Page 36 of Bad Husband

And you know, I like fucking the same woman. Mostly because I’m comfortable. I don’t have to worry about whether I’m going to find her fucking the neighbor and I know exactly what to do to make her come.

In turn, she knows what I like. There’s something to be said about that, and after a very traumatizing experience freshman year of college, I’m not open to experimenting anymore.

“What’s your plan then?” Brantley finally asks, probably wondering why it’s a Wednesday night and I’m still at the bar at midnight.

Just as I’m about to text Madison again, finally she responds to my messages.

Madison: Stop. Texting. Me. I’m trying to sleep.

I raise my beer. “Thinking of becoming an alcoholic. Maybe start an arrest record.” Then I shrug. “After that, I’m not sure I have a plan.”

“I thought you were going to ask her out on a date. What happened to that plan?”

“My plan?” Sighing, I shake my head. It’s like the universe is against me. “I had it all figured out. I was going to flirt with her like I did in college and then ask her on a date. But then Noah killed a cat and then decided to flood the bathroom. When we were finally had a chance to talk, it turned into us fucking and then her yelling at me. All I gathered from everything that happened is that Madison thinks I’m a bad husband.”

He snorts and takes the fresh beer the bartender handed him. “And you wonder why I don’t want to get married and have kids.” And then he motions to me while looking at the bartender. “Can you get my boy here a shot?”

I wave him off. “No, I don’t need one.”

Brantley stares at me and then knocks my cell phone out of my hands. It’s probably for the better at this point. “Yesyou do.” His eyes shift to the bartender. “He’s getting a divorce.”

“It’s not official,” I mumble, still holding onto the fact that it’s not final yet.

“Pretty official,” Brantley says, chuckling. “She filed.”

“Yeah but I still have sixty days, or something like that.”

Brantley reaches for his beer and shakes his head like I’m the stupidest motherfucker alive for believing this. “Uh huh.”

The bartender then hands me whiskey. “Looks like you need this.”

He’s right. I do.

HAVE YOU EVER seen a jackhammer ripping up concrete?

That’s essentially how I feel when I pry my eyes open the next morning. The bright light pouring through the front windows is similar to, I don’t know, pure agony exploding behind my eyes.

Rolling over, I take a pillow and cover my face with it, hoping maybe it suffocates me.

You know that feeling you get when you know someone’s watching you? I’m getting it right now, so I peel the pillow back to see Callan standing over me.

“What?”

He blinks. Twice. “You’re alive? For a moment I wasn’t sure.”

I toss the pillow at him teasingly. “I’m not sure if I am or not.”

“You’re talking, Dad. You’re alive.” He snorts and tosses the pillow back at me. “Did you make Mom mad again?”

“Probably.” Groaning, I attempt to sit up, my stomach rolling as I do so. Never again.

Immediately I’m reminded ofwhyI’m on the couch again.

Since last night didn’t work for asking her out on a date, I’m should try a different approach, shouldn’t I?

My muscles are feeling a little tight from two nights on the couch. I think I need a massage, don’t you?

Callan sits down beside me. “You’re going to be late.”

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