar getting another beer. He is not one for hard liquor, only drinking it when he’s having an especially rough time. He walks back to our table and I signal for him to stand by me. I nudge him gently upon his approach. Graciously, he gives me a half smile, the corners of his mouth turning up. We’re making amends.
At some point we’re going to have to figure out if this friendship is worth salvaging, but not tonight. Tonight, we’re just Brad and Colleen. Tonight, we’re the little kids who used to steal their dad’s badges and ride around the neighborhood on their bikes arresting people. Tonight, we’re just the kids from South Boston. Tonight, I won’t try to hide my accent.
“What can I do to make you smile, pretty girl?” This is Brad’s way of apologizing. He’s never really done the whole ‘I’m sorry’ thing. I bat my eyes, burying the hatchet, even if it’s in a shallow grave and just for the evening.
“Well, handsome,” I say, my thick Boston accent flowing through every word. Brad’s eyes light up. It’s been a long time since anybody has heard it. I’ve spent years hiding this side of myself.