Page 87 of Bad Husband

My stare drops from hers as a pang of sadness hits me. This house is exactly what we dreamed of. Everything we ever wanted, I gave them. “I’m glad you like it. Maybe it will give you that fresh start you’re looking for.” Look at me not being bitter. See. And you thought I was only an asshole. Admit it, you thought it a time or two.

I certainly did.

“I love it, but I want to live in it as a family, not just Callan, Noah, and me.”

I’m confused. Did she just say that? Reaching up, I scratch the side of my head. “What do you mean as a family?”

“I never wanted the divorce,” she whispers.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you remember the day you got the papers, that morning in the shower?” she asks, afraid to look at me. I’m not sure why she’s asking. Or maybe I do.

“I do.” I stare at my hands instead of her face, trying desperately to shut down and not care about anything she’s about to say to me in fear it will only hurt.

Our eyes catch then, despite me not wanting to look at her. She tilts her head, a wince to her features.

“That morning, I told myself I wasn’t going to do it,” she admits, but there’s more she isn’t saying.

I shift my stance and shove my shaking hands in the pockets of my shorts. “What are you talking about?”

“Me filing for divorce….”

I groan. I don’t want to keep talking about this anymore. “Mad, I signed the papers. We don’t have to keep hashing this out. I get it, you want a divorce, and I’m giving it to you.”

“I don’t know….” Look at her face, she really doesn’t and she’s talking in circles. She’s lost in thought and then says, “This past month has been hell without you. I hate it.”

There’s part of me that doesn’t want to stand here and listen to her say anything else. And then I do, because I deserve that much, right? The diligent side of me wants some fucking answers. I want the bloody, gory details that led up to my slaying.

Might be a bad example considering, but still, it’s true.

As we stare at one another, it’s as if the air around us stills, my focus entirely on her.

“I miss you, Ridley,” she says, opening herself up, showing me herself, leading into something. What, I don’t know.

“Why, Mad?” I whisper into the night, the setting sun around us lighting up the side of her face. “Why did you use me that morning only to rip my heart out hours later?”

We’re both silent, but I can tell by the tension in her body she’s working herself up to say something, finally.

Her eyes are puffy, wearing these last two months on her face. “Can you listen to me?” she begs desperately, hopeful I might.

“Only if you tell me the truth,” I say smugly.

She nods, blowing out a huge breath like she’s completely ridding her body of oxygen. “Can you just please listen to me and hear me out?”

My mouth goes dry looking at her. Waiting for my answer, she’s taking large even breaths, warming herself up for something, or maybe settling her nerves.

I throw my hands up in the air. “Jesus Christ, just tell me already.”

Frowning, her frustration takes over. I can tell after our argument at the hotel that night, it’s still affecting her and she’s struggling to express herself to me now. Dropping her head forward, it’s like she’s giving up.

“I get it. You did what you needed to do,” I finish for her, ready to walk away.

That’s when her eyes lift to meet mine. “It’s not like that, Ridley.”

I nod, my voice hitching when I say, “Then what was it like? Because the way I see it, you wanted a divorce and you put me through hell for it.”

She tips her head to the side. “You believe that, don’t you?”

---