“But I’m your husband in name only, remember? We’re friends, right, Frasier?” I’m trying to let it go, but I can’t. I’m just her friend.
A stray tear slips down her cheek. She brushes it away just as quickly. Here she goes again trying to make me feel bad for yelling at her. “Just do me a favor this time, and don’t sleep with her, okay?” I turn around and walk away. Colleen rushes past me into the house, sniffling all the way. I don’t even care. I’m just tired of her attitude.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
(Colleen)
Do you want a girl or a boy?
"YOU HAVEN'T PUT this many hours in since before you got married," Tim says from the door to my office. He lets out a yawn and rubs his eyes.
"Yeah," I respond and sit my pen down. I've been working on a game plan for the upcoming trial for hours now and yet nothing has come of it. I lean back and yawn, which causes Tim to yawn again. "It's getting late," I say, "You should go home to your wife."
"And you should go home to your husband," he smiles. I clear my throat and check the digital clock on my desk; it reads 9:30 p.m. Brad will be here any minute.
"Actually," I smile, "he's coming to pick me up. He should be here soon."
"He's picking you up?" Tim asks with raised eyebrows.
"He's working on some case that's shot his nerves. He just doesn't want me out at night alone," I nod. Tim rubs his chin in contemplation; most likely sizing himself up as a husband in comparison. Even when he’s being a shit, no one really compares to Brad.
"Well, one thing's for sure-- he must really love you," Tim says, throwing a wink in for good measure.
"You'd think," I mutter under my breath. My cell phone buzzes, signaling a new text message. It's Brad. He's pulling up to the building. "Well, he's here," I say, standing and collecting my things in my brief case.
"Have a good night, Colleen," he smiles. I shake my head and laugh at him. For a forty-year-old seasoned attorney, he still busts his ass like when he was a baby lawyer. "You go home and enjoy what's left of your night. I have a few more hours to put in." I nod and brush past him.
"Ah come on, Tim," I look back and grin. "Daddy owns the firm. Cut yourself some slack." He walks up beside me and thumps my shoulder with the prescription glasses in his hand.
"That is the reason I can't cut myself any slack," he says and walks away. "Go home, kid, your husband's waiting for you." I walk down the hall and get into the elevator, still smiling. It's a relief to have Tim back from the D.C. office where he had been transferred to on a temporary basis for the last six months. I don't feel so alone here now; stuck with just The Toad and his diaper-wearing imbecile father.
Downstairs in the lobby, the feeling of calm leaves me. Brad’s truck—which he has unfortunately named Sweetness—is parked in the fire lane right out front and he's gotten out; standing on the other side of the locked doors, waiting for me. Sheesh. I want to run out there and shake him and ask him why he insists on doing this if he thinks of me as just a friend. I can get home without incident. As he so kindly and continuously likes to point out—anyone who kidnaps me is in for an ordeal. He is entirely convinced that my abductor would return me within the hour.
I swipe my I.D. badge to unlock the door, and then walk out. He doesn't smile at me, he just places his hand on my lower back and escorts me to the truck. This is the most contact we've had in over a week.
It's Friday now, and he's come to pick me up all week since I've been putting in fifteen-hour days: getting off usually no earlier than 9 p.m. Monday and Tuesday nights he didn't look at me, either, nor did he place his hand on my back. It was the same with Wednesday, but at least then he opened the door to the truck for me. Thursday night he gave me a sad smile. Tonight, I don't even get that; and I don't even know what I did that was so awful to deserve any of it. All I know is that he's angry with me; but he won't talk about it, and by Tuesday I was tired of pressing him to open up.
Brad normally has no issue telling me what I've done to piss him off, but this silent treatment is faintly reminiscent of The Heather Incident and that scares me. Deep down I had a feeling he would never truly get over that, and maybe he never will.
The whole thing used to make me a little sad. It's been years and he has yet to really move on from it. I used to wish that he could just get over it and we could erase the whole incident from memory. But I get it now. If I saw him with someone else, I'd lose it, too. He really loved Heather and I messed that up for him.
A tear slips from my eye and I try to wipe it away without notice. He scoffs. I look over to him and he's shaking his head. "What the fuck are you crying for?" His lack of sympathy or even general regard for my emotional well-being sends me over the edge and I break out in a full cry. "Crap," he grumbles.