Marital Bitch (Men with Badges) - By Jc Emery Page 0,1

of our group. We are creating quite the spectacle among the crowded terminal; all eyes seem to be on us with the exception of the three snoring lugs before us. Our boys.

My older brother, James, is a might of a man. At six foot five, he is a foot taller than me, and his muscular physique can be intimidating, despite his boyish dimples. Growing up, he was always Mr. All-American and he lettered in every sport he played—all four of them. He has never once let our parents down. Not when he joined the force, following in our father’s footsteps, and definitely not when he married Darla and gave them grandchildren—something they have given up on getting from me. Weekly, it seems, my mother reminds me that my ability to bear children is reaching a critical point. At my last OBGYN appointment I asked my doctor about getting pregnant and she threw a bunch of scary statistics at me. To make it worse, she kept repeating the words, “At your age.” Whoever decided that thirty-five was the new forty-five forgot to tell my eggs that. As though I need to be reminded that I’m thirty-five and single, and mostly disappointedly of all: childless.

Next to James is my childhood best friend, Brad. Just a few inches shorter than James, Bradley Patrick is tall and muscular. Built like a cop, my dad, Dan, says. Brad is slouched in his seat and asleep with his jaw hanging open and drool slinking down his unshaven chin. He is not at his best. He looks like he hasn’t showered in days, and his stubbly face indicates that my guess is likely true. I admire the way his slight gut is peeking out above the waistline of his jeans. I want to poke his belly, though I know better—for he might fart or belch without waking.

Brad may be handsome and have a certain appeal about him, but he is pure Southie: a loud, brash man with a thick Boston accent and whose idea of culture is trying different beers. When he went to the academy with James, my parents saw stars in their eyes. They thought their son would be a cop and their daughter would marry one. Brad’s parents, John and Emily Patrick, have been friends with my family since well before James’s arrival, and they have long since been praying that Brad and I would settle down together. I have instructed them not to hold their breath. I have never, not ever, wanted to be a cop’s wife.

Finally, on James’s other side is Lindsay’s boyfriend and the newest addition to our group, Adam Stuart. Sure, they’ve been dating for nearly three years—and living together for two—but he’s still the new kid. Adam is handsome in an academic way. He’d rather study a gun than fire one—unlike the meatheads next to him—even though he is a pretty good shot. His shaggy black hair hangs in his eyes. He is a graceful sleeper, nary a sound. I adore Adam and his Southern twang. His gentle Southern nature is in sharp contrast to Brad’s abrasive, Northeastern demeanor. I also adore the fact that Adam seems is able to calm Lindsay down. She stresses out like nobody I’ve ever seen (and I thought I was a perfectionist.)

Darla nudges James a few times until he stirs. His arms fly wildly at his sides, smacking both Brad and Adam in the process. I giggle unabashedly at the sight. Brad and Adam stare him down as they adjust to being awake. James is still sleeping, but they don’t allow this for long. With an exchange of devilish grins, the pair begins jovially slapping the big oaf. Our group is, once again, drawing the attention of everyone around us, including security. I try to voice my concerns, but it’s no use.

I’m going in.

I carefully watch for James’s flying arms as he bats away stray limbs that have found their way to his face, and I throw myself into Brad’s lap, narrowly avoiding a black eye. He makes a grunting sound as I land and loosely wraps his arms around my waist.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he groans dramatically. He is not in pain, the crybaby. “Are you gonna expect me to tip you for this lap dance?” I roll my eyes. He’s laying his accent on thick, even for him—something he normally only tries with tourists. I don’t understand why, but women go crazy for the thick Boston Irish accent, especially when they find