Bad Husband Page 2

  “Look, don’t panic. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation. Have you tried talking to her?”

  He must not know me at all.

  “I tried to call her and I’m sitting outside of West Bay, but she won’t answer, and they say she’s with a client.” The panicky feeling returns and I start to sweat. Mostly because it’s fucking hot outside and I’m sitting in my truck without it running, but still, this shit is heavy. Divorce. That’s huge. I’m not my father. He’s been divorced like four times. Divorce isn’t something I can handle.

  “Get me the papers and I’ll call her lawyer.” Frank snorts. “And here I thought I was her lawyer. Is there a name on it? Like a lawyer’s name?”

  Scanning the papers, I read through it.

  And then the words, Self-represented stand out to me. Okay, so I’ve got that going for me. Might just be the only thing at this point but let’s just put a point on the board for me here.

  “She doesn’t have a lawyer.”

  “All right, that’s good. Let me look into this. For now, bring the papers by and I’ll see what we can do.”

  “I’ll be right over,” I tell him, starting the truck up. I’m certainly not wasting any time here.

  I welcome the rush of cool air that blasts my face when the air kicks on, but it doesn’t help much. I’m still having that anxiety attack because I can’t get a hold of her and probably can’t force myself inside the room she’s in without getting arrested. Believe me, I consider the getting arrested part for answers. It wouldn’t be the first time. I was once arrested because my college professor gave me an C- on my midterm and I thought it was necessary to break into his house for an answer as to why.

  If he didn’t answer the door, why wasn’t it acceptable to go through the window if it was open?

  Or maybe it wasn’t open. I don’t remember.

  Have you ever wondered what hell feels like?

  I actually haven’t. I never really had the desire to find out.

  By noon, I’m pretty sure I know exactly what it’s like. I can see it at least. And let me tell you, it’s awful.

  Think of the worst day you’ve had, then multiply that by a hundred. That’s hell. I’m teetering on the edge of hell, balancing the tightrope and hoping I don’t fall off.

  After I gave Frank a copy of the petition to dissolution of marriage, I headed back to the office to check on Kennedy and maybe see if by chance Madison called there instead.

  My office is in downtown Phoenix. For a while, Brantley and I worked out of my house, but it got to be too chaotic once Callan started walking so I rented a space on the first floor of a fancy high-rise. I’m cheap. I don’t like to spend money where I don’t need to, but when your toddler son begins taking work orders and construction plans to use as his personal coloring pads, it’s time to move your office. I’m also glad I did because once Noah was born, there’s no way in hell I could have imagined trying to work in the same house as that little monster.

  “Is the inspector finished up at the Aster house?” I ask Kennedy, our office manager. We call her the office manager strictly by her request. I don’t pay her office manager pay. She’s the only one in the office. How can you manage an office if there’s nobody else in it?

  That’s a conversation for another day.

  “No. Didn’t show.”

  “What do you mean he didn’t show up?”

  Kennedy barely looks up at me, her stare strangely focused on her phone. Nothing new there. I swear it’s glued to her hands. “That’s what I’m saying, Ridley. The inspector didn’t show up. B and Trey stayed there all afternoon.”

  It’s noon. How that adds up as all afternoon isn’t right, but we don’t pay Kennedy for her math skills. We pay her because she can file paperwork, answer the phone politely and actually schedule appointments without fucking it up. You’d be surprised with today’s workforce. Or maybe it’s just me who’s completely blown away by the lack of accountability in today’s youth.

  I once hired a kid to do tile work, and he showed up to the jobsite and wanted to know about health insurance his first day. That wasn’t so weird. Me catching him making a family of snowman out of grout, that’s weird. Wanna know the worst part?

  He laid the tile all right. Guess what his design resembled?

  A dick. A big fat dick made of mosaic tiles. Luckily we were able to fix it but I swore off hiring anyone for like a year. I’ll admit though, the dude had talent to be able to do that.

  “Hey.” Kennedy finally glances up from her phone, popping bubbles with her gum. “Can I have Friday off?”

