by Shey Stahl
“Buddy, we can’t go to Ukraine next month. Besides the fact that you don’t even have a passport, I don’t think your first out of country trip should be to a nuclear reactor war zone.”
“It’s not a war zone, Dad.”
“What do you want for your birthday?”
His eyes light up. “I want to go to Ukraine.”
“Besides that.”
“Well, how about a book on Chernobyl?”
“Do you have one in mind?”
He nods and hands me a note beside his bed. “It’s called Voices from Chernobyl. The Oral History of a Nuclear Disaster.”
I think I should be worried about his obsession here.
And then he seems to lose focus about Ukraine when he looks at my wedding ring that catches his eye in the dim lighting of his room. And then he stares at me like he’s waiting for me to tell him no completely, or that I have to work so going out of the country for his birthday isn’t an option. I can see the questions on his face so I decide to change the subject.
“Does Mommy have any boys that are friends?”
That catches him off guard. “Boys that are friends? Like Uncle B?”
“No, like boys I don’t know.”
“Pedro?”
“Who’s Pedro?”
“I don’t know. He’s Pedro. He cleans the pool on Thursdays.”
We have someone who cleans our pool?
I don’t know why I didn’t know that. You’d think I would. I’ll have to look into this Pedro guy. “Does he come in the house?”
Callan shrugs and turns over onto his side like he’s ready for bed now. “Sometimes.”
Nodding, I pat his head and then lean in to kiss his forehead. “Night, buddy.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to be home early every night?”
I realize then how odd this looked to him, me coming home so early and taking him to soccer, two things I’ve yet to do in years. I swallow, feeling like my throat is dry. “Probably not,” I tell him, honestly. “But I know I need to make more of an effort to come home earlier, don’t I?”
“I liked it.”
And the look on his face, the one where he finally shows me today he’s the almost seven-year-old boy and not some kid who needs to be studying nuclear reactors reminds me I still need to be a dad, regardless of running a business. It’s not his fault I don’t trust anyone to hire them out for bids.
I’m feeling like shit as I walk down the hall to the bedroom where Madison is, half expecting the door to be locked.
Surprisingly, it’s not. There’s hope then, right?
Maybe. And that’s a slim fucking maybe after today.
She’s there, lying on the bed with a book in hand. I don’t bother looking to see what book because it doesn’t really matter. What matters is what she looks like lying on our bed. Fucking stunning. I’ll never get over how naturally beautiful my wife is.
Look at her.
Her hair is down, framing her face like a curtain, her skin perfectly tan with the right amount of glow. For a second, I want to lie down beside her, brush my knuckles over her cheek and tell her I love her. But I don’t. Maybe it’s my pride again, but I stay rooted in place by the door contemplating what I’m going to say to her. She filed for divorce today. I know she gave me a bunch of reasons earlier but that’s not all. There’s something more to this and I’m going to find out what it is.
As I stand there in the doorway of the bedroom, she’s unaware of my presence in the room. Part of me wonders how long I could stand there and watch her before she notices me.
Clearing my throat softly, her attention moves from the book to me.
“Is Callan asleep?”
“Yeah.” Our eyes lock, and I’m curious what she’ll do. Nothing. I nod and fold my arms over my chest. “By the way, he wants to go to Ukraine for his birthday.”
She laughs. She’s probably heard this all before.
Her laughter ignites my smile, and I shake my head. Focus, Ridley. Get some answers.
I kick the door shut, much like I did earlier today but softer this time because I don’t want to wake up Callan.
“Why are you having him play soccer? It’s pretty obvious he doesn’t even like soccer, Mad.”
Rolling her eyes, she acts like even being in the same room as me annoys the everliving fuck out of her. “It’s good for him to do something that helps him fit in with the other kids.”
“Why are we trying to make him be something he’s not. Let him be who he wants to be, not what’s socially acceptable. He’s almost seven. If we start telling him who has to be now, what’s that teaching him?”
“He asked me to play soccer, Ridley,” she says with a light bitterness to her tone.
“Well, he spent the whole practice reading his National Geographic. And I met some of the other dads. They seem like fucking tools if you ask me.” I smile and believe me when I say it’s condescending, and I’ve fucking perfected that smile. “Who’s Kent?”
Madison shrugs and I kind of believe the shrug. “I don’t know, some other dad.”
“What about that Kip guy you were talking about? Who’s he?”
This look isn’t as believable. Kip is someone I need to look into. “Nobody.”
There’s a sourness in the pit of my stomach. Has she turned to someone else? “Nobody my ass,” I mumble with a regretful shake of my head as I push away from the door. “I’m not leaving here until you give me some answers.”
I’m given a stare I don’t like very much. Do you see that lift of her eyebrow and the pressed-together lips? She’s pissed at me. “So now you want answers?”
I attempt to offer her a similar look, but I’m not sure I achieved it. By the way her expression doesn’t change, I’m sure mine did nothing to faze her. “Well, yeah, you served me with divorce papers.”
“Maybe you should stop focusing on the actual papers and the fact that I gave them to you and think about why.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that just like I said before, when was the last time you were home at three in the afternoon? Never. And the only reason you came home was because you didn’t get answers and wanted them. Well, I want things too. I want a husband who actually gives a shit about me and our sons.”
