Page 46 of Cursing My Cheating Husband

But to do it on his terms? Fuck no. I had no interest in being vulnerable with him in that way, of actually explaining what I felt in that horrible moment. He didn’t deserve it.

“Maybe I would want to tell you how I felt if I thought there was any chance you’d actually get it. But I know you won’t. There’s nothing I want to tell you.” I spat the words with disgust.

He looked even sadder at my refusal. “I understand. Let me know if you ever change your mind...”

Oh, fuck him. I had been feeling nice and cozy and relaxed in front of the fire, and he needs to break my calm and bring this up? I quickly reversed my earlier decision. I no longer wanted to let him go for the night.

As he stepped toward the basement stairs, I spoke up. “Actually, there is one more thing. The fire is getting low.”

Maddox regarded the still-roaring fire with confusion. “Umm…”

With a magical snap of my fingers, the flames instantly shrunk down to a low flicker.

Maddox only nodded. He had largely acclimated to the magic, and my regular use of it to create more work for him. “Okay. I’ll get some kindling.”

“No need. I already have some right here.” I leaned forward and pulled a cardboard box out from under the coffee table. He was bracing himself as I tipped it over, sending all the treasured keepsakes of his childhood basketball fandom spilling out onto the floor. As with all of Maddox’s other possessions, now legally mine from the divorce.

“Oh no,” he murmured.

“I can’t say I ever understood why this stuff mattered so much to you. Since you’d like us to be vulnerable tonight, why don’t you tell me a little about each item before it goes in the fire?”

Maddox seemed frozen as he took in his painstakingly preserved collection of ticket stubs, signed game programs, team photos and pennants, and other useless basketball trash. His mouth hung open stupidly.

I quickly tired of waiting. I plucked an autographed program from the pile and handed it to Maddox, who received it grimly, taking one stiff step closer to the fire.

“Are you sure you don’t want to at least sell this?” he asked hopefully, before continuing into a dull explanation of how famous the player who signed it was, and how many people would pay significant money for it.

I cut him off. “I don’t need to sell it. I’m feeling comfortable financially.” I wiggled my toes. “But my feet are so cold…”

“All right,” he groaned as he dropped the program onto the flames, averting his gaze as it ignited.

And so it went with one item after another. I couldn’t believe how emotional he was getting about the dumb sports trivia of all of this. This was the ticket from some famous playoff, here was the pennant signed by some guy, this was the hat from a star player’s final game… the details couldn’t have been more boring, but I appreciated how deeply he grimaced and how painfully his face contorted as he spoke.

His inability to look at any of these items as they burned also struck me.

I knew he was still only feeling a fraction of the hurt he had inflicted on me, but it was something.

As he held a pair of ticket stubs over the fire, the emotion in his voice suddenly became noticeably rougher. “These were from… the actual game wasn’t anything special. This was the first game my dad took me to, after my mom died. I was seven.” He swallowed, his voice drier with each word. “My mom’s death was when my dad got really bad. That’s when he got angry and started taking it out on me. Yelling at me every day, roughing me up when I got out of line...”

Roughing him up? Maddox’s dad hit him? When he was seven and grieving a dead mother? He had never shared that with me before—and I didn’t like that he had chosen this moment to do so.

If it was even true.

I wished I could break eye contact, but that felt like an admission he was getting to me, and that wasn’t an admission I was going to make.

“Every few weeks, he’d take me to a game, and it was like having my real dad back. The one from before. He’d buy me a hot dog, explain the plays, put his arm around me when our team scored.” His hands trembled as he held the tickets. “These games were the only time I felt like I still had a parent. Like someone actually gave a shit whether I existed.” His voice caught. “These tickets are from the very first game.”

His eyes were tearing up, the moisture reflecting the flickering light of the fire.

Ugh. I liked the idea of seeing him cry, but I wanted to see him cry over what a trash man he was! Or how badly he’d fucked up his life! Or how completely he’d betrayed me!

The tears of a little boy crying over his dead mom and abusive dad… that wasn’t what I was looking for.

I also felt a creeping discomfort at what a surprise this was… why hadn’t I known this already? And why hadn’t I known how raw this remained for him? I had been aware of the basic facts of his biography. A mom who died when he was young, leaving him to be raised by an awful father. But Maddox had always presented as so powerful, strong, and solid. I had believed the pain from his upbringing had long since been processed and put away. That clearly wasn’t the case.

But Maddox’s emotional problems were not my concern any longer. I shouldn’t be thinking about them. What did I care about this lying scumbag’s trauma?

With a sharp intake of breath, Maddox released the tickets.