Chapter 7
mad
. . .
Nights sucked. I had learned to wake when my dreams involved an airplane. But tonight, I hadn’t even fallen asleep yet.
Washington texted me about Texas while I was job hunting. Where was his little brother, the bad twin? I’d heard him called that so many times. And even before I knew how names could ruin a person, I’d connected to Texas. Dude was funny.
But now Washington wanted me to text him a picture of myself. As if.
“Okay, Tex,” I murmured into the air, “I’ll call you in a little while. For now, I’m going to play with your brother. Hope you don’t take offense. You taught me how to laugh my ass off, little brother.”
I typed a quick message to Washington.
ME: Just a sec. Sending a pic. Since your high-maintenance ass shaded my jailhouse pjs, I’ma show you something Your Honor Soul Glow.
I fully intended not to respond to him after this. But I’d see how long he’d wait it out and maybe laugh if he texted me another emoji besides this silly thumbs-up, which wasn’t giving him any brownie points. Dude didn’t seem that interested.
So, the answer was no.
I returned to my MacBook and read aloud a job title that might be a good contender.
“Glass Coach for Corporate Team Building?” My gaze cruised over to the bottom portion of the ad again.
The company’s name remained withheld until a few chosen applicants passed the first round of interviews.
But the price tag kept me reading about this exclusive cloak-and-dagger CEO mess.
“Let me get this straight? All the Kevins in the money laundering world at Mob Investments Inc. are going on their annual retreat? Obvi. But this time they’d bond over a hazardous craft? ”
Maybe it sounded like a good idea. As long as their mafioso clientele didn’t join. Or again, if imaginary Kevin, who almost burned down his kitchen making popcorn, didn’t panic while I taught him the art of working with molten glass.
Flinching at the thought of first-degree burns, I shook the hypothetical nightmare from my mind. The hefty commission rate wasn’t gonna have me roasted in a house fire or stuffed in the trunk of a Lincoln. Hard pass.
I scrolled again. The Messages icon on my MacBook, connected to my iPhone, caught my eye. Only a minute had passed, so Wash must’ve assumed I was glamming myself up for him. A whole wardrobe change. From shabby sweats to teensy silk teddies. Boy, please.
I tried to resume my search, but my eyes kept slinking down to the text app.
So, instead of searching for another job, I referred to my homie, Google.
I’d poised my fingers over the keyboard when my door opened.
Lynetta came inside.
I flicked a brow. So, you can’t knock?
The look she gave me? Telepathy that replied, It’s my house, and ten shades of lethal older sister.
I’d already endured eighteen years of being harassed by her.
The last four years of my adolescence were the worst because my parents had left her in charge of me, and she regretted it.
It wasn’t really her fault they’d put so much on her.
So, tonight, I smiled. “May I help you?”
She spun around in a pair of khakis and a sweater. “I’m going midnight geocaching with friends. Does my butt look big, Maddy?”
“Girl, yes, honey!” I replied. Even though I might not get her reverse slang, like geofencing, or whatever, I was nice. When I wanted to be.
“What?” Lynetta snapped.
I’d forgotten the people she’d taken up with. An unsavory group of anti-butt people. “Kidding, you have a bracket booty.” No lie. Just genuine honesty. “C’mon, you’ve seen a bracket? You type reports at work, right?”
All her confused blinking turned into a snarl. “The square thingy on the keyboard?”
The irony. She should’ve commended me for recognizing what she and her peeps viewed as lovely: no booty. Where was her appreciation? After clearing my throat, I murmured, “Well, yeah.” Still out here living a life of honesty.
“So, I have a bracket butt?” she snapped as my MacBook lit up with a ping from Washington. Nope. A two-minute reminder of his silly-ass thumbs-up.
“Just a sec.” I replied, fingers at work. Google asked if I wanted to adjust the settings to permit adult content. No, sir. I popped an image into the text box for Washington. Granny in the lace muumuu. Betty’s busty bosoms were so massive they functioned as floor sweepers.
When I glanced over the rim of my laptop, Lynetta glared at me from near the door. “You know what, Madison? Next month. Not March, but April, I want four hundred for rent.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a bracket booty.” Without another word, Lynetta stormed away, leaving the door open.
I stared at the audacity for a couple of beats, then mumbled, “If you had laughed at my joke, I might’ve told you how to fix the bracket booty. But I won’t.”
My text messages pinged again. I scrolled the cursor over and clicked on the message.
WASH: I waited in the rain for your response, Maddy.
WASH: Now I want a solo date.
I cracked my knuckles, pressed all caps, and typed onto my laptop.
ME: ALREADY FAKE DATING YOU, brUH
ME: Hope you’re in the house now. It’s pouring!
WASH: Yep. In the house. Alone. Challenge me. Whatever you want. I follow through. We do a genuine date, a.k.a. Just us. For the record, we’re REAL dating but with too many people.
A foolish grin had formed on my face. “Real-ish, whatever. But I do like a challenge.”
I typed, Grow a rat tail, then deleted that. He wouldn’t. Presentation mattered.
ME: Grow a ducktail. Can you do that with your follicular-ly challenged self??
WASH: Follicular what? A hyphen doesn’t make that word legit. But it’s gonna take months.
The little dots were already active. Big Head’s argument was still in progress.
WASH: The second we see fuzz, we do dinner and a movie.
I chortled. Fuzz? Like a little new growth was supposed to persuade me—assuming that his head could manage even that. After laughing for a full sixty seconds at the thought of him resembling a colicky newborn with one sad wisp of hair, I typed back:
NOPE.
The second I pressed send those text message dots went to work. The boy was skilled at constructing arguments.
WASH: At .00001 of an inch, we take a dinner cruise?
It was tricky to do a thumbs down on my MacBook, so I set it aside and picked up my iPhone.
WASH: At .01 of an inch …
As I chuckled, I called him before my brain got the memo.
His voice was low, desirable, and he must’ve been ready for bed. He must’ve skipped his neat freak evening regimen.
I pushed down a lump in my throat and said, “Cup of coffee first, real date. Second date, once your ducktail is at .01 of an inch, whatever that is, we can do a movie. But it depends on what’s at the theater in 2077.
If there’s nothing good, then we’ll hit up Popeyes.
Third date, you send me on a cruise. I send you selfies of me dancing all night? ”
“2077, Maddy? That’s how long you think it’s gonna take me to grow .01 of a silly-ass ducktail?”
I chuckled.
He groaned. “You better be glad I love the sound of your laugh because I may arrest you again.”
“For what? We both agreed it’s raining cats, dogs, and gators outside. But … if you want, Lynetta wants to geofence.”
“Geocaching? In the rain?”
“I presume it occurs outside?”
“Yep,” he replied. “How about I pick you up since the warden isn’t home to criticize us?”
“Us?” I snorted. “Speak for yourself, Your Honorable Holiness.”
“Ha.” His dry humor was in full effect. “But seriously. We should practice for the charity auction at the DuValls this weekend.”
“Mm-hmm. Bye, Washington.” At that name, the DuValls, our banter crashed and burned.
“We should get used to each other’s snores for the Shreveport event. It’s too far to drive back the same day,” he said, knowing full well that I’d never step foot on another plane.
“We can take turns driving, Wash. Good night.”
The second I hung up, I dialed Texas. The call went to voicemail mid-ring. Oh, no, he didn’t.
Shoving a hand through my hair, I chewed him out like any big sister would.
“Now, I know you didn