“Are you gonna take me to play cards, or not?” Everyone at our table lets out an enthusiastic shout as my speech transforms from my alma-matter-approved Harvard perfect English to my native Boston Irish where the letter “r” always sounds like an “h.”
“That’s my girl!” Brad leads the cheers as he shoves his beer in the air and he and James clink bottles. He’s laughing a full-on belly laugh and in this moment, he is breathtaking. Tonight, it feels good just being little Colleen Frasier from the neighborhood, not having to prove a thing to anybody.
“Well, well, well, baby sister still has her accent,” James says, dimples on full display. I laugh and look around the table at my closest friends. I feel a case of shame coming on, no matter how hard I fight it. James and Brad have always been proud of their heritage. I always wanted more.
I wanted to know what it was like across town, in the fancy high rises overlooking the river. I became a lawyer because I could, and because it was about as far removed from my blue-collar upbringing as I could get. I’m the only one at this table who has ever aspired to be anything other than who they are.
Thankfully, my sulking doesn’t last. Brad sweeps me away to play blackjack while James and Darla excuse themselves to go upstairs. Darla needs to pump her breasts because she’s still nursing. James is going along for support. We all waive them off, not needing to hear the details of motherhood.
Adam and Lindsay disappear, but Brad and I don’t worry about them. We just play blackjack and laugh, and we drink. Brad is dismayed with the “beah” selection and gripes to the cocktail waitress. She smiles politely tolerating him, I think, because despite his best efforts, he’s still charming. The night wears on and we continue to drink.
An elderly couple sits beside us at the blackjack table and they comment on our accents. Brad grins and put his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, telling him we’re from the best place on earth: South Boston. He’s a proud one, that’s for sure. He also manages to throw out the fact that he’s a detective for the police force back home.
The day Brad got promoted, everyone south of the basin heard about it. The elderly man was a firefighter in his day, so he and Brad bond over their civil service. Brad calls me his girl, loudly, and lays a big smacking kiss on my cheek. His breath is rank, but I’m tipsy enough to not care. I blush under the attention because people begin to stare and Brad is so loud.
The elderly woman asks how long we’ve been together, if we’re married, and if not, when we will be. This is not the first time we have been asked this. I choose not to wonder why. When we inform her that we’re not together, the elderly woman dons a look of pity. I don’t like where this is going.
“I don’t understand your generation,” she says. “When I was young, a girl was lucky to genuinely like her husband, much less have him as her best friend. You two are clearly very close. I just don’t understand it.” Her husband tries to quiet her down, but it’s obvious that he’s only making the attempt in an effort to be polite because he backs down quickly and lets her continue.
“This Bradley is a handsome man,” she gives me her full attention, “and he is smitten with you. I can tell these things. You young girls want it all, what you don’t know is that nobody can have it all and still be happy.” Brad is grinning and the woman quickly turns to him and berates him about what being a proper suitor means. She tells him that if he has any decency that he will marry me tonight. I scoff, but Brad promises her that were I to agree, he would have married me long ago. Like I said, he’s charming. But he’s also full of shit.
“How old are you?” she asks.
“Thirty-five,” I say, hating the way it sounds. I just want to get out of here, but Brad’s on a roll. She looks horrified and begins to tell me that I’m getting up there in years. I’ve been drinking for hours now, nursing my drinks, but it’s getting to me. My mind is getting fuzzy.
Her words sting me in a way I’m loathe to admit. I thought that if I worked hard, I could be an attorney and still have a husband and kids. I had a plan. It was a rough plan, but according to my now-defunct plan, I should have been married by now and I should have already had two children. I never thought I would be alone at thirty-five. Unfortunately, the only men I spend any amount of time with are family or the very married attorneys at my firm, or Brad. I have no prospects and I think I’m starting to give off that vibe of desperation.
“My sister never married,” the old bitty says. Her voice is gentle and high-pitched, but her words reek of judgment. “She was a spinster at thirty-five.” I nervously laugh her off and avoid eye contact with everyone around me. Brad isn’t laughing anymore. He places his hand on my back. He knows I’m upset and in this very public place there is little he can do about it. He knows that being alone and unmarried at thirty-five has always been a fear of mine—which has now become a reality.