myself enough to drive home.
Home.
Home is my condo; my condo with my desk and my laptop and my filing cabinet. Home is neat and orderly and quiet. Home doesn’t have Brad and his shenanigans and all the bullshit, childish crap he talks me into. No, home—my condo—is my safe place. Back at my condo, my job isn’t in peril and my career doesn’t look so hopeless.
So I drive to my condo. I decide that I’ll figure out what to do about Brad’s truck later. Right now I need to collect myself. I need to work on my case load and to be productive. I need a bit of normalcy before I crack under the pressure.
I sigh, contentedly, as I slide the key in the lock to my front door. Home is just a step away. I open the door and put my keys in my purse and stroll inside, feeling only slightly better than when I left The Toad’s office. I turn on the living room lamp to find my condo nearly empty. I’ve only had this condo for a few months now and it was sparsely furnished to begin with; but now even the basics are missing.
My books that once sat in the large bookcase across the room are gone. I walk to the dining room to see that my dinette set is now missing two of its chairs and in the kitchen even my coffee maker and toaster are gone. Just when I’m sure that I’ve been robbed, Brad walks out of my bedroom with James and Adam and Lindsay.
The boys look tired as they each have large cardboard boxes in their arms. But Lindsay looks energized and she’s box-free. Horrified, I realize that they’re packing my stuff up to move it to Brad’s. We didn’t really talk about this, but it makes sense. The outside world would expect a married couple to live in the same house, and this place isn’t big enough for Brad to live here. Not that he’d leave the neighborhood, anyway.
Brad spots me and he sets the box down. It’s marked “Girly Shit.” He walks over to me and holds my face in his hands, studying me. A tear slips down my cheek and I burst into tears. He pulls me tightly against his chest and holds me. I wrap my arms around him and sob.
Ever since we were kids, Brad had a way of comforting me; and this is no different. He’s still here for me, still comforting me. I make a vow to myself that I’m going to try. I’m going to try to be a good friend and good wife, whatever that means. Thomas’s indication that I can’t handle being a married woman and having a career as well makes me livid. It’s everything my mother told me growing up—that I’d have to make a choice, that I would always regret choosing a career over having a family. I have no intention of any of them right; so I’m going to try. I just hope Brad wants to try, too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
(Colleen)
Game on, Patrick.
EARLIER IN THE week I had promised myself that I would try in mine and Brad’s marriage. Every morning when he wakes up for work, before he puts his suit on, Brad makes us both a cup of coffee. It tastes like crap, but it’s the thought that counts. By the time he leaves, I’m just barely stirring in bed. Normal husbands would kiss their wife goodbye. Mine tells me to get out of bed and then smacks my ass. Four mornings in a row and I have yet to learn to get out of bed before I hear his footsteps trudging up the stairs.
Every night I make sure Brad has dinner. Some nights I just order from some place I know he likes; pizza or hot wings or something like that. Other nights I try to actually cook. My skills are limited, though. His schedule is hectic. I never know if he’s going to come home in time for dinner or not. The nights he doesn’t, I fix him a plate and put it in the microwave before I head up to his bedroom that I’m slowly, but purposefully, taking over. When Brad finally gets home and crawls into bed, I curl up against him.
I think we’re working on some sort of record because we haven’t fought since the day Thomas made me sign that stupid performance contract and that was nearly a week ago. When Brad
Home.
Home is my condo; my condo with my desk and my laptop and my filing cabinet. Home is neat and orderly and quiet. Home doesn’t have Brad and his shenanigans and all the bullshit, childish crap he talks me into. No, home—my condo—is my safe place. Back at my condo, my job isn’t in peril and my career doesn’t look so hopeless.
So I drive to my condo. I decide that I’ll figure out what to do about Brad’s truck later. Right now I need to collect myself. I need to work on my case load and to be productive. I need a bit of normalcy before I crack under the pressure.
I sigh, contentedly, as I slide the key in the lock to my front door. Home is just a step away. I open the door and put my keys in my purse and stroll inside, feeling only slightly better than when I left The Toad’s office. I turn on the living room lamp to find my condo nearly empty. I’ve only had this condo for a few months now and it was sparsely furnished to begin with; but now even the basics are missing.
My books that once sat in the large bookcase across the room are gone. I walk to the dining room to see that my dinette set is now missing two of its chairs and in the kitchen even my coffee maker and toaster are gone. Just when I’m sure that I’ve been robbed, Brad walks out of my bedroom with James and Adam and Lindsay.
The boys look tired as they each have large cardboard boxes in their arms. But Lindsay looks energized and she’s box-free. Horrified, I realize that they’re packing my stuff up to move it to Brad’s. We didn’t really talk about this, but it makes sense. The outside world would expect a married couple to live in the same house, and this place isn’t big enough for Brad to live here. Not that he’d leave the neighborhood, anyway.
Brad spots me and he sets the box down. It’s marked “Girly Shit.” He walks over to me and holds my face in his hands, studying me. A tear slips down my cheek and I burst into tears. He pulls me tightly against his chest and holds me. I wrap my arms around him and sob.
Ever since we were kids, Brad had a way of comforting me; and this is no different. He’s still here for me, still comforting me. I make a vow to myself that I’m going to try. I’m going to try to be a good friend and good wife, whatever that means. Thomas’s indication that I can’t handle being a married woman and having a career as well makes me livid. It’s everything my mother told me growing up—that I’d have to make a choice, that I would always regret choosing a career over having a family. I have no intention of any of them right; so I’m going to try. I just hope Brad wants to try, too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
(Colleen)
Game on, Patrick.
EARLIER IN THE week I had promised myself that I would try in mine and Brad’s marriage. Every morning when he wakes up for work, before he puts his suit on, Brad makes us both a cup of coffee. It tastes like crap, but it’s the thought that counts. By the time he leaves, I’m just barely stirring in bed. Normal husbands would kiss their wife goodbye. Mine tells me to get out of bed and then smacks my ass. Four mornings in a row and I have yet to learn to get out of bed before I hear his footsteps trudging up the stairs.
Every night I make sure Brad has dinner. Some nights I just order from some place I know he likes; pizza or hot wings or something like that. Other nights I try to actually cook. My skills are limited, though. His schedule is hectic. I never know if he’s going to come home in time for dinner or not. The nights he doesn’t, I fix him a plate and put it in the microwave before I head up to his bedroom that I’m slowly, but purposefully, taking over. When Brad finally gets home and crawls into bed, I curl up against him.
I think we’re working on some sort of record because we haven’t fought since the day Thomas made me sign that stupid performance contract and that was nearly a week ago. When Brad
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