  Never mind the fact she’s popping her gum, and she knows I hate that, but how can she possibly think I can function enough to contemplate three days from now? Doesn’t she know what I’m dealing with?

  Right. No. She doesn’t. Unless Brantley told her, which he wouldn’t. Brantley’s secretive and for no reason whatsoever. If there’s ever anyone you can trust not to tell your secrets, it’s him.

  I glance at Kennedy. “Did Madison call the office today?” Since I left the salon, I’ve been dealing with the city of Scottsdale on some building permits I filed three weeks ago, and they’re giving me the runaround about them. But I know for a fact Madison hasn’t called my cell phone.

  Kennedy shrugs, pushing her glasses up her tiny nose. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Kennedy’s attractive. Not in the way you’d think. She’s kind of awkward in a sense. Nerdy even. A petite girl who wears these thick black-framed glasses, jet-black hair she usually has up in a bun, I’ve frequently had to kick Trey out of the office because he fantasises about her playing naughty teacher to him.

  Before you go thinking I have a thing for my secretary, knock that shit off. She’s nineteen. I’m not a creep. I’m twenty-eight. I have rules. And also—this is kinda up in the air right now—married and have morals.

  Speaking of being married, guess who still hasn’t answered their phone?

  Yep. Madison.

  I’ve called fifty-two times.

  How can she still be with that client? It’s been like what… I’m not the greatest at keeping track of time here but I’m pretty sure it’s been three hours. Who pays for a massage that’s three hours long?

  I bet Derek Jeter does.

  I’ll shove his bat up his ass if he’s trying to round home plate with my wife. Listen, I have nothing against Derek Jeter. And he’s probably never even seen my wife, but I’m just using him as an example. I’d use David Beckham, because I bet he’s the type of guy Madison would go for, but wrong sport. We don’t see many soccer players in the desert.

  I take a step toward my office behind Kennedy’s desk only to have her groan and smack me on the shoulder with a set of building plans. “Hey, dude, day off? Remember?”

  “Oh, right.” I wave my hand around. “Yeah, sure. Take it off. I don’t really care.” Believe me when I say my voice is completely dejected. It’s almost pathetic.

  Kennedy stands up, her hand on my forehead. “Are you sick?”

  I stare blankly down at her. She’s like five one. Being six one myself, I won’t ever be eye level with her unless I’m sitting down. “No, why?”

  “You just told me I can take the day off. Last time I asked for a day off, you asked my mother to fill in for me.”

  I expect people to be at work. I don’t understand the need for a day off during the week when you have weekends off. You don’t see me taking a day off during the week, do you?

  Before you answer that, I didn’t take today off. I simply took a couple hours to find out why my wife suddenly filed for divorce.

  “I’m fine.” I step into my office. “Let me know if Madison calls and call the electrical inspector and see where he’s at.”

  Sitting down in my chair, I scan my desk for my cell phone I tossed down somewhere on this mountain of paperwork a minute ago. I find it next to my wedding photo.

  A stabbing sensation hits my heart. Leaning forward, I rest
my elbows on my desk and stare at the photograph. We’re standing facing each other, nearly kissing with her arms wrapped around my shoulders. She looks happy in that picture. I remember the day like it was yesterday and the way nothing else mattered but us and the adventure we found ourselves on.

  We were still in college when Madison got pregnant with Callan. Not long after we found out, I proposed. Marriage seemed like the thing to do. I wanted to marry her. I did, I still want to be married to her. Would I have asked had she not gotten pregnant our junior year of college? Probably not for a while, but I did, and I don’t regret it.

  Wasn’t she happy? I always thought she was. Or had I been so focused on my business I didn’t realize we were slipping away?

  I mean, isn’t that what every country song’s about? Wife leaves him, then the dog? We don’t have a dog so at least I have that going for me. We do however have kids, and if she takes them from me too, she might as well rip my fucking heart out and toss it to the wolves.

  IT’S SURPRISING THE shit you can learn from Google when doing some research.

