Page 90 of Bad Husband

Can you believe her? This is just crazy shit, right?

“You can’t stand here and tell me you fucking filed for divorce to get my attention. Who fucking does that, Madison? That’s some serious bullshit. You’re not a kid anymore. That’s not how married people communicate. It doesn’t work that way, Madison.”

“Why can’t I explain?” She sounds confused, and I want to laugh in her face. Unbelievable.

My stomach lurches and I feel like we’re back in that hotel lobby, my confusion and sadness twisting into more anger and resentment.

“You know what, fuck you!” I reach for the handle of my truck, hoping she will finally leave me alone and give up just like I did.

Of course she doesn’t and puts her hand over mine, and I’m pissed to no end. I face her, my eyes fixated on hers. “When did you find out you were pregnant? Was that part of your plan too? Get pregnant so you could take more of my money in the divorce?”

Madison groans as if hearing my words makes her sick to her stomach. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t intend on getting pregnant but apparently that morning in the shower, well, that’s when it happened,” she says, looking like she’s really going to vomit. “I found out a few days before we left for Sedona. That’s why I agreed to go with you despite not wanting to. I knew we needed to work on things.”

Agreed to go with me? I don’t remember it going down like that. It was more along the lines of me begging and her agreeing because Callan was standing next to us, but whatever.

By the look on her face, which is pale, she really looks like she’s going to vomit now. I hope she throws up. I hoped all of this has made her physically sick because maybe it’s a fraction of what I’ve been going through these last few days knowing my marriage to a woman I loved more than life itself was over.

Looking up at her, I have to ask, “Then why didn’t youtryin Sedona? Why did you go to lunch with Thomas and blow me off if you’re pregnant with my baby and wanting to make it work? Do you have any idea howIfeel right now?”

She starts crying, slow tears at first but I know what’s coming. “I don’t know—”

“Shut up.” I’m so frustrated with the same bullshit answers. “Just stop talking.”

We stand there staring at one another. She’s afraid to speak, probably since I just told her to shut up and I’m terrified to say anything else.

Truth is, I don’t want to hurt her. Drawing in a heavy breath, I let it out slowly and shake my head. Madison attempts to reach for my hand, her footing off somehow and slips on the wet concrete.

I catch her, my hands supporting under her elbows as she studies her footing knowing damn well we shouldn’t be standing outside in a thunderstorm. “Go inside the house, I’ll follow you.”

Jesus, don’t look at me like that. No, I’m not going to murder her. I don’t have murder in me and despite this anger and pain taking over, I still love Madison. Unfortunately, that will never ever go away. I say unfortunately because if you haven’t noticed by now, these past couple months have fucking sucked balls.

Literally.

Once we’re inside the house, our shoes squeaking against the tile entry way, I’m reminded of why I built this house and how beautiful it turned out. Everything from the imported wood floors in the family room, the black cabinets she said she always wanted to the granite countertops with the black and gold streaks.

I think it’s also the first time Madison has seen the inside despite the fact I gave her the keys a week ago. She gasps, her hand over her mouth and turns to look at me. “Oh my God, Ridley, it’s beautiful.”

I don’t say anything. A thank-you doesn’t seem appropriate.

Twisting around, I want to tell her how much it hurts to be in this house and have this reaction from her. I almost want her to hate the house, as crazy as that sounds. It hurts because inside, it feels like nothing is ever going to be the same again. I don’t say anything as her eyes roam around the house from the exotic hardwood floors we ordered from South Africa, the ones with my DNA on them from where they ripped my thumbnail off, to the kitchen with her commercial appliances she asked for to the French doors leading out to the outdoor kitchen.

Bowing her head, her hands rise to cover her face.

Bringing in a breath, I let it out with a whoosh. “Looks like the rain’s letting up. I’m going to go now.”

“Please don’t leave.” She steps toward me, her hand on my forearm. “I want to talk about things.”

My eyes drop to her hand on me, and then to her eyes. “I can’t do that.” As my luck would have it, the rain picks up again.

Fuck you Mother Nature. You’re really pissing me off.

“Please stay.”

I shake my head, barely able to stand here without feeling like my body will give out. “I can’t.”

“You can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

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