Bad Husband Read online

  “Stay out of this, Ridley,” she says, regarding me directly for the first time. It’s more than she does most of the time. At Christmas this year, she didn’t say a fuckin’ word to me in my own house for six hours. She’s also the same woman who bought my wife a vibrator for our wedding with a note that said, “The only way you’ll get off the rest of your life.”

  She’s bitter. Her husband left when Madison was little. I’m not even sure Madison has ever seen him so it was just her mom raising her, if you can call it that. When she was six to the time she was fourteen, her grandmother raised her while her mother was out “finding herself.”

  Madison tries to maintain a relationship with her mostly because outside of me and the boys, she doesn’t have any family since her grandparents passed away last spring.

  But Jenna makes it really hard by acting like Madison will never be good enough, or I’m never good enough for her. And up until Tuesday, I thought I was. Now I’m beginning to wonder, and this isn’t helping.

  Here’s where I lose my temper all together.

  Nathalie clears her throat. “I’m going to put Grady down for a nap. Can I put him in Noah’s room?”

  Madison nods, her stare locked on mine.

  “I was talking to my daughter, Ridley, and this has nothing to do with you,” Jenna says, drinking her wine and watching Nathalie leave the room.

  “Mom, come on. Don’t act like this today,” Madison begs, shoulders hunching and looking like she’s about ready to burst into tears.

  I can’t imagine how Madison has dealt with this woman for as long as she has and I swore when we got married, I’d never standby and let her treat Madison badly.

  I step toward Madison, though that might be a bad idea because I’m within distance of her smacking me now. “I won’t stay out of it. This is my goddamn house, that wine you’re drinking, I bought and Madison is…” I pause, my hesitation noticed by Madison. “My wife.”

  Do you notice the emphasis I put on wife?

  Madison does.

  “Yeah, and we’ll see how much longer that lasts,” Jenna has the nerve to say.

  What happens when oxygen combines with a flammable vapor?

  Well, nothing at first. But add a source of spark and you’ve got yourself a fire.

  I feel like a fire right now. A raging fucking inferno.

  “Get out.” I slam my fist down on the counter. “Get the fuck out now before I throw you out.” She doesn’t move. “I mean it, get the fuck out!” I point toward the door in an aggravated jab.

  “Ridley….” Madison sighs, she’s not telling me to stop, but she’s also not defending her mother.

  Jenna looks offended. “Is that how you feel, Madison?”

  Madison nods, swallowing hard. “I think you should leave. This is my son’s birthday party and I won’t have you treating me or Ridley like this.”

  Jenna sets down her glass of wine and walks away without another word, leaving behind a stench in the air.

  That’s when Madison starts crying.

  I reach for her, kissing her forehead and she lets me, her head on my chest. “I’m sorry,” I say, drawing her eyes to mine.

  She sniffs, brushing away tears. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  I nod, though I’m not convinced. I’m sure I have a lot to be sorry about.

  My gaze moves from her mouth to her eyes. “I’m sorry because you don’t deserve that. I know it was embarrassing for you.”

  She cries a little harder, the emotion of what just happened, and maybe what’s happening between us, taking over.

  I wrap both my arms around her. “Madison….” I let out a heavy sigh, wishing the worry would go with it, my lips pressing to her temple. I can be fifty feet tall and will still be brought to my knees anytime Madison needs me. “Don’t let her win. Be stronger than her.”

  I can honestly say despite what’s happening around us, Madison wants me holding her as she sinks into my arms. “Thank you.”

  “DID YOU TELL your mom you filed for divorce?”

  “No. I didn’t,” Madison says, moving around our bedroom in her nightgown. “I haven’t really told anyone.”

  “Except for Nathalie,” I point out, opening my laptop as I sit on the bed.

  Both Callan and Noah are asleep, leaving us alone for the first time tonight since Madison’s mother left. We intended on making Callan’s birthday special for him and I think we did that. He fell asleep at six thirty right after eating two pieces of his cake.