I know what you’re thinking. If your wife filed for divorce because you’re never around, why not just change it and spend more time at home?
The truth is, I love my wife and I love my kids. I don’t work long hours because I don’t want to be around them. I work them to provide a life for us, one where they enjoy the comforts I never had being raised by essentially a single mother.
I had a relationship with my dad, but I didn’t live with him. Until my mom died and I was forced to. Up until then, it had just been my mother and me, and I swore, fucking swore Madison would never live like that.
“How can you say I don’t care?” I take a seat on the bed, facing her. “You have more than enough money, and you never have to ask me for anything. If you want something, you know I’ll give it to you.”
“You’re hardly home anymore.”
“Because I’m working and providing for you and our boys!”
When she lifts her eyes to mine, pain clouds them. “I never asked you to marry me, Ridley.”
For a moment, I freeze, my mouth open and my eyes wide with shock. Did she really just say that to me? I know what she’s referring to. Madison got pregnant with Callan when we were in college, and by most standards, he was an accident. “But I did, marry you,” I tell her, hoping she understands I didn’t do it because I had to.
She’s somewhat quiet, but if her thoughts were spoken, she’d be screaming at me with the look I’m getting. “And now you’re married to your job.”
Do you see that guy on the bed? The one where his blood pressure is through the roof and he’s about ready to explode on his wife? That guy is losing it. In a matter
of seconds.
“You’re so focused on running your business you’ve forgotten about us, Ridley.” She sits forward and it does nothing for my focus because I have a clear vision of her breasts hanging out of her nightgown. “And I’m not doing it anymore. So yeah, I want a divorce. I’m not sure I’m in love with you anymore because the truth is, I don’t even know who you are. And I bet you don’t know me anymore either.”
I should be insulted, really. “That’s not true.”
“Really? You don’t think so?” The look on her face makes me want to kiss and strangle her at the same time. If there’s any woman who’s ever gotten on my nerves more than anyone else, it’s Madison.
“No, I know you.” I look at the ceiling, pretending to be deep in thought but I’m not. I’m thinking about her tits and wishing my dick was between them.
“Okay, what do I eat for breakfast every morning?”
Well shit. Could she have picked a more complicated question? Don’t answer that. She could have. “Eggs?”
“Exactly my point. I’m allergic to eggs, Ridley.”
“I meant not eggs,” I say, trying to backtrack. I knew she was allergic to eggs but it was the first thing to come to mind, and I panicked. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’m not even sure I’m making any sense.
I’m not entirely sure what to do or say next because there’s certainly some truth to her words I hadn’t seen until now. So I take my shirt off and throw it on the floor, intending on getting into bed completely naked. I don’t take my shorts off just yet; instead, I raise my brows suggestively and flop myself on the bed. She’s flustered, and I’m high-fiving myself. “How about I show you just how much I know you?”
Madison loves to be controlled in bed. What woman doesn’t from time to time? They want you to treat them like a fucking lady but every now and then, they want you to grab a fist full of their hair and pull it like you fucking mean it. I’m ready to do that if it means she’ll forget all about this divorce bullshit.
Still avoiding eye contact, she grimaces slightly and stands near the bathroom door. “You’re not sleeping in the room with me. Go sleep on the couch.”
I knew that was coming.
Before she’s out the door and into the bathroom, my voice stops her. “Mad?”
She turns to me, her eyes questioning.
I point to myself. “I’m not giving up.”
Then she meets my gaze full on. I don’t smile because part of me knows what she’s about to say. It’s written on her face long before the words are spoken. “Ridley… Didn’t you hear anything I said?” Her eyes drop, leaving me with inexplicable emptiness. “I don’t….” she pauses and then continues, her tone sinking as I listen with rising dismay, “love you anymore.”
Fuck, that stings. Way to curb stomp my heart. I really wish you wouldn’t have heard that part. Look away next time. Save me some fucking dignity already.
My jaw tenses, my grip on the pillow tightening. “Did you ever love me?”
She lifts her chin, meeting my icy gaze straight on. “Pre-business owning Ridley, yes, but I don’t know this guy in front of me… anymore.”
I clench my jaw tighter before saying, “I suppose that’s all I needed to know. Good night, Madison.”
Just like that, Madison Cooper has me at her mercy, but I tend to think she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. How is it possible for her not to love me anymore?
It’s not. At least not in my eyes. Remember that college professor who gave me the C? Ask him how determined I am.
So the way I see it, I have a few options. I can give her the divorce. I can tell her no and string this out with lawyers and make her life miserable, or, I can make her fall back in love with me.
Guess which one I’m going to pick?
When I wake up in the morning on the couch, I’m sore. I remember exactly why I don’t like sleeping on the couch. It’s not at all comfortable and remember, I like my bed and more importantly my hot wife in it, both of which I don’t have this morning.
Before I open my eyes and remove the pillow over my head, I recall what Madison said to me last night.
I don’t love you.
Pushing my own ego and pain aside, I refuse to believe it’s the end. I have a plan. Not a good one, but it’s a plan nonetheless.