  Did you know women file for divorce twice as often as men do? Don’t believe me? Google it. First thing that pops up.

  Want to know the number one reason as to why they ask for a divorce… per Google?

  #1 Infidelity.

  I’ve never cheated on her. Ever. Wouldn’t even think about it. Look at her. That’s like marrying Jennifer Aniston and cheating on her. Brad Pitt, you’re a dumbass. I’m sorry, loved you in Ocean’s Eleven, but you’re pretty fucking dumb.

  Next one?

  #2 Incompatible.

  Okay, well, that’s just bullshit. We’re compatible. Remember the shower?

  #3 Drinking/Drug Use.

  Um, can we pass over the drinking? I don’t do drugs but is it wrong to drink a six-pack in one night three days a week? Maybe don’t answer that just yet. Let’s move on.

  #4 Grew Apart.

  I wouldn’t think we’ve grown apart, have we? Again, remember the shower?

  #5 Personality problems.

  That could be debatable on my part. Around the third day of every month, she turns into a completely different person and as we call it, “shark week” takes over.

  #6 Lack of communication.

  Do we have to talk so much? Why can’t I come home from work and just sit and watch TV? I mean, I’m not rude or ignoring her. If she asks a question, most of the time I answer it the first time. Or maybe the second? Surely not the third.

  #7 Physical or mental abuse.

  I’ve never in my life laid a hand on her. Let’s clarify here, in anger. Because sex doesn’t count on that one, right?

  #8 Loss of love.

  Had she fallen out of love with me? How could that be possible? Here again, I hate to keep bringing this up but she fucked me in the shower this morning.

  #9 Not meeting family obligations.

  I admit, I could improve my score on this one. I work a lot.

  #10 Last one? Employment problems.

  I run my own business and I’m the most sought after custom home builder in Maricopa County. It’s a business that gives her freedom. One where she only works because she’s bored during the day. Pretty sure my income isn’t the problem here.

  You see that guy? The one with his head in his hands contemplating his next move?

  He’s in hell. I’m sure of it.

  My phone beeps beside me. I scramble for it, pushing aside plans and paperwork only to see it’s a text message from Brantley.

  Brantley: Everything ok?

  No. It’s not okay. Today’s been like being on an airplane and knowing the world just went to war and you can’t check anything. You can’t obsessively sit in front of the television while we show our military power. Instead, you’re stuck with no Wi-Fi and are 30,000 feet in the air hoping you’re not about to be shot down.

  Me: Can’t get a hold of her. Did the inspector show up?

  Brantley: No. I tried calling him but he didn’t answer.

  What’s with people and not answering their phone today? Is it national “Do Not Answer Your Phone Day?”

  Brantley: Sent Trey to the ER. They took the nail out but he’ll be off work the rest of the week.

  Great. Just fucking great.

  Remember my phobia with hiring people? Well, I need this job on Aster Drive by the end of the month which is why I hired Trey in the first place. The last thing I need is a laid-up trainee.

  Brantley and I started Cooper Custom Homes right out of college. My trust fund financed the initial start-up of it, but it’s been just the two of us for eight years. Occasionally we contract out for certain aspects of the jobs we do. For the most part, it’s just us, and we like it that way. I take pride in knowing we built a home from the ground up.

  Me: Call me when the inspector shows up. Drywall is being delivered tomorrow.

  I check the time again. 2:46 p.m.

  Picking up my phone, I select Madison’s name again. This time it doesn’t even ring before it goes to voicemail, so I finally leave a message. The fifty-third call, I leave a fucking message.

  “Hey, it’s me. Your husband. Still your husband as the state of Arizona will say for the next….” I scan the paperwork where it says I have twenty days to respond, but the parties can’t advance with divorce proceedings for sixty days. “Sixty days. Is this a fuckin’ joke, Mad?” I seethe into the phone, practically spitting the words out. “You send me divorce papers, and then you don’t bother to check your phone at all today? It’s bullshit, you know?”