  Sugar affects him differently than Noah, who basically acts like a spider monkey on crack when sugar hits his lips.

  Madison sighs beside me. “Ridley, I don’t want to fight with you tonight.”

  “Fine, I’m sleeping in the bed. The fucking couch is making me sore.”

  Madison doesn’t say anything but moves to the bathroom to put on her anti-wrinkle cream she claims she needs. I don’t see it. Madison can basically wear no make-up and not wash her hair for a week and I still see her natural beauty.

  I pull up Google and type in: Visiting Chernobyl. A webpage pops up immediately and goes on to explain you can visit it.

  There’s a headline that catches my attention.

  Is visiting Chernobyl dangerous? “Yes, as much as visiting any other place in the world. The level of radiation is high only in some places.”

  Radiation? Jesus.

  It goes on to say, “Those places are avoided during the Chernobyl tour, or the group stays near these places only for a brief amount of time. During the two-day Chernobyl trip in the Chernobyl exclusion zone, the body receives a dose of radiation comparable to 0,001 dose by X-ray scan or to several hours spent in an airplane. In numbers, you will receive 5-7 microsieverts of gamma radiation – an absolutely non harmful dose of radiation. For comparison, most of the nuclear power plants around the world have a safety limit for their employees set at 50-100 microsieverts per day. During a one-day retro tour you will get even less: 2-3 microsieverts of gamma radiation. Most probably you will get more radiation during your flight to Kiev.”

  What in the actual fuck? He wants to go here? What if we turn into the Hulk after going there?

  You have to admit, that might be kinda cool.

  When Madison returns to the room, I’m itching my junk. Don’t tell me you forgot about the waxing incident?

  I didn’t. It’s like a good workout. You feel fine the next day; it’s the second day that’s hell and you can barely walk or lift your arms above your head. In the case of my balls, they itch to no end. I totally understand why dogs drag their asses on the ground sometimes. I know, gross but still, it itches.

  “Can I just say, my balls are itching so bad? How long does this last?”

  Madison rolls her eyes and gets into bed beside me. “Not long.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Have you ever waxed your balls?”

  “I’ve waxed before.” She grabs the book she’s been reading from the nightstand. “Stop being such a baby.”

  I stare at the book, and then her, my eyes moving over her features and the book. “Why did you tell Nathalie?”

  “It just sorta of slipped out when she asked what you said about the divorce.”

  My throat tightens with the word divorce. “And you told her about the divorce?”

  She doesn’t say anything and stares at her book. “I told you, I don’t want to fight tonight.”

  I can understand why. Today hasn’t been easy on her with Jenna showing up, so I let it go for now.

  “Ridley, why are you looking up plane tickets to Kiev, Ukraine?” she asks, peeking at my computer.

  I shrug. “Callan wants to go there.”

  Her disapproving expression says it all. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Yeah, me either but I said I’d look into it.” I look at the price. My God, it’s $1300 to fly to Kiev.

  “Is that country even safe?”

  I laugh. “According to our seven
-year-old, who I’m pretty sure is smarter than me, yes.”

  And then a look of confusion mares her features. “What’s Chernobyl?

  I raise an eyebrow thankful I’m not the only one. “You don’t know?”

  “No….”

  Now I don’t feel so bad. She didn’t know either. “It’s a nuclear power plant that blew up. Killed something like 200 people.”

  She’s horrified, sitting up straighter in the bed, her book falling to her lap. “And he wants to visit this place?”

  “Apparently they started doing tours a few years back.”

  “How is that safe?”

  I point to my laptop. “Well, according to this website, you only receive minor doses of gamma radiation.

  She rolls her eyes and picks her book up again. “Oh, well if it’s minor, have a great time.”

  “Are you serious?”

  I receive a “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” look. “No, Ridley, I’m not serious. You’re not taking him there.”

