James, Colleen
and I started volunteering back in high school. Our dads always made sure we knew how lucky we are. My time with the kids has dropped dramatically since the Vegas trip as I’ve been distracted with the old lady; and work hasn’t been easy, either. Those stupid college kids and their “study aids” have been keeping me pretty busy. Just as I walk into the house, I resolve to spend more time at the center. I wonder if Colleen will come with me or if she hasn’t come back to herself as much as I think she has.
Upstairs,
Colleen is sitting in the center of our bed, chewing her bottom lip right off. She’s wearing one of my old t-shirts-- her favorite night wear-- and her long blonde hair is down and damp. She picks up a water bottle, takes a gulp and then squirms in place. I chuckle at the sight. What in the hell is she doing?
“Oh, thank God!” she exclaims, tosses the capped water bottle to the side and jumps up. She grabs the small plastic bag from my hand and rush to the bathroom. In a matter of seconds, I hear the bag crinkle, the box opens, and plastic being ripped apart.
“Took you long enough!” she shouts. I round the corner to find the bathroom door wide open and Colleen peeing on the stick. I walk over to her and pick up the directions as she continues to pee.
“Did you even read how to work this thing?” I ask, trying to make sense of the directions. I find the spot that tells me not to pee on the stick for too long. And
Colleen keeps right on peeing. God, I hope she’s peeing on the right fucking end. I don’t want to have to go back out.
“Uh, babe,” I say, “I don’t think you’re supposed to pee on it for that long.”
“I can’t help it!” she whines and continues to pee.
“Seriously?” I stare down at her. “You can keep peeing but remove the damn stick!”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” she asks.
“Hell if I know,” I say, shrugging. I’ve never been in this position before. Her confusion leads me to believe that neither has she. I breathe a sigh of comfort, allowing myself to imagine that I’m the only man she’s ever been with. Unfortunately, I can’t pretend that I’m the
only person, as I’ve seen firsthand that I’m not.
Pinching the end of the stick daintily with the tips of two fingers, she plops the stick on the counter, leaving a trail in her wake. This is a pretty gross process to be honest. Messy, too. With all the fancy shit scientists can do nowadays and they still haven’t figured out a way to tell a lady if she’s knocked up without her peeing on her hand? Either way, her piss, her prob
lem. I am not cleaning that off the counter.
Looking at the directions, it says to check the stick in five minutes, but not to trust results after ten minutes. I check my watch, it reads 11:05 p.m. “Okay, we got five minutes pretty girl,” I say, smiling down at her. She looks up at me and grins.
“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.
(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.
And I realize that I’m being overly dramatic.
I wish I could blame pregnancy hormones… but I can’t.
So, it’s Tuesday and I’m in my office.
It’s been over a week since the test came back negative and with every passing day my mood has worsened. The Toad has been making subtle comments all day.
You seem distracted,
Colleen.
Your work is slipping.
Are you even listening to me?
It wasn’t even 10 a.m. when The
Toad made a sly comment about how many cups of coffee I’ve drank today. The number, then, was up to 4. So sue me. I’m going to enjoy one of the few perks of not being knocked up—caffeine—lots and lots of caffeine.
It was noon when I stopped for lunch—turkey sandwich on white with pickles, onions, banana peppers, and
Swiss cheese. Normally I hate banana peppers. But today, those juicy little things called to me. In the break room there were some snacks—cookies, brownies, and pastries. I only made two trips: two cookies, two brownies, and an apple fritter. I’m a glutton for sweets and I eat when I’m depressed. The Toad asked me if there was something I’d like to tell him. It took all my strength not to tell him he’s a sleaze.
It was a little after 2:00 p.m. when we were in an all-hands meeting and The
Toad kept giving me curious glances across the table. At one point he even had the nerve to ask me for a bite of the cookie I was munching on. I politely told him I was sick and proceeded to cough on the cookie. I wouldn’t have shared that cookie with Jesus Christ himself let alone The Toad.
There’s a knock at my office door. Before I have the opportunity to acquiesce to the intrusion, the door flies open. It’s The
Toad. He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, looking rather shy. I know better. He’s a snake.