I’m going to make her fall back in love with me. Easy enough, right?
Let me clarify this before you tell me that should be easy. I’m attempting to do what every man forgets about once he lands the girl. If we knew we had to work harder once we were married to get some ass, a lot of men wouldn’t get married. Half the fun of being married is being able to have sex whenever you want, right?
I know what you’re thinking. How’d this go from making your wife fall in love with you to sex?
I’m a man, and I’m just being honest here. Everything leads back to sex. The ones who tell you it doesn’t are full of shit or are better men than me.
As I’m lying on the couch, my phone vibrating underneath me, I realize I’m more than likely running late this morning and that’s just not an option for me. Attempting to remove the pillow from my head, it’s more difficult than I expect. Mostly because someone is sitting on my head.
Raising my hands from my sides, I feel around to find two legs and two arms. Little ones, which means Noah’s sitting on my head, naked. Well, he’s got underwear on but still, mostly naked.
“Get up, bud.”
“Shhh,” he giggles, smacking my hands away. “Daddy sleep.”
Laughing, I sit up and reach out to catch him when he falls off my head and into my arms. “Gotcha.”
Noah doesn’t like to be held. Never has. Even when he was a baby, if you picked him up, he screamed. Unless it was Madison. He’d hang on her hip all day long every day and you know, I don’t blame him one bit. If I didn’t have to work, I’d like to hang out with my hands on those hips all day.
He slaps my hands again. “No touching Wolverine!” And then he growls at me, takes the GI Joe in his hand and stabs me in the ear with it.
Rattled and wondering if my eardrum has been ruptured, I grab my ear and throw a pillow from the couch at Noah as he runs away from me. “That wasn’t nice, Noah!”
Like he fucking cares.
Tenderly touching my ear to check for bleeding, I notice Callan staring at me curiously. “Did you sleep on the couch last night?”
Still trying to process what just happened to my ear, I don’t answer his question and ask, “Where’s your mom?”
He shrugs, midbite of his bowl of Captain Crunch he’s holding. “Work?”
“Don’t you have school this morning?” I glance down at my watch. It’s 6:45. I can’t believe she didn’t wake me up and tell me she was leaving, and another thing, who the hell is she massaging at 6:45 in the morning?
“Yeah, I have school. Mommy usually takes me.”
Digging my phone out from underneath me, I check my messages. None from Madison but three from Brantley asking how last night went. They were sent at like three in the morning, which means he was probably out at the bar. No surprise there.
Callan disappears inside the kitchen dressed in his school uniform while I text Madison.
Me: So I’m taking him to school? What do I do with Noah?
Remember yesterday when I called her fifty-three times, and she didn’t answer?
Guess who answers right away this time?
Yeah, Madison.
Probably because we’re dealing with the boys this time.
Madison: Yes, take him to school. I had to work early. Drop Noah off with Trisha.
I actually snort as I read the text. Work earlier? Likely excuse.
Me: Doing what?
Madison: I do have a job, Ridley. Can you please handle taking Callan to school and Noah to Trisha or is that too much to ask of you?
Can she be any more of a bitch?
Yes, she probably can and will.
I don’t
reply either. Let’s see how she likes being ignored.
Peeling my sore self from the couch, I rush upstairs, take a world record speed shower, knock all Madison’s perfumes and lotions off the counter because I fucking feel like it, and then I’m loading Callan and Noah in the truck.
Callan flips down the DVD player immediately. “Do you still have the Cars movie in here?”
“Probably. Nobody watches that but you.”
And right then I pray to God that Cars DVD is in there because my statement was only partially true. Over the summer there was one instance where Brantley thought it’d be funny to watch a porno back there. I’m pretty sure I took it out since then. I’ve never been so happy to hear that Pixar music.
As I’m sitting in the driveway, I’m reminded I have no idea where Callan’s school is. All I know is it’s a private school, but I couldn’t tell you where it’s located. “Hey, buddy?”
“Yeah?”
I turn to look back at him after I start my truck. “Can you remind me where your school is?”
He shakes his head but doesn’t look at me. He’s fixated on the screen in front of his face, and I’m strangely glad he’s not reading for once. “El Dorado on 76th street.”
Jesus, that’s in Scottsdale.
Checking the time, it’s now nearing 7:30 and it’s going to take at least forty minutes to get there. “What time do you start?”
“8:50.”
Okay, I got this. I can do all of this and prove to Madison I can help.
Noah is so excited to see his babysitter, Trisha, he rushes in her house without so much as a good-bye. I don’t have time to talk to her, so I rush inside, sign him in, kiss his cheeks and then I’m out the door and back in the truck, thankful to be dropping off the little beast with someone else today. I know that’s bad to say, but forgive me, he did stab me this morning.
Ten minutes into our traffic-filled drive to school and that damn movie, I’m wishing Callan would go back to reading. I’m not used to listening to anything but my music on the way to work. I guess maybe I’ve been a little bit selfish in that manner.
My phone rings beside me in the cup holder I have it in, but I don’t answer it through the blue tooth. Mostly because it’s Brantley and he’s not one you can ever put on speaker phone.