“We’re here, aren’t we?” I took Madison’s hand again. “We want to do this right. This is the love of my life. What does the therapy plan look like?”
A triumphant smile crossed Shonda’s face. “Let’s make it simple. No sex … until Madison steps a single big toe into the house y’all redesigned. You poured half a million into that place. Made it your home. She had her art studio there before branching out. And she had an at-home birth. Your home carries a wealth of memories.”
I widened my already wide-legged position on the couch, leaned toward Madison, and kissed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry,chère, that you don’t feel comfortable going home.”
“Shonda, I know we have so many memories there,” Madison whispered, rubbing a hand over her forearm. “I’m so sorry.”
“Nah,chère. You’re my everything. We process differently.” Claiming her hands, I kissed the pulse at her inner wrist.
Focus, Wash.Think like a grown man. Think like a husband. Not the I-miss-diving-in-between-those-thighspart, the better-man part.
“Listen,bébé, Shonda said you’re going through a storm.Ahem.” That part was actually my thoughts. She’d said something about an ocean. “Chère, I’ll be your boat. Whatever you need, Maddy.”
The moment we had lost everything, her rich brown gaze became guarded. Now, as our eyes met, they softened.
“Bébé, I’ll wait however long it takes. You have my word. Through storms, through oceans, through whatever hurricanes life throws your way. Like I said, I’m that boat. Your boat. I’ll keep you afloat for however long you need. I refuse to let you drown.” My words hung in the air with the therapist’s diffuser scents. Then I added, “I’ll be the buoy … make sure you don’t drift too far. Your anchor when the storm gets too strong. I’ll be everything you need, Madison Babineaux.”
Her eyes widened, head tilting, and then she whispered, “Oh, Wash, those were your wedding vows.”
“Yep. Always meant them. Mean them even more now.”
I swear, that day, the California sun hit the shore the second the pastor let me kiss her. Those same lips twitched into a smile.
Okay, I’ma wait right here.This time I wouldn’t escape behind the gavel again. I’d stand in the wreckage with her while she handled her grief. This was for thick and thin. And this meant letting her go home … to the wrong home, without me.
madison
. . .
May
For over a month, we attended therapy together. If anyone said breakthroughs couldn’t come through tears, they weren’t ready to shed any. I wasn’t mad anymore. Yet, people still avoided my gaze and remained silent. Except for Omari. He was flirty and chatty when we met at the glassblowing studio he’d rented. But he just wanted ass.
Other people didn’t know how to communicate with someone sad. Depressed. Blue. Grieving. And they didn’t know how to talk to someone angry because then they took it personally. I guess in my situation, to avoid hurt feelings, they avoided me.
Meanwhile, I wanted to avoid the warm sun pre-ten a.m., but I needed to finish the latest batch of Philippe vases. Over five weeks, Omari had showered me with invoices for his clients and spreadsheets, complete with receipts, business transactions, and enough accounting detail to make an IRS auditor sing in the rain. He clearly proved that he hadn’t jacked up the price to compete with an original, stolen Philippe. I wasn’t born yesterday. I wanted to ascertain if he had peddled reproductions as counterfeit art.
I’d accounted for every vase I’d created. Omari’s uppity clientele could strut around pretending to live the high life. At first, I didn’t get it. But hell, come to think of it. They were like me. The old me. They could invite people over and show them their pretentiousPhilippes. Perhaps they mixed the fake art in with a Rembrandt or the teensiest authentic Monet.
Yep, I knew who they were. The same people who bought Hermès knockoffs on the street, then layered them with discount, last-season, outlet-store designer pieces, hoping that a little logo stacking screamed,I’m rich!And now, I was the quiet artisan in the background, turning raw, furious glass into polished lies while enabling addictions.
I chuckled into my morning mug of tea. Chamomile. I had found that caffeine and unresolved anger issues didn’t bode well. But I needed to take a quick drive-thru shower, since I had to rush to the studio Omari rented. It was still all a nightmare to me, that I had to be upright before eight a.m. because Glass & Sass hosted classes in the afternoon and evenings.
As I stepped into my bedroom, my phone chimed with a new text.Washington. We’d already done the have-a-good-day emoji thing.
WASHINGTON: Breakfast this morning? Lunch? Dinner? I’m open. Got a red-eye tonight, so yep. Open.
ME: Do tell?
WASHINGTON: the Dodgers game is in NY. Gotta support my bro and get me some pizza. So breakfast?
Annoyed that he’d forgotten a very important detail, I growled under my breath.
ME: Boy, bye . Enjoy your cardboard NY style pizza. Now if you said Chicago deep dish, you could bring me back a slice. Besides, we did lunch together yesterday.
Right after therapy. I’d set boundaries to prevent myself from suggesting we get a hotel room. Hell, a motel. Even the Quarter had a Holiday Inn.
I placed the phone on my dresser and rummaged through my closet for sweats. Ugh, the temperature would reach eighty today. I didn’t wanna dress down … and I didn’t want to miss Washington’s next text, because the iPhone was already thinking. Seconds later, another message came through.
