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I wondered even now with me not living here if Madison wouldn’t think of me when she was here. Would Callan proudly tell his friends, “My dad built this house himself.”
How did it fall apart right before my eyes? Part of me knows I only have myself to blame for all this. If I would have paid attention, saw what was happening, maybe I could have changed before it all went to shit.
As I stand there staring out the house from the backyard, I get the feeling I’m not alone. You know when someone’s standing behind you. I also don’t need to turn around to know who it is because whenever she’s around me, Ifeelit. Ifeelher. “I see you got the key so you must have the signed divorce papers I left for you too. I just want you to know I’m willing to walk away, give you what you want, but I’m not giving up custody of the boys. You will let me see my sons whenever I want. Joint custody is the only option, so don’t even think about trying for anything less.”
When I do face her, she’s crying, and though I’m not surprised she’s in tears because she has been the last three times I’ve seen her, there’s something different about her I can’t place.
“What’s wrong? Isn’t the house what you thought it would be? If there is something you don’t like, just tell me and we’ll change it. I want you and the boys to be happy here.” What the fuck am I saying? I want her to be happy? Is that even true?
Of course it is. She’s the mother of my sons. I absolutely want her to be happy because right now I see my mother standing there, crying, asking my father why we weren’t good enough for him. I don’t remember that many of their fights, but I remember that one.
I’ve never been one to comfort people. I always feel awkward doing it so I just stand there with my hands in my pockets wondering what I should do. She wanted a divorce, yet she’s constantly in tears. Isn’t that the opposite reaction if it’s something you want?
“The house is perfect. I haven’t seen the inside yet, but it’s just like we dreamed.”
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.