Marital Bitch Read Online Free Page A

consider going out and meeting new people.
    I let the weight of the old woman’s words sink in. They hit me to the core. “I thought I’d be married by now,” I sniffle into Brad’s chest. I sound ridiculous and I laugh at myself.
    “Me too,” Brad says. “Guess I haven’t found my girl yet.”
    “What are you looking for?” I ask, without really thinki ng about what I expect to hear. This is as personal as we’ve gotten in years. I’m not sure if I’m crossing some kind of boundary line here.
    “Birthing hips,” he chuckles. “She’s got to be able to pop me out a baseball team. And Irish, she’s got to be Irish—the fiery spirit and all. Working class, a girl who gets her hands dirty and ain’t gonna worry about no chipped nails. And she’s got to be tough to put up with me and all our kids.” I’m now slightly uncomfortable with the depth of his answer. I expected him to tell me he was looking for a 34D without a gag reflex. How is it possible that after all of these years, he still surprises me? How did I not know that would be his answer? I let myself feel bad for having spent so long putting such a large distance between he and I.
    “What are you looking for?” he asks. I hiccup and try to formulate an answer, but he doesn’t give me time. “Let me guess—you want a hot shot lawyer like you. A guy who speaks proper-like and has some fancy title like you got at Harvard.”
    Pretty much.
    I flush and compose myself. “Sounds pretty good to me,” I say, trying to keep the shame at bay.
    I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed by what I want in a man. Maybe it’s because this is Brad. He has a way of making me feel insignificant, less than, not enough; even though that’s the last thing he’d ever want to do.
    “I figured,” he says, sou nding smug as ever. “You’d never go for a guy like me.” He’s trying to sound hurt, and he’s succeeding. I don’t know where he’s going with this, but it makes me nervous. We’re in unmarked territory here. It’s off-putting.
    “That’s not true. I just,” my voice trails off. “I know a guy like you won’t go for a girl like me.” It’s true. I’m too high maintenance as he tells me. I try to shake off the eerie seriousness of the conversation. Brad pulls back, places his hands on my shoulders and looks me up and down.
    “You’ll do,” he says as he scans my body and his hands find purchase on my hips. “ Nice and wide,” he sizes up my hips.
    Wide? What the hell!
    I gape at him, much too surprised for my own good. He has me hooked into whatever he is warming up to do or say, just like when we were little. Whatever it is, I’m so screwed.
    “So, here’s the thing, pretty girl,” he grins devi lishly. I’m sunk and I know it. “We got,” he looks at his watch and presses a button on the side, illuminating the dial, “a little over an hour left until midnight, and your birthday will be over. What do you say we make one of those wishes of yours come true, huh?” I’m confused. I haven’t a clue to what he is referring.
    “Huh?” I ask. Before I can see it coming, he drops to one knee. Suddenly, things become very clear, but I just can’t believe what I’m seeing. Obviously, Brad has Vegas fever. People are starting to notice the crazy man on his knee and it’s making me nervous. They seem to have no apprehension about gathering around and watching the show.
    “So, you wanna marry me or something?” He is still grinning, there on one knee, and I am mortified. This is so typical—he sees a problem and sets out to fix it.
    Sanity be damned!
    “What!” I screech, unable to find any control to my volume. I am half-past freaking out and he is the epitome of calm. At least our friends aren’t here to see this. I just want to crawl into a hole and die. With the best of intentions, he has managed to make me feel even more insignificant, and less than, and so terribly alone.
    “Dude,” he laughs, “you’re my best