“Yes,” Madison breathed the words as if she were hanging onto every syllable. “We were married in San Jose, California.”
“Nice,” the therapist deadpanned. “But you can’t jump into an ocean of trauma. Well, you can.” She eyed me as if I’d try to dive headfirst into the rocky shallows.
“That’s true.” Madison let go of my hand.
“See!” She clapped once.
I glanced at the framed certificate behind her, wondering if Shonda got her master’s from the same place Auntie Peaches got her notary license.
Madison hung on this woman’s every word. “If y’all’s situation needed a Band-Aid, or a shot of Henny, then I’d say turn on the ’90s greatest R&B hits after this session. Volume seven is my jam.” She nodded. “But if you wanna unpack the heavy trauma, slip into that ocean …?”
Madison nodded. I glanced into her pretty brown eyes and began a bobblehead of agreement.Slip into that ocean.
I stared at the sexiest storm I’d ever survived: sharp tongue, soft skin, and a laugh that hit harder than whiskey. But I’d passed thirsty years ago.
The other night when I dropped her off after we’d left our home, I’d wanted a little kiss. One kiss. Maybe even a little neck situation. Nothing crazy, like what we’d started in the rage room. I’d leave my mark on her neck, so every man knew to step off.
While we sat outside her sister’s row house, Maddy apologized for not being able to go home. I had been respectful nods and agreements in between strategizing how to sneak us up to her bedroom.
Step one: Verify the fire escape’s ability to support our weight.
Step two: Assess whether her window wasn’t secure, a.k.a., open.
Step three: Breach the bedroom in silence so that Lynetta’s Doberman ears didn’t hear a sound.
Step four: Sneak in the romance like a ninja on a mission—silent, precise, deadly … at least to the furniture. This wasn’t no casual tap. Every move calculated. Maximized for her pleasure, minimize collateral noise. Yep. Logic dictated her pleasure first, mine second. Every touch, every kiss, every groan measured to leave her gasping, laughing, all quietly, and questioning why she ever let me go.
After a beat, I realized Madison wasnotbiting down on a throw pillow in her bedroom when Shonda cleared her throat.
Well, that’s embarrassing.I’d let my imagination run wild.
Dammit, Wash! Snap out of it! This is your wife. Grow up. Help her.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s unpack.” Today. Right now.Wash, stop it. Focus.
Shonda’s brow lifted and walked to her edges. Maybe she could read my mind?Hmm.“Read Your Mind” by Avant might’ve been on Volume seven. Nope. Classic, just not ’90s.
“Ahem.Care to join us?” Shonda glared at me over the rim of her prescription glasses. I gave my head a shake and nodded. She took a deep breath and said, “Okay, y’all toxic.”
I wasn’t adding that check mark today? And why toxic? Why not encourage Madison to return, where we could address our issues? And I wasn’t only talking about sex.
She sipped her Starbucks, whipped cream in a fast descent. A taunt. “If communication is the sole issue, play “Talk” by Khalid. Therapy can take several seats while y’all process the way y’all do.”
