Page 67 of Bad Husband

“What are you talking about?”

“Look out your window.” I jerk the wheel to the right to give her a scare but not enough we actually go over the side but then I say, “It’s a fucking cliff.”

She doesn’t appreciate my humor one bit. Her arm jets out and smacks me in the chest. “Damn you, don’t scare me like that.”

Scare her? I bet now isn’t the time to tell her I ran over what looked to be a dog when I swerved. It was probably a coyote though. I once tried to feed one a cheeseburger when I was a kid. He looked hungry. Just in case you’re wondering, don’t attempt to approach a coyote, or feed one. It’s a horrible idea but that’s a story for another day.

Glancing in the mirror, I see it limping away but can’t make out what it was. No way I’m saying anything.

After another ten minutes, Madison sighs heavily. “Do you really think this is going to work?”

“I’ll find the road eventually.”

Her lips press together in a tight line, and her expression turns serious. “I’m not talking about the road, Ridley. I’m talking aboutus.”

Of course she is. I might not have explained this until now, but there’s things Madison and I are good at. Annoying each other is one of them. We’re good at sex and laughing at each other’s jokes.

What we’re not good at is communication. Surprising huh? Probably not. You’ve been with this train wreck a while now to see we’re a straight-up soap opera shit show.

I don’t talk. Never have. I’ll keep my thoughts to myself as long as possible until one day I explode. I think I might explode now as she’s nitpicking me to death about being lost and trying to start arguments. But I hold back.

Madison, she’s emotional and believe it or not, insecure in some ways. She also can’t make a decision to save her ass, and when she does, she’s never confident with it and questions herself. I’m mostly talking about ordering off menus, but I think you see it since she filed for divorce. She wasn’t 100 percent sure of the decision. No fucking way.

So because of those two personalities crashing into one another, we have this fucking void between us that neither of us wants to cross. Is that our problem? Is that the underlying issue here?

If so, we don’t need this couples retreat, but I know as well as you do, it’s not just that.

Every marriage has its problems. You’re fucking smoking crack if you can actually sit here and tell me it’s perfect all the time.

And trying to make her see what’s right in front of us and worth fighting for is becoming exhausting if she’s not willing to at least work with me.

“I think”—I turn down another road and see the hotel lights in the distance—“this is our best chance to find out if we can make it work.”

One would think we were okay, right? Everything will go smoothly once we get to the hotel.

One would be wrong.

One needs to be punched in the face.

AS WE ENTER the hotel, the Sahara Resort and Spa, I have our bags in hand, and Madison is following behind me. There’s a sign above the counter that says “Check-in” so I step forward.

That’s when I hear, “Madison, is that you?” from behind.

I turn to see who’s talking to her, as does my wife and I groan, out loud. “You have to be fucking kidding me.”

Madison elbows me. “Oh, hey, Thomas.”

Fuck me.

Great. Just fucking great. Have I mentioned Thomas yet?

I haven’t, have I? Probably because the ex-boyfriendnevermatters. I’m the better guy. Believe me on this one.

Well, until now when my wife is you know, contemplating divorce.

Is God trying to tell me something here? Is he saying,“Fuck off, Ridley. Just let her go!”

I’m beginning to think that way.

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