Chapter 5 #2
The next morning, I lay on my stomach in bed, my cheeks still warm from my morning glass of Pinot.
I scrolled through a listing of glassblowing art jobs.
When all I had left was Mad Bold & Blown, I thought I’d start anew.
Succeed without Washington. Without the Babineauxs, who had truly become more family to me than my parents. But then …
Inch by inch, my son’s memory echoed across the void. I couldn’t create art. Couldn’t promote my place. Couldn’t stay open for more than a couple of hours.
For some, the pain of lost love is a price worth paying for the happiness it once brought, but not for me. How long did their memories run? Had they laughed and taken candids at kindergarten or high school graduation? Had they at least seen their child married?
“Dang, Maddy, stop.” I shook my head. Instead of turning my attention to the job listings, I tilted my wine glass high enough to gather that last little drop.
No more breakfast boxed wine, girl.
Next ration would be at lunch.
A knock came at my window. My hand tightened around the stemless glass. My neck rotated suspiciously slow.
But it wasn’t Washington.
Okay. I climbed out of bed and tugged up the sash. “Latrice, girl, what are you doing here?”
Why was my ex-husband’s assistant climbing through my window? She wasn’t my favorite person. I had caught her staring at Wash a few times. She had no shame salivating over my ma- ahem.
“How can I help you?” I literally asked her ass. Those big ol’ hips she used to slap her decorative fan with on Saturday night, and fan her face with on Sunday morning, shimmied through the opening. Why hadn’t she just stepped a foot over the normal way?
“Ye-yeah, help me, Madison.” She gasped, breaths ragged.
“You scared?” I asked, wringing my fingers together. This was my version of trying to be helpful. She hefted the other leg over, hands still on the wrought iron.
“Yep.” She climbed in, wilted against the wall with a sigh, then her eyes nearly detached themselves from her eye sockets as she side-eyed the window.
Her unnecessary traumatic experience left me even more baffled. I scratched my eyebrow. Maybe this was some new social media challenge? “Latrice, do you need a glass of water?”
“Well … yeah.” She nodded.
In the kitchen, she downed the glass I gave her in desperation. After finishing it, she said, “Madison, I have a dress for you in my car.”
“Okay.” Got it. Washington had chosen my attire for Judge Gaston’s event.
Latrice’s beady eyes narrowed, damn near ghosting her face. “You’re going to dinner with him?”
“Though irrelevant, the answer is yes.”
“Why?” She shoved the empty glass into my hand. “You gave him up.”
After putting the glass in the dishwasher, I folded my arms. “Why are you here, Latrice?”
“I done told you! Your dress is in my trunk.” She muttered something under her breath while barging through my home to the front door that sounded like Mood Swing Madison.
I stopped biting my tongue. “Girl, why did you pull those Spider-Man moves through the window when you could’ve knocked?”
She stepped back and allowed me to unlock the front door. “I suppose you should know, Wash and I made a bet. He’d take me to lunch if I annoyed you by popping up at the window like he did last night.”
Oh, he told her about us? Okay, whatever.
“Next up, dinner. Then he’s mine, Madison.”
“Honey, let me stop you right there. Nothing you’ve said since your morning workout has annoyed me.” I chuckled. “You were red as a beet, Latrice.”
“Well, mission accomplished.” She hustled down the steps. “And I’ll enjoy every second of that lunch with your ex-husband too.”
“Aren’t you nearly his momma’s age?” Okay, low blow. “His momma … she won’t like that.”
Latrice shrugged, then shoved the key into the trunk of a late-model Civic.
Dang, Mood Swing Madison should’ve had a better comeback ready.
As I waited, I realized I couldn’t be angry with Latrice over the nickname, not really.
It was accurate. But in the last year, I had realized a few truths, the most important being that words have power.
For example, when you told someone your name, they had power over you.
No matter how small. They called your name and you either responded or gave them headspace, especially if you found them annoying.
When someone gave you a nickname … that intensified their power over you. And worse, when they reduced you to adjectives. Those words could be soul-destroying.
Grief-stricken.
Guilty.
Bitter.
Mad.
Childfree.
Heard that one whispered at my son’s funeral. At first, I thought they were oblivious, confusing the messed-up idea of free childcare for life with the fact that I’d trade my own life for my son to have a chance. They were not.
Malicious, snotty-ass b—
I clenched my teeth to prevent myself from transforming into the woman Latrice had labeled me, then assessed the wardrobe bag in her hand. My eyes gawked at the designer label. “Thanks,” I gushed.
Damn, she didn’t buy this thousand-dollar dress, girl.
As Latrice draped the bag over my arms, I added, “Uh, you should know, he wants to hold me against my will for three dates. So, work your magic, then you can be my stand-in.” Or call the police when I’m on my first date with him. Latrice probably wouldn’t report Washington for temporary abduction.
“Don’t worry, I’ma put it on him!” Latrice strutted around her car.
That thirsty woman could have Washington.
If he’d fall in love with her … then love was love.
Still, as a mother, I never understood how I’d catch her staring at him or other men when we attended galas and spritzers.
She’d be the last one to leave Judge DuVall’s Christmas event, trying to catch someone’s attention.
And she had children at home. Shouldn’t her children be the most important to her?
In my bedroom, tears flushed my cheeks and my cellphone flashed with a missed call from Washington and a text from … Omari. Again?
OMARI: I got another hypothetical. But thought you’d get tired of reading my texted dissertations. Call me.
A frown creased my face. Three texts. I pressed on the app and called. The second the man answered, I said, “What’s the hypothetical? If it sucks, I’m blocking you for good.”
“If I wanted to apologize, do I bring you flowers or a parental gag order? Either way, I’m prepared, Ms. Spencer.” Yep, it was the man with a Southern drawl, just not the honeyed Creole drawl that once made my heart race.
“Uh-uh. You call me Madison, or the little situation you’ve started crashes and burns right now.”
“Alright.” Omari’s voice became smoother than molten glass. “Maddy.”
“I didn’t say all that. Madison will do.” A smile entered my tone. “You can send hydrangeas to the following address.” I tapped into the text box.
Seconds later, he sighed. “That’s a restaurant.”
“I know.”
“You … work there?”
“Nope.”
Sounding confused, Omari asked, “You wanna meet there for lunch?”
“Not at all.” But you’re not getting my address.