Page 123 of Lost in Love

You see that boy at the table? Not the one on the floor drinking water out of a bowl. The younger looking version of myself with the baseball cap on backward reading theNational Geographicand dressed in black-and-red shorts and a matching tank top?

That’s Callan. I’ll get to the one on the floor in a minute. Before you judge Callan on reading theNational Geographic, understand he’s not like other six, almost seven-year-olds. Most parents like to say their kids are gifted. In their eyes, the kid is the smartest at everything, plays every sport with the best ability and the best looking.

Callan? He’s awkward. I say that in a loving way, I really do. To say he’s gifted is an understatement but with it comes a personality that’s difficult at times. There’s nothing in this world I love more than my boys. Sorry, Madison. They replaced her as that number one spot. And I’d hope she has the same feeling. That’s not to say I don’t love her and wouldn’t gladly take a bullet for her any day of the week, I’m just saying your kids come first, right?

Hiding the papers in my back pocket, I move past Callan to sit in the chair across from him. “Hey, guys.”

Bright blue eyes that match his mother’s lift from the magazine. “Ridley.”

I know what you’re thinking. What six-year-old calls their dad their first name?

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like he calls me by my first name all the time but it seems he does it just enough to remind me he’s smarter than me. And just wait. It gets worse.

There’s times when I’ve honestly thought to myself, my son will either cure cancer someday, or he will rule the world. And not in a good way. No really. I’m being completely honest here. I once asked him, “If you could cure cancer or rule the world, what would you do?”

Guess what his answer was?

Lex Luther all the way. He said, and I’m quoting him here. “I’d rule the world. I’ll hire someone to cure cancer.”

I like the way he thinks, but honestly, he scares the living shit out of me sometimes.

Now for Noah. Do you see the boy on my lap now? The one wearing a Superman cape and a Batman mask with brown hair that hangs in his face?

That’s Noah, our youngest who’s obsessed with Wolverine. You’d think by looking at him it’s either Superman or Batman, right?

Nope. Just wait.

“Hey, Noah. How was your day?”

“Grr!” he yells, holding my face by my cheeks. “I am Wolverine!”

Same answer every day.

When Noah was a baby, the only way to get him to sleep was gangster rap. You had to sing it to him every night. Sometimes—judging by his personality—I wonder if that was a bad idea. Although, because of his awesome taste in music, I can now sing every line to “Hypnotize” and honestly, I rock the shit out of it. Brantley likes to tell me I’m not a gangster and shouldn’t be rapping, but he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.

I look at Callan and set Wolverine on the floor to resume his water. “Where’s Mommy?”

He shrugs, his eyes finding the magazine again like I’m annoying him by my very presence in the room. It’s then I notice the title: “Your Brain. 100 things you never knew.”

“Probably upstairs,” he mumbles, flipping to another page.

Clearing my throat, I stand up and ruffle his hair. “Good talk.”

I probably should have paid attention to him a little more, asked how his day was or at least double-checked what he’s reading. For all I know he could have had aPlayboymagazine stuffed inside there. Doubtful.

There’re two staircases in our house. I’ve never understood the point of it. At least 600 square feet of this house is wasted with stairs.

I take the stairs in the kitchen because they’re closest. No sense in wasting time. Down the hall and to the left is our master bedroom.

See that woman standing in front of our king-size bed folding laundry? The one with the long brown hair, perfect skin, perfect tits, just fucking perfect… that’s Madison.

And guess what? She’s all calm and collected like she didn’t serve me with divorce papers today.

“Hey, honey,” I say, slamming the bedroom door behind me. “How was your day?”

She jumps at the sound of the door, her hands on her heart. “Jesus Christ, Ridley. You scared the shit out of me!”

I laugh, and it’s sarcastic. I lay on the bed, right over the clothes she’s folding and sprawl out, my arms behind my head. “You know, I had anawesomeday. You should check your messages, I told you all about it after I called you fifty-three fucking times.” Then I hold my hand up and repeat the numbers with my fingers whispering. “Five… three.”

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