Page 4 of Bad Husband

He must be shocked because he’s really fucking quiet like he’s trying to decide the final play call at the Superbowl. Either that or he knows, and he’s hiding it.

My temper flares as a rush of emotions hit me. “Did you know about this?” I shout, my words blistering through the cab of my truck. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“No!” he shouts over my accusing tone. “I didn’t know, Ridley. I swear.” There may or may not be a few events that have occurred in the past where he’s weary of my temper. Okay, I’ll just come out and say it. He’s terrified of me. I guess when you threaten to nail another man’s dick to the wall over a poker game, he tends to be a little scared of you when you get angry. It was a long time ago. At least two months ago. Before you go thinking I have anger issues, I wasn’t serious. It’s not like I had the nail gun with me at the time. “Were you guys having problems? I wasn’t aware you were.”

“We weren’t… that I knew of. Well, maybe a little, but she’s never mentioned divorce to me.” The heart attack feeling returns and I can barely breathe. Or maybe it’s like an anxiety attack? I used to think anxiety was just a cop out for people who couldn’t handle adult responsibilities. I think I might be wrong here. It’s real.

I try to recall the name of that therapist I saw when my mom died. The one I told to shove his anxiety medication up his ass. Maybe I should apologize and ask him for a new prescription?

It was fifteen years ago, but he could still be in business, right?

“Fuck,” I groan, laying my head back against the headrest. “What do I do? It says here I have twenty days to file a response.”

Frank sighs. “Okay, um… can you drop it by my office?”

“Sure.” I say this with a tone similar to the one you use when someone asks to cut in front of you in the grocery line. You’re never thrilled when they do it, and admit it, the only reason you agree is because you don’t want to act like a total asshole in front of your kid.

“Look, don’t panic. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation. Have you tried talking to her?”

He must not know me at all.

“I tried to call her and I’m sitting outside of West Bay, but she won’t answer, and they say she’s with a client.” The panicky feeling returns and I start to sweat. Mostly because it’s fucking hot outside and I’m sitting in my truck without it running, but still, this shit is heavy. Divorce. That’s huge. I’m not my father. He’s been divorced like four times. Divorce isn’t something I can handle.

“Get me the papers and I’ll call her lawyer.” Frank snorts. “And here I thought I was her lawyer. Is there a name on it? Like a lawyer’s name?”

Scanning the papers, I read through it.

And then the words,Self-representedstand out to me. Okay, so I’ve got that going for me. Might just be the only thing at this point but let’s just put a point on the board for me here.

“She doesn’t have a lawyer.”

“All right, that’s good. Let me look into this. For now, bring the papers by and I’ll see what we can do.”

“I’ll be right over,” I tell him, starting the truck up. I’m certainly not wasting any time here.

I welcome the rush of cool air that blasts my face when the air kicks on, but it doesn’t help much. I’m still having that anxiety attack because I can’t get a hold of her and probably can’t force myself inside the room she’s in without getting arrested. Believe me, I consider the getting arrested part for answers. It wouldn’t be the first time. I was once arrested because my college professor gave me an C- on my midterm and I thought it was necessary to break into his house for an answer as to why.

If he didn’t answer the door, why wasn’t it acceptable to go through the window if it was open?

Or maybe it wasn’t open. I don’t remember.

Have you ever wondered what hell feels like?

I actually haven’t. I never really had the desire to find out.

By noon, I’m pretty sure I know exactly what it’s like. I can see it at least. And let me tell you, it’s awful.

Think of the worst day you’ve had, then multiply that by a hundred. That’s hell. I’m teetering on the edge of hell, balancing the tightrope and hoping I don’t fall off.

After I gave Frank a copy of the petition to dissolution of marriage, I headed back to the office to check on Kennedy and maybe see if by chance Madison called there instead.

My office is in downtown Phoenix. For a while, Brantley and I worked out of my house, but it got to be too chaotic once Callan started walking so I rented a space on the first floor of a fancy high-rise. I’m cheap. I don’t like to spend money where I don’t need to, but when your toddler son begins taking work orders and construction plans to use as his personal coloring pads, it’s time to move your office. I’m also glad I did because once Noah was born, there’s no way in hell I could have imagined trying to work in the same house as that little monster.

“Is the inspector finished up at the Aster house?” I ask Kennedy, our office manager. We call her the office manager strictly by her request. I don’t pay her office manager pay. She’s the only one in the office. How can you manage an office if there’s nobody else in it?

That’s a conversation for another day.

“No. Didn’t show.”

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