Bad Husband Page 3

  Some would say I need to loosen up and hire out for more aspects of the building process, but I fear in doing that the quality of work is lessened. That’s like fucking your wife and her not getting off too. I’m very thorough when it comes to sex. It’s a process for me: I put in some moves, she comes a few times and then I can have my fun.

  It works the same with business. Take care of your customers first. But what the fuck do I know, right? My wife just asked for a divorce out of the blue so this just in, I might not know everything there is to know about life. Clearly this curve ball slipped passed me.

  Speaking of my wife, do you see that white Lexus LX570 parked in my driveway?

  It’s ugly. I’ve never cared for the way the grill looks, but that’s Madison’s car. A little pretentious, don’t you think?

  Do you really think she has any grounds for divorce when she drives a car like that?

  Yeah, me either.

  Sure, I drive a brand-new Ford Raptor, but it’s my work truck. I’m in my truck more than my bed some weeks so I splurged and bought something I loved. And like I said, we’re not hurting for money.

  Snatching the papers off the seat next to me, I head in the house with determination. Punching the buttons to the alarm, I can hear Callan talking to someone in the kitchen. Following the voice, I’m lead through our home with its southern pole barn feel you wouldn’t expect someone like Madison to like. She’s surprising when it comes to her décor she chose for the house. Me? I couldn’t give a flying fuck how she decorates our house as long as my bed is comfortable.

  I’m very particular about my sheets too. Thread count is important whether you want to believe it or not.

  You see that boy at the table? Not the one on the floor drinking water out of a bowl. The younger looking version of myself with the baseball cap on backward reading the National Geographic and dressed in black-and-red shorts and a matching tank top?

  That’s Callan. I’ll get to the one on the floor in a minute. Before you judge Callan on reading the National Geographic, understand he’s not like other six, almost seven-year-olds. Most parents like to say their kids are gifted. In their eyes, the kid is the smartest at everything, plays every sport with the best ability and the most attractive.

  Callan? He’s awkward. I say that in a loving way, I really do. To say he’s gifted is an understatement but with it comes a personality that’s difficult at times. There’s nothing in this world I love more than my boys.

  Sorry, Madison. They replaced her in that number one spot. And I’d hope she has the same feeling. That’s not to say I don’t love her and wouldn’t gladly take a bullet for her any day of the week, I’m just saying your kids come first, right?

  Hiding the papers in my back pocket, I move past Callan to sit in the chair across from him. “Hey, guys.”

  Bright blue eyes that match his mother’s lift from the magazine. “Ridley.”

  I know what you’re thinking. What six-year-old calls their dad by his first name?

  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like he calls me by my first name all the time but it seems he does it just enough to remind me he’s smarter than me. And just wait. It gets worse.

  There’s times when I’ve honestly thought to myself, my son will either cure cancer someday, or he will rule the world. And not in a good way. No really. I’m being completely honest here. I once asked him, “If you could cure cancer or rule the world, what would you do?”

  Guess what his answer was?

  Lex Luther all the way. He said, and I’m quoting him here. “I’d rule the world. I’ll hire someone to cure cancer.”

  I like the way he thinks, but honestly, he scares the living shit out of me sometimes.

  Now for Noah. Do you see the boy on my lap now? The one wearing a Superman cape and a Batman mask with brown hair that hangs in his face?

  That’s Noah, our youngest who’s obsessed with Wolverine. You’d think by looking at him it’s either Superman or Batman, right?

  Nope. Just wait.

  “Hey, Noah. How was your day?”

  “Grr!” he yells, holding my face by my cheeks. “I am Wolverine!”

  Same answer every day.

  When Noah was a baby, the only way to get him to sleep was gangster rap. You had to sing it to him every night. Sometimes—judging by his personality—I wonder if that was a bad idea. Although, because of his awesome taste in music, I can now sing every line to “Hypnotize” and honestly, I rock the shit out of it. Brantley likes to tell me I’m not a gangster and shouldn’t be rapping, but he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.

  I look at Callan and set Wolverine on the floor to resume his water. “Where’s Mommy?”

  He shrugs, his eyes finding the magazine again like I’m annoying him by my very presence in the room. It’s then I notice the title: “Your Brain. 100 things you never knew.”

  “Probably upstairs,” he mumbles, flipping to another page.

  Clearing my throat, I stand up and ruffle his hair. “Good talk.”

  I probably should have paid attention to him a little more, asked how his day was or at least double-checked what he’s reading. For all I know he could have had a Playboy magazine stuffed inside there. Doubtful.

  There’re two staircases in our house. I’ve never understood the point of it. At least 600 square feet of this house is wasted with stairs.

  I take the stairs in the kitchen because they’re closest. No sense in wasting time. Down the hall and to the left is our master bedroom.

  See that woman standing in front of our king-size bed folding laundry? The one with the long brown hair, perfect skin, perfect tits, just fucking perfect… that’s Madison.

  And guess what? She’s fucking calm like she didn’t serve me with divorce papers today.

  “Hey, honey,” I say, slamming the bedroom door behind me. “How was your day?”

  She jumps at the sound of the door, her hands on her heart. “Jesus Christ, Ridley. You scared the shit out of me!”

