Page 25 of Bad Husband

My ideas range from bringing home flowers to maybe a gift, but would anything material convince her I loved her? She knew I’d buy her anything and everything I could. And she knew I loved her so it had to be more.

Chocolate cake? She’s a sucker for flourless chocolate cake. Baking it myself would probably score me the most points, wouldn’t it? Too bad I can’t cook. The last time I tried I caught the microwave on fire. In case you’re wondering, if you make cup of noodles, remember to add water to the cup.

When I’m back at the jobsite, Brantley’s hanging drywall in the living room with Trey, who I thought wouldn’t be back for a few more days.

“What are you doing here? I thought Brantley said you were advised to take a few days off.”

Trey pushes his black hair from his face, nervously watching me. He mostly talks to Brantley and not me. Though he’s never said it to my face, he thinks I’m intimidating. I don’t know where he gets that from. I’m a pretty easy going guy to talk to, right?

Maybe don’t answer that.

“Um, I know they did, but I need the money and I can’t miss out on work.”

I can understand his drive and need to work. I’ve been there before. But… I follow rules. Most of the time and Labor and Industries isn’t someone I’m about to fuck with.

Turning to the counter, I grab my drywall saw, and he backs up. “You can’t until you get a note from the doctor that says you’re cleared for work.”

Does he think I’m going to stab him with this? By the way he backs up another step, he must think so. “I know, but I thought maybe you could make an exception for me.”

Doesn’t he realize I don’t make exceptions for anyone? Apparently not. “Can’t, man.” I wave him off. “While I appreciate your work ethic here, you gotta have clearance first.”

Trey grumbles something I can’t hear and rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll go get clearance.” And then he limps away.

“You could have let him stay,” Brantley notes, wheeling the drywall lift over so we can get started on the ceiling first.

Snapping on my tool belt and grabbing my screw gun, I shrug. “I know, but with the way my week’s going, I’m not about to piss off LNI too.” I motion to the sheetrock. “Let’s get this done. I need to pick up the boys in a couple hours.”

Brantley stares at me. “You’re going to leave work early two days in a row?”

I stare at him because he can’t see it. I’m not even sure I understand what’s happening either. It’s similar to when my mother died. Not as bad because her dying was pretty fucked up, but I remember when we found out she had cervical cancer. It was a Tuesday. Ten weeks to the day, on a Tuesday, she died. I was numb for days, motions and words, everything around me was almost robot-like. I attempted life, but inside, I wasn’t there. I feel that way today.

And it’s not lost on me yesterday was a Tuesday. It’s officially the worst day of the week. Monday, you’re good now. Tuesday? Fuck. You.

“I have to,” I tell Brantley. “If I’m going to convince Madison she still loves me, I have to make an effort to be more present in their lives.”

His brows scrunch together in confusion. “Did she tell you it’s because you’re not around?”

“Yeah, something along those lines. She said a lot of things I might not have heard, but one was me not being around, and the last one was her not loving me anymore.”

“Well, that kind of shit doesn’t just happen overnight.” Brantley reaches for the other end of the sheetrock, and we lift it together onto the lift. “Maybe you’re just not seeing how much you actually fight or disagree.”

I try to think back to our last disagreement. Sure, we have arguments but nothing that stands out as a fight. I’m also not a yeller. If something’s bothering me, I usually stay quiet.

Don’t look at me like that. You think judging by the way I need answers, I’d be one to get in your face and yell until my point’s across. Am I right?

Well, you’d be wrong. Sure, I want answers, but if something’s really bothering me, the kind of shit that sparks the heated arguments where words are screamed and bounced right back, I don’t do that. I grew up with a father who yelled at my mom, me, everyone. He’d yell until he was red in the face, but not a damn thing ever made any sense to me.

In turn, I don’t yell at Madison so I wouldn’t consider any of our arguments to be fights.

Now she may have a different theory on this, which, apparently by the papers in the glovebox of my truck would attest to, she definitely thinks differently.

“I wouldn’t say we’ve been fighting.” Reaching for the handle of the lift, I begin to crank it up as Brantley steps on the ladder to screw the ceiling boards up. “You know since we took on multiple homes in the last three months, I haven’t been home much, and when I am, I’m sleeping.”

“She can’t really blame you for that though. It’s not like you’re fucking around on her. You’re working.”

“I know.” As I say that, I’m not sure I believe what I’m saying. I see it one way, but I know she sees it another. “She said we could talk tonight so I’ll head home early, pick up the boys and then see if we can talk about it.”

Brantley nods, but I’m not sure he gets it. He’s a bachelor, never been married and I doubt he ever will. He has women he hangs out with, and he fucks around with Nathalie a lot, but being tied down is not for him. He’s always been that way too.

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