  “Fine.” I close my laptop and set it on the nightstand. “But you tell him. I’m not breaking his heart.”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “Pussy.”

  I waggle my eyebrows suggestively and place my hand on her inner thigh. “I’d like to see your pussy.”

  “And you’re gross.” She slaps my hand away. “Stop it.”

  There’s a look on her face that tells me she’s not in the mood and I let it go because I don’t want to push her. Not after what her mother pulled today.

  No matter how often I was trying to ignore what’s happening, her filing for divorce… our problems I’ve apparently ignored, I can certainly see the darkness creeping in, like smoke spreading and smothering everything in its path the way a fire could.

  Take a candle burning for example, and then put a lid on it. The fire goes out pretty quickly. Without oxygen, everything dies. We need it.

  Without oxygen, you’ll suffocate. Without oxygen, our communication, we were suffocating.

  I’m not in the greatest mood Sunday morning. Mostly because nothing is going my way lately and my date with Madison is tonight. I’m scared. Honestly, I am. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve taken my wife on a date and had to make it perfect?

  A while.

  Not only that, Callan has a soccer game they moved from yesterday to today. A Sunday. A day I’m trying to get a house at least close to the primer stage before Tuesday afternoon when the compliance inspector will be back.

  I go over everything Madison said the other night about me not being around and not helping. My mind is clearly elsewhere as I move outside to the backyard where we’re installing an outdoor kitchen.

  Pounding nails with a hammer into what will eventually be a pizza oven, my attention is elsewhere.

  Brantley comes outside carrying a bag of nails and a caulking gun. “Hey, dude, what’s—”

  And I turn my head to look at him, but it would have been smart not to. I'm sure you can guess what I did. If not, think about it.

  A man driving nails into drywall turns his head and is still hammering.

  Finger. Nail. Not friends.

  It takes me a minute, maybe from shock and the pure white look on Brantley’s face before I understand, let alone feel what I’ve just done.

  And when I do, it’s quite possibly the worst pain imaginable as far as I’m concerned. Worse than having your ball skin ripped off.

  To make matters worse, I try to move my left hand that has a nail in my index finger. I’m pretty much the dumbest motherfucker alive for doing that.

  The next ten minutes are full of a lot of screaming, blood and more screaming as Brantley has to take the nail out of my finger because how else was I going to have it stitched up?

  “Dude, it’s turning black at the end,” Brantley notes, handing me a towel to wrap around it.

  Of course I’m in pain, but I’m more pissed than anything because I’m supposed to be at Callan’s soccer game in two hours, and this is more than likely going to take more than two hours to fix. Kicking tools and shit out of my way, I mumble, “No fucking shit,” to Brantley and nod to my truck. “Can you take me? I might pass out.”

  And I do, I think, because the next thing I remember I’m in the ER and there’s a girl staring at me. “What did you do?”

  “Nailed my hand to the wall.”

  “You’re supposed to nail women, not your hand,” she says, her cheeks warming with her words.

  Is she for fucking real? Probably. I roll my eyes. Ordinarily I’d come back with something equally as snarky but I’m not in the mood today. “That’s highly inappropriate.”

  “Oh stop,” she teases, unwrapping the towel from my hand. “We need to get an X-ray to see if you broke the bone and then we’ll clean it and get you stitched up.”

  The next two hours seem to go by so fucking slow. They X-ray it, tell me the bone splintered, but they don’t think I’ll need surgery. I’m not convinced because I don’t trust these inappropriate flirty doctors. Then they clean it—which hurts about as bad as the waxing experience—and then stitch me up.

  “Have you ever done stitches?” I ask the girl, the one who was flirting with me earlier, when she digs the needle in and practically hits the bone. “This isn’t economics class. Pay attention.”

  “I’ve done stitches before.” She flips her hand at me, as if to blow me off and then concentrates on my hand. “Stop complaining.”

  When I’m all stitched up, my hand is bandaged, and I’m given a prescription for antibiotics.