  Okay so if I wanted to get her attention, do you think I have it now?

  Probably not. This is Madison we’re talking about. I once couldn’t get a hold of her when she was pregnant because she was at the grocery store and couldn’t hear her phone ringing. I was in the parking lot when she got out, leaned against her car expecting a reason as to why she didn’t answer. I mean, she was nine months pregnant with Callan and ready to pop any day. Of course I was concerned, and she didn’t answer her phone?

  The nerve of her, right?

  Am I over the top?

  Probably.

  It’s who I am.

  And what did she do when she came out to find me leaned into her car?

  Rolled her eyes.

  I’ll tell you a secret. I once took a shot of lighter fluid. Wait, no. I take that back. That’s not a secret, just a fucked-up story. But my reasoning here, sometimes I think I’m mentally unstable. Maybe it’s from the lighter fluid. It once got so bad that when I was thirteen, I went a whole year thinking I had schizophrenia because my cousin Josh told me so. If you look at the symptoms—personality changes, increasing withdrawal from social situations, irrational, angry or fearful responses to loved ones and inappropriate or bizarre behavior—you get a little paranoid.

  Turns out I was going through puberty.

  Anyways, I had a point to this story. All those feelings I dealt with while going through puberty were incredibly stressful for me. I do not like not knowing what’s going on with my body. If I have a cold or the flu, I demand to be treated that same day.

  See where I’m going with this?

  No? Well, you should. I don’t like being in the dark. So this shit Madison is pulling today just isn’t working for me.

  I check the time once more. 3:25 p.m.

  I don’t know what time Callan gets out of school, but I do know one thing, Madison picks him up, which means she’ll be at the house and I can get some answers, right?

  Yes. The answer should be yes.

  Grabbing the crumpled-up papers from my desk, I head out the door.

  Since I leave the office shortly after three, it doesn’t take me long to reach our home in Cave Creek. Have you seen those housing developments where all the homes look the same, and everyone in them does too?

  It’s where I live. Suburban hell.

  I paid cash for this house when I was twenty-four. My mother died when I was fifteen and me being her only
child, she left me her trust fund she’d received from her rich oil-drilling father I couldn’t stand. No really, I couldn’t even be in the same room as that man without wanting to shove cotton balls in my ears so I didn’t have to hear his constant complaints. He died a couple months back, and I couldn’t even bring myself to attend his funeral. That’s really shitty of me, isn’t it?

  I was born in Houston Texas where my grandfather was someone everyone hated. He was that guy who thought because he was rich he could park his Rolls-Royce in the middle of two parking spots and not give a shit. If you ask me, he was a real son of a bitch. My parents divorced when I was five and we moved to Phoenix where her sister lived. Though mom had her trust fund, she never touched it. Refusing to live off her father’s money, she put the money aside and worked two jobs to give me a decent upbringing but I think that’s where I learned my work ethic from. I never knew about the money growing up. It wasn’t until a few weeks after she passed that I found out. At first, I was pissed at her. Why’d we struggle so much just because of her pride? The older I got, the more I understood the lesson she wanted me to learn. It’s far more rewarding to work for what you want than to be handed it.

  Anyway, my point. I may have been given a trust fund, but I work hard for everything in my life. A year ago, Madison and I decided it was time for something a little bigger. With two boys, we were rapidly outgrowing our 2,000-square-foot home, and I wanted the hell out of this neighborhood.

  Being a custom home builder, the obvious choice was for me to build us a house. Have you ever heard of that saying the mechanic can’t keep his own car running because he’s constantly fixing other peoples?

  Works the same for a home builder. I started our house in Granite Mountain Ranch Estates, you know, the part of town no one can afford? Brantley and I got it to the framing stage and had all the plumbing and electrical installed, but unfortunately it’s been patiently waiting for me to finish hanging the drywall for the last four months. It’s not like I meant to put the house on the back burner, but with my business growing, I don’t have time. I work seven days a week, usually fourteen hour days and most weeks it’s still not enough.