Page 13 of Bad Husband

I walk forward and bump Kent’s shoulder with mine. “And you’re right, mywifedoes have great tits and ass.”

I don’t look back at him. There’s really no point to. I walk toward my son with the purpose of getting the hell out of here. When I spot him, I stop.

See that kid walking toward me with his ripped magazine in hand and a troubled look on his face?

That’s a kid who’s beginning to realize he’s not like the other kids. It makes me want to punch these two guys in the face on pure principal for saying he shouldn’t be on the team. Just because my kid doesn’t think his boogers are an afternoon snack shouldn’t mean he can’t play. It’s fucking soccer. It’s not like it’s an actual sport. Might as well be playing kickball.

I kneel to his level as he drops his bag at my feet. “You okay, bud?”

“I’m fine.” His answer’s short, his cheeks flushed. “Can we go now, Ridley?”

“It’s Dad,” I tell him, grabbing his bag and following after him. I do give Dumb and Dumber one last look to see them high-fiving their Olympic nose-picking athletes. “Hey, listen, bud, do you even like soccer?”

Don’t get me wrong. I wish the answer was that my son loves playing all sports, but the reality is it’s more likely he hates it, and as a parent, why in the world would we make him play something he doesn’t enjoy? I mean, if it’s reading he wants to do, let him. I get he needs physical activity, but this kid, the one staring at his magazine like someone just ripped his heart out, he doesn’t seem like he’s enjoying this. I could be wrong here, but I doubt it.

Callan stops and looks at me curiously, the setting sun shining on his face. “I guess so. I mean, it seems like the thing to do.” And then he shrugs. “I’m hungry. Can we have pizza?”

The thing to do? I’m not liking that answer, but I let it go for now.

“Yeah, sure.”

It’s when we’re in the car, I can’t let it go. He’s sitting in the backseat staring at his ripped magazine. He’s nervous. He might even be scared. Of what I’m not sure.

“You don’t have to play if you don’t want to.”

“I know, but all the other kids play sports. I feel like I should play. Dylan plays football.”

Ah, yes, I remember now. His best friend’s name is Dylan Conner.By the way, Dylan’s dad is a tool. Are you surprised I think this?

Probably not.

I focus on the important part of what he said. He feels like he should play?

I’m not sure what to say to him because I can tell he’s doing this to please others and you know, it pisses me off. He’s doing it to fit in. He’s a child. He should never feel like he has to fit in.

I take Callan out for pizza, and the kid eats three pieces. I’m impressed. For someone his size, barely fifty pounds, three pieces of pizza is like me eating an entire pie myself. Not that I’m complaining about him eating. He’s a growing boy. It just surprises the hell out of me.

We don’t talk much through dinner. I suppose both of us have a lot on our minds. While I appreciate the time to think, I can’t help but notice the crease in Callan’s brow and the tense expression on his face. I know the look. It’s the same one I get when I’m stressed out. It’s certainly not a look I want my six-year-old having though.

I knock my knuckles on the table as he chews on a piece of crust. “Hey, bud, is there something you want to talk about?”

He shakes his head. No words, just a dismissal.

I know I should keep asking, push him to open up to me because it’s obvious something is bothering him, but to be completely honest, I’m scared his answer might be more troubling than I need to know.

And before you say it, I know what you’re thinking. What kind of parent would let this go?

Well, if you knew Callan at all, you’d know it’s best to let him come to you. If you push him to talk when he’s not ready, it’ll be weeks before he tells you what’s going on. And most of the time it has to do with insane questions like, “Is there any evidence that a thermonuclear device exploded over Hiroshima?”

He asked me that two weeks ago when I got home at midnight and he was pacing the hallway.That’sthe kind of shit that keeps this kid up at night.

WHEN WE GEThome, Madison is in the kitchen with a glass of water, her nightgown on already. “Hey, buddy.” She’s not talking to me. She won’t even look at me and fixes her stare on our son. “How was soccer?”

Callan shrugs, wrapping his arms around her. “It was good, Mommy.”

Sometimes, judging by the way he acts 90 percent of the time, I forget Callan’s age. He’s still a child regardless of the way he thinks. I watch the two of them for a moment, locked in an embrace, my smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. For a split second, the papers she sent me today don’t matter. For the one at her feet, we have to make this work. I see myself in Callan, and I promised, no, Isworemy kids would never have a life like I did. One with an absent father.

So how’d I let it get bad enough Madison wanted out?

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