Marital Bitch(64)

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” she says, her voice giddy with excitement.

“I know,” I smile at her goofily. She sighs and then snaps back to reality.

“Can you leave? I need to... finish up here,” she looks around nervously. I smirk and back away.

“Okay, pretty girl,” I say, “but if you wipe three times, you’re just playing with yourself.”

The plastic hand soap dispenser comes flying at my head just as I turn the corner into the hall. I walk into our bedroom and check my watch. Two minutes to go. I plop down on the bed and chuckle as she continues to call me every name under the sun. The only thing that really registers is the threat that if I keep it up, I won’t be playing with her anymore. The woman is unbalanced-- definitely unbalanced-- but I wouldn’t have her any other way.





CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

(Colleen)





Maybe it’s too soon.





I WALK OUT of the bathroom, scowl firmly in place, and find my impossible other half on our bed. His shoulders are shaking with laughter. I want to keep on giving him the look of death but I can’t help myself. I walk up to him and give him a push backwards. His torso falls back much too easily, and then his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me with him. I land atop him with a thud.

Eyes wide and frozen in place, he stares at me. “Are you okay?” Absentmindedly, I scoff, until I understand what he means. I straddle him, knees on either side, and sit up.

“I— I think so,” my expression mirrors his. I am beyond out of my element with this. I’ve never been pregnant before. I don’t know what’s okay and what isn’t; and apparently neither does he. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a first,” he smiles earnestly. I love him most when he’s like this. I realize now that I love him always. Even when I want to smother him, even when I want to scream, and even when he’s so wonderful that I’m convinced it must be charade—I love him.

I lean down and kiss him, running my hands through his hair, and grinding on his pelvis. At first, there’s shock on his face, but then he gets into it and kisses me back. We move together, our bodies alight with need. His hands travel up and down. Slowly, he strips me of my clothes, and then we switch positions and I return the favor.

There is no big bang—just a little one—but it’s more than enough. This isn’t about fireworks or showing off. This isn’t a challenge and it’s not a frenzied attack. This is us: slick with sweat and a burning ache, the need to connect coursing through our bodies, and a thousand promises that we’re in this together.

And when we’re done, I curl into his side, savoring his slippery frame and the feel of him under my fingers. Then I remember about the pregnancy test.

“Do you think it’s been two minutes yet?” I ask, somewhat shyly. He laughs lightly and leans in, kissing my head.

“Probably,” he smiles, and rolls out of bed. “I am the Irish stallion.” I roll my eyes.

“It’s Italian stallion,” I correct him.

“Please. Those WOPs got nothing on the Irish,” he turns around and smirks. Naked, Brad disappears into the bathroom, having taken the task of being the one to look first upon himself. He’s silent in there and it feels like it’s taking forever. I burrow further into the bed and clutch to his pillow. I close my eyes as a distraction but I see myself, heavily pregnant and in the same position as now. The image doesn’t help any; it only makes me want this even more. How is it possible to want something so much in such a short amount of time?

When he emerges from the bathroom, he looks crestfallen. I can’t bear to look at him anymore. I already know the answer.

“I’m sorry, pretty girl,” he says, offering me a supportive look. It doesn’t help. I feel like I’ve lost something. But that’s insane—to have lost something you never had. And the tears begin. He curls himself around me and lets me cry. I notice he’s not crying and I understand why. He didn’t want this as much as I do. He was making the best of a bad situation. Brad’s always wanted kids. I guess he just doesn’t want them with me—and I cry even harder.

“Maybe it’s too soon,” he offers. I shake my head.

“It’s stupid,” I concede to the fact that my womb is but a barren wasteland, inhospitable to Brad’s perfect sperm. “We weren’t even trying.”

THE NEXT WEEK is tough. I feel like I’m going out of my mind—and I probably am. We’ve only been married a few weeks but my entire life is radically different from what it was. Brad’s life doesn’t seem to have changed all that much in comparison. He lives in the same house. He’s in the same place with his career. He’s still Brad. I don’t really know who I am anymore.