  I laugh, and it’s sarcastic. I lay on the bed, right over the clothes she’s folding and sprawl out, my arms behind my head. “You know, I had an awesome day. You should check your messages, I told you all about it after I called you fifty-three fucking times.” Then I hold my hand up and repeat the numbers with my fingers whispering. “Five… three.”

  She glares at me, a pointed look I receive, oh, you know, like at least once a day. She’s only glaring because some of the clothes that she folded are now wrinkled. She’s a perfectionist like that. And if I had to guess, she’ll iron them later. “I guess I missed your calls.” She turns, walking into the bathroom with an arm full of towels.

  I turn myself over and roll off the bed, taking with me all the clothes she folded. “Really? Fifty-three of them?” Grabbing the papers from my back pocket, I slam them down on the lava stone countertop knocking over her perfume bottles cluttering it. “What’s this?”

  She doesn’t even look at me. “What’s it look like?”

  “Looks like a fuck you.” Crossing my arms, I turn and lean into the counter. “Which is interesting to me because you see that shower right there?” I point to it, and she even looks. “I literally fucked you against the tile this morning, and you certainly didn’t seem like you were upset. So one would wonder, what changed from you moaning my name to you not wanting it anymore?”

  Madison rolls her eyes when the word moaning comes out of my mouth and walks past me into the bedroom. “Don’t be so dramatic. You can’t seriously be surprised this is happening. Did you even read it?”

  “I don’t need to. The title says it all. But you know, since we’re focused on that, when did we become irreconcilably different?”

  “I can’t remember the last time we weren’t, Ridley. Just because we have good sex doesn’t mean we get along enough to make a marriage work.”

  The last time we weren’t? Those five words rattle around in my head. So this is an ongoing thing I should have seen comin
g? I don’t miss the good sex part because let’s face it, it’s amazing, but I’m not focused on it.

  “Now who’s being dramatic, Madison? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you, Ridley. I’m talking about you not being a part of this family and me being a single parent to these kids. When was the last time you ever came home at three in the afternoon? The only reason you did today was because of those papers. You know nothing about us anymore.”

  I can’t believe what she’s saying. Okay, a small part of me can, but I’m not about to let her think she has the upper hand here. She’s had the upper hand all day long with this not answering her phone thing.

  “That’s not true.” I flop myself back on the bed when she reaches for the laundry again.

  She rips a shirt out from under my head. “Okay… what’s Callan’s teacher’s name?”

  You see that guy staring at his wife blankly? He has no clue. He doesn’t even know where the kid goes to school. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a bad guy. Well, that’s debatable on who you ask today. Don’t ask my wife.

  “Who’s his best friend?”

  More staring on my part. I try to recall that kid I saw two weeks ago at my kitchen table one morning. He had blond hair, right? Now if I can think of his name….

  Madison’s eyes narrow into tiny slits. “What’s the name of his soccer team?”

  “He plays soccer?” And why’d she let him play the dumbest sport? Couldn’t she have enrolled him in football?

  “This is my point. You know nothing about our family.” That’s not her entire point, and I know it. It’s in the subtle way her eyes won’t meet mine and dance over my features, never landing. Madison almost never says what she’s really thinking. I’m sure of it. Something in her blue eyes tells me she’s lying, or at the very least, omitting the partial truth. She thinks she’s clever as shit. “I bet if you had to put Noah to bed tonight, you wouldn’t know the first thing about what to do or what he sleeps with.”

  “He sleeps with his cape and mask.” I’m guessing here. I have no clue.

  She shakes her head. “Wrong.”

  “You can’t be mad at me for that.” But she can, and she is. See that woman frantically trying to distract herself with the laundry, she’s mad. Oh yeah, she’s fucking pissed at me. “And when did Callan start soccer?”

  She turns to me with a raised brow and her eyes appraise me from head to toe. Well, I’m lying down so that’s a little hard but still, she’s definitely appraising me. “This is my point. You know, this is exactly how Kip warned me you’d react.”

  Kip? That’s a guy’s name, right?

  Her declaration breaks me out of my shock, and I jump to my feet. “Kip? Who the fuck is Kip?”

  “I don’t have time for this.” She’s avoiding my question now. Reaching down to her feet, she picks up a pile of socks I knocked over and sets them on the bed again. “I’m so tired of this and as much as I would love to stand here and argue with you all afternoon, Callan has soccer practice in twenty minutes. And since you seem to think this is completely out of the blue and we don’t have problems, I think it would be a great idea for you to take him.”

  “Fine. I’ll take him.” Shoving the papers in my back pocket, I get to the door before I look back at her. I’m not sure what look I thought I’d be met with, but the one I get surprises me. She’s facing the bathroom, her back to me. The problem with her snub is she doesn’t realize I can see her face in the mirror above our dresser. And she’s crying.

  My heart races, a feeling of desolation rooting inside of me and I desperately want to go to her, wrap my arms around her and beg her to tell me everything. Bottom line is, for a moment, I forget how to breathe staring at her. You’re probably wondering what’s stopping me from wrapping my arms around her now? A little thing called pride. And it’s like a goddamn elephant standing in front of me.