  “You need to see an orthopedic surgeon next week to make sure the bone’s healing.” She hands me my discharge papers. “Try not to nail your hand to any more walls.”

  I slide down off the table. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Brantley laughs—who’s stayed with me this entire time—gets the girl’s phone number and then nods to my truck. “You good to drive home?” He gives a tip of his head toward the room I was just in. “I’m gonna see what that chick’s doing for the next ten minutes.”

  I know what you’re thinking. Is he for real? Sadly, he’s serious. He’ll probably bang her in a storage closet and have no shame about it.

  Grunting, I practically drag myself out the ER doors. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Try not to feel bad if I wreck my truck.”

  He shrugs and turns to walk away. “I won’t.”

  He’s telling the truth. I own 70 percent of Cooper Custom Homes, hence why my name’s on it. If I die, my share goes to the boys but he gets to run the company. Some days I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to kill me off yet.

  NOT ONLY DO I think my finger might explode with pain, but I can’t believe I’m running late to his first game. It’s probably not even his first game and the fact that I don’t know that only confirms the fact I’m a shitty dad these days.

  Sure, I have a good excuse considering I nearly ripped my finger off, but for some reason, I don’t think that’s going to be good enough for Madison. It seems like nothing I do is good enough lately, but I’m not going to let that discourage me from my plan. As you know, I’m a pretty dedicated guy and I’m not about to let this stop me.

  After parking my truck next to Madison’s car, I head over to the fields I remember Callen practicing at but realize there are actually several games going on at the same time.

  Shit. What color uniform does Callen wear? Shit. Shit. They all look alike.

  Shaking my head at myself, because I really should have planned this better, I walk around looking for anyone I might recognize. It’s the third field on the left when I spot Madison standing on the sidelines smiling and cheering the team on, Noah hanging onto her leg with what looks to be grass in his mouth.

  I laugh, shaking my head. As crazy as that kid is, his personality will always bring a smile to my face.

  As I approach, I’m annoyed at the dress she’s wearing today. Do you see this shit Madison’s wearing?

  Right? Tot
ally inappropriate. It looks like a fucking evening gown.

  All right, all right, it’s not an evening gown, but this is a kids’ soccer game, not Berns Steak House. Cover your fucking tits.

  And I’m about to tell her that as I approach, but then I can clearly see her cleavage, and my thoughts move to my hands on said tits and then my mouth and other nasty thoughts I shouldn’t have in public because of the sudden tightening in my pants.

  No wonder these douche heads were remarking about Madison’s tits the other day.

  “Why are you late?” is her first question to me.

  “Stitches,” I say, not expanding on my statement.

  “What?”

  I hold up my hand. “Stitches. Nearly cut a finger off. Do you care?”

  She’s just about to say something when the game ends. “Callan will be happy you at least made it.”

  Do you sense the sarcasm in her voice?

  I do.

  Madison makes her way over to the cooler where I assume she has the snack for the kids surrounding her. Callan comes over to me, smiling, his hair sticking up in odd directions from the sweat rolling down his temples. “Hey, bud, you looked great out there.”

  He gives me this blank stare like he’s not sure what the fuck I’m talking about. “I didn’t do anything, Dad. I just stood there.”

  “Yeah, but good effort standing there.” I feel like a damn idiot now.

  Noah hugs Callan, his tiny arms wrapped around his older brother’s waist. “Cake.”

  “Cake?” I mouth at Madison who chuckles, shaking her head at our son.

  “I think he’s trying to say Callan, but I’m not sure.”

  Callan unwraps Noah’s arms from around him and then hands him his shin guard he’s taking off.

  “Can you hold this?” Madison asks and then she looks at my hand. “Crap, you’re probably not supposed to hold anything, are you?”

  Is that concern I sense in her tone? Let’s just go ahead and mark a point down for me here because I think it’s necessary. She’s actually concerned. Look at her! Her eyes are darting from the cooler to me and then to my hand.