Marital Bitch (Men with Badges) - By Jc Emery Page 0,63

asks, inspecting the foreign substance.

“Face mask,” I mumble, avoiding his gaze. He makes some sort of grunting sound and plops into the bed.

“Were you drooling, stink?” he asks. I turn to find him looking curiously at my soaked pillow. I laugh it off as best I can.

“I guess so,” I shrug. “I’m going to go take a shower,” I say. I hear some sort of groan coming from him before I realize the effects of the laxatives haven’t quite passed yet.

Once I’m alone in the bathroom, with the door shut, I can’t hold back anymore. I manage to turn on the water in just enough time to muffle the sounds of my sobs. I undress slowly, clutching my stomach in pain. This is the same pain I felt when grandpa died, only this feels even worse if that’s possible. Grandpa didn’t have a choice; but Brad is still here. He just doesn’t want me the way I want him. And I can’t even believe that it hurts this much when a week ago I was oblivious to my own feelings. How can it hurt this much?

I step under the spray of the water and lean my head against the tile, my cries racking my entire body. I’d been trying to be quiet; to cry in silence. I don’t want Brad to know that I’m crying. There’s nothing he can do to make it better anyhow. I can’t force him to love me the way I love him.

I hear Brad open the bathroom door and I think that I should straighten up and pretend that I’m okay, but I can’t. I scream loudly and throw my arms against the tiled wall. I don’t open my eyes, but I know what he’s doing. He’s coming to save me. He’s always coming to save me. Some obligation I must be.

“Colleen?” Brad asks, shoving the curtain aside and stepping into the shower. I sob even harder having him in here with me. I can’t even throw my pity party for one in peace, apparently. “Did you get that junk in your eyes?” he asks and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against him. I let my body sink against his solid frame as I continue to cry. He’s fully clothed and now soaking well to boot.

Before I can protest, he directs the spray to the top of my head. Water runs down my face and he uses his hand to clean my face off. He’s so gentle. He always is. I continue to cry, propped up against his body.

“Is that better?” he asks. I scream out again, still clutching my stomach.

“It hurts,” I whine. It does hurt. It hurts like nothing I knew I could feel, if that even makes sense.

I love him.

He loves me.

As a friend.

He asked me if I want a baby.

I don’t just want a baby.

I want his baby.

“Brad,” I sniffle, trying to calm down my cries. “Why did you ask me if I want a baby?” I can’t stop from crying but I have to ask before I lose my nerve.

“I’m getting up there in age, pretty girl,” he smooths my wet hair out of my eyes and redirects the spray. “I need to get started on that baseball team and who better to do that with than my best friend?” I feel his lips against the back of my head and the little bit of composure I had falls away.

“So, my uterus is convenient?” I whimper. His body shakes for a moment. I think he’s getting cold back there but then he goes stiff. His heart is beating fast, nearly thumping right out of his chest. I turn around and wrap my arms around his waist.

“Colleen,” he says sternly, “you are anything but convenient.”

“Yes,” I blurt out without thinking about it. For once I’m acting on instinct. I’m saying exactly what I want from him and not what I think he wants to give me. Back in high school, I wanted him to ask me to prom, but I didn’t want him to feel obligated to do it. So when he asked, I acted like such a bitch—my trademark reaction to everything it seems. Thankfully, he’s as stubborn as I am and he didn’t take no for an answer.

“Yeah?” he asks, resting his chin on the top of my head.

“Yeah,” I say, “I want a baby.” His chin moves on top of my skull and I just know he’s smiling. I’m not fighting him or questioning him