Page 10 of Bad Husband

“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 movieGone 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.

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