“
Thomas,” I say, smiling, and gesture to a chair in front of my desk. He nods and walks in, closing the door behind him. The Toad takes the seat I’ve offered him and he leans back in his seat, making himself at home. I really wish he wouldn’t do that. He has no right to feel so comfortable in my office when I’m so uncomfortable with him being in here.
When he says nothing, I blow out a breath and decide it’s going to be up to me to get things rolling. “So, what can I help you with?”
“Colleen,” The Toad begins, “Is there something you need to tell me?” I stare at him blankly. Several things come to mind: you’re a pig, I hate you, die in a fire… but none are things I can vocalize. I raise my eyebrows, asking for clarification. “I just mean,” he stutters, “You’re eating a lot—a lot” he emphasizes.
I narrow my eyes and slap my hands down on my desk. “What are you trying to say,
Nate?” My temper has left me and so have my senses. I disregard the fact that he is my boss. I disregard the fact that I spent over three years in law school. I disregard my student loan debt, and the economy. If I lose this job, I can say hello to bankruptcy, because finding another one would be impossible. The trouble is that I just don’t give a flying fuck anymore.
He fumbles over his words. He fidgets. He opens his mouth repeatedly; but no words come out.
Thomas Nate is stuck at the bottom of a well and it’s apparent that he knows if he speaks one wrong word, I’m going to drown him alive. So I throw him a bone.
“Spit it out, please. It’s nearly time for second lunch!” I sna
p, revealing myself as a closet “Lord of the Rings” nerd. The Toad looks unfazed. I should have known he was too lame to appreciate all that which Tolkien can offer. Idiot.
“ARE YOU PREGNANT?!?” he shouts, eyes darting around the room—looking anywhere but at my face—and a nervous sheen appearing on his forehead. Score one point for Angry
Colleen.
“WHY!” I shout back, my blood b
oiling. He continues to squirm.
“I’m sorry,” he pleads, but I’m not having it.
“No, no. Don’t be sorry, Nate. I understand,” I nod my head, my voice ice cold. His eyes widen in what appears to be fear. Inside, I giggle maniacally. Good. “I get it. A woman can’t have a healthy appetite because either she’s a pig or she’s with child.”
“That is not what I mea
nt!” he defends himself weakly.
“Sure, sure,” I say, wanting to throttle him. My arms twitch and the papers on my desk fly around the office. I
stand up and lean over my desk.
“What do you want to hear,
Nate? That I’m depressed? How about I tell you I’m a pig? How about I tell you that I just like cookies?” My arms twitch again and more papers fly around. And again. My desk is now cleared of every last loose paper. “How about I tell you that I can’t stand you?”
He stands up, having now found his voice. “This is unprofessional, un
acceptable, and I urge you to lower your voice, Ms. Frasier.” I let out a muffled scream. How dare he! The stupid bastard. My last name is Patrick. I may not have Brad in every way I want him, but I do have his last name, damn it.
“Or what?” I challenge.
“Or you will be excused from your position at this firm.” His voice is condescending.
Without another thought, I make a decision. “DON’T BOTHER!” I scream at the top of my lungs. Leaning forward across my desk, I meet The
Toad’s eyes.
“You will have my personal items boxed up and delivered to my condo—not my husband’s house. You will expedite a check to me for all of my recently submitted billed hours,” I raise an eyebrow at him knowing that he was likely planning on trying to swindle me out of my billed hours; especially considering the fact that I’ve put in a lot of overtime as of late, and that extra cushion will help me during my apparent u
pcoming season of unemployment.
“Do we understand one another?” I ask.
Nate remains silent. It’s probably for the best. I’m one short answer from backhanding that moron right about now. I grab my purse and pull my apple fritter from the top right hand drawer and smirk at the pansy before me—and then take a huge bite of my pastry—and smile wide as I exit what was once my sanctuary.
“And one more thing—if there is not a sufficient enough bonus attached to my last check from this firm, then you can assure that I will be filing a civil suit against you and the firm for your horrid behavior. Surely, an attorney of your caliber should know by now that badgering an employee and then outright asking whether or not they are with child is illegal… and that,
Toad, is one of your milder offenses. I keep good records, so don’t even try me, you swine.”