Marital Bitch(71)

“Let me rephrase that, Colleen,” Brad seethes, “I won’t get a divorce. Marriage may not mean shit to you, but it means something to me. Even if we have to be separated for the rest of our fucking lives, we will die married to one another.” His body is shaking with anger. I have to look away. His eyes are boring into the side of my head. He’s watching me, chest heaving, refusing to look away. I’m intimidated, but not intimidated enough to show it.

“I don’t need your permission, Bradley,” I’m glaring at him with hate flowing through my veins. “If I want a divorce, I’ll fucking get one.” I don’t hate him. I’ll never hate him. I hate myself. I can’t stand that I’m pushing him away, but I can’t seem to bring myself to hang onto him. Not like this—out of control with no idea what’s going on. I’d rather let him go than to take him down with me; so I push him farther. “We’re just friends, remember that, Brad.”

He stalks toward me looking menacing. I want to hide under the bed, disappear, or really anything that would stop this moment in its tracks. He reaches his right hand up and places it behind my neck. Leaning in, Brad kisses my forehead. He isn’t rough but I can feel the anger vibrating off of him.

For a brief moment I think this might be the moment where we both magically figure out what the hell is going on with me. I imagine that he moves to cuddle me in the bed. I dream that I’ve gone back five minutes and have managed to control the insanity long enough to stop this from happening. I wish he weren’t backing away right now, refusing to meet my eyes.

And I wish he weren’t leaving me, walking out on the crazy. But he is and as much as I don’t want him to go, I can’t bring myself to stop him. I am a worse mess now than I was weeks ago when we got married. My entire life is a disaster and if I can’t even let Brad touch me without falling apart, then we need some time away from one another; because this is going to kill us both if I don’t find a way to minimize the casualties.





CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

(Brad)





Flashback: The Heather Incident, 1999





“SO,” SHE SAYS, trailing off nervously. “Do you love her?”

And the world stops on its axis.

My breath catches in my throat as I try to claw my way out of my own head. Minutes seem to pass, but in all likelihood it’s only a few moments. I don’t know what to say. Her green eyes stare at me awaiting an answer.

How do I tell her the truth? After all this time, how can I be honest with her? My stomach churns and I think I’m going to be sick. I feel like I’m cheating on them both. My best friend, my girlfriend—the truth is, I love them both.

But that’s not enough, is it? It’s not enough for a woman to have to share her boyfriend, but that’s all that I can offer. I can’t just stop loving Colleen. Believe me. I’ve tried. I really have. All that I’ll ever be able to offer Heather is half of me, if even, but I’m going to try like hell to be good to her. I’ll treat her how I’d treat Colleen, if she’d have me. But she won’t. I’m not good enough. So, whatever.

“Yeah,” I say as calmly as possible. I stare at my pretty girl with a sad smile on my face. She beams back at me, completely unaware of how I feel about her, how I’ve always felt about her.

“Good,” she says, her smile getting even bigger. “She loves you, too, Brad. You be good to Heather. You know she’s like my Monica.” I nod. Yeah, I’ve watched the show, Friends, with them enough to know what she’s talking about. Colleen is Rachel, and Heather is Monica. Best friends who share everything. Except, they don’t share a man. Only, they do, but neither of them know it.

“This doesn’t change anything, right?” I ask Colleen seriously. She looks perplexed. Of course this doesn’t change anything for her. I’m still Brad. I’m still pretty boy. Always have been. Always will be.

“You’ll always be my pretty boy,” she giggles. I roll my eyes. I hate when she calls me pretty boy. I don’t think she’ll ever understand that it sounds really fucking gay and the guys on the force pick on me for it. I don’t even know how in the hell I can love a woman who calls me a pretty boy.

“Is it serious?” she asks. I just want to hit something. She has no clue what the fuck it is she’s asking me. It’s serious enough. Serious as I could ever be with anyone who isn’t her. But I can’t tell her that. Our friendship would be destroyed.

“Uh,” I stutter, “yeah.” Silence fills the air and smothers me. She nods.