  The elephant sways when I notice her left hand. Do you see that diamond ring she’s wearing?

  Me either. She probably hawked the son of the bitch the moment she filed these papers.

  Have you seen the movie Gone Girl?

  I have and it’s fucking disturbing. I don’t know why but that entire movie is replaying in my head, and I’m thinking maybe I should check the bank account and credit cards or see if she’s hiding shit in the garage I don’t know about to set me up for her murder.

  Downstairs, Noah’s in the living room watching his iPad and Callan’s still at the table, his magazine in his hand. “Hey, buddy, I’m gonna take you to soccer practice.”

  I’m pretty sure this is the first time he’s ever heard these words out of my mouth because his eyes widen in surprise. “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

  Me either, dude.

  I’m expecting him to be excited or at least show some sort of emotion.

  He does neither.

  He’s so much like me it’s ridiculous. I give a nod to the garage. “I’m not joking, let’s go.”

  “Oh yeah?” Setting down his magazine, he looks at me, a hint of smugness set on his six-year-old face. It’s rather alarming how well he can pull said look off. “Do you even know where my practice is at?”

  I play it cool. “Of course I do, but the question is, do you know?”

  He rolls his eyes, clearly not amused with me. He and his mother have something in common. “It’s at the community center.”

  “Well then, let’s go.” I hold my keys up. “What time do you have to be there?”

  You know those looks you get when someone stares blankly at you, and for a split second, you feel kind of dumb? It’s like being back in school and you were talking in class but the teacher called on you, and you’re left wondering what the right answer is?

  Well, that’s me.

  Callan, he’s the teacher right now and the look I’m getting, if he had a ruler in his hand, he’d probably slap it to my forehead.

  “Practice starts at four.”

  I glance at my phone. “We better go.”

  Mostly because I have no idea where the community center is, and it’s going to take me a while to find it.

  Okay, let’s just stop for a moment because I can see the judgmental look on your face. You think I’m a bad father, don’t you?

  I’m not, I swear. I love Callan. I just don’t have a lot of time and going to soccer practice I didn’t know he even had wasn’t one of the many things I had to get done on any given day.

  Just as we’re by the door to the garage, Madison comes downstairs like nothing happened and hands Callan his cleats with Noah on her hip as she’s struggling to get the jogging stroller out of the garage. “Bye, baby. Have fun tonight.”

  “I will, Mommy.” They hug and then Callan glances at me. I kiss Madison good-bye every time I leave, and you know, this time won’t be any different.

  Stepping toward her with a smile, I can tell she wants to back up. Her eyes say “fuck you” while her body language remains relaxed in front of the kids.

  Drawing her into a hug, I kiss her flat on the lips with intention. Christ, she fucking hates me. Do you see the way her body turns rigid like a corpse? When I pull back, I whisper in her ear, “We’re talking about this tonight,” because she needs to know I’m not letting this go.

  Noah pushes me away about a foot still clinging to Madison. “No, Daddy.”

  Madison’s lips press together in a tight line, and her expression turns serious. Her muscles tense, but she says nothing and smiles down at Noah and Callan who are watching us curiously. It’s not often Callan acts his age, but he is right now, innocent looking and probably sensing more than we want him to.

  “See my boys tonight,” Madison says, untangling herself from me. She wants to punch me in the face. I can see it.

  But Callan doesn’t move, his stare fixated on his mom. “What are you going to do, Mommy?”

  She gets Mommy, and I get called by my first name?

  Madison kneels
to his level, straightening out his tank top. With the garage door open, the afternoon sun shines down on her dark hair making the hint of caramel highlights shimmer. She touches the side of his face when she says, “I’m gonna take Noah for a run while Daddy takes you. Is that okay?”

  Callan shrugs. “I guess so.”

  Soccer? Really? I don’t understand soccer. I mean, yes, I understand the premise is to kick the ball into the opposing teams net, but honestly, as a sport, it makes absolutely no sense to me.

  As I stand here watching a bunch of six and seven-year-olds chase each other around the field, I can’t help but ask myself why my son CAN’T play a normal sport that has a purpose? You know, something like football. Now there’s a sport. You’ve got designated plays with the intention of scoring a touchdown. That’s the problem with soccer; there are no designated plays. Just a bunch of kids running after a ball with the hopes of one of them making it in the net. Where’s the strategy in that?

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure when some people look out to the field they see a game of skill and athleticism. I’m just not one of those people.

  What kind of person am I? You see that guy standing on the sidelines near the bleachers? The one with the baseball cap on backward, hands buried in his pockets with stiff shoulders? The one with the puzzled look on his face who keeps looking down at his watch hoping time will suddenly speed up? That’s the kind of person I am.

  That’s a dad who clearly doesn’t understand a damn thing this coach ten feet away from him is explaining to his team. He’s got a clipboard, and he’s handing out something called “pennies” while throwing down miniature cones yelling something about sharks and minnows. What the hell? Can someone please just kick the damn ball so we can get on with it?

  There are eight kids surrounding the coach as he splits them into two teams. Each one runs enthusiastically in the direction that the coach points them to and then there’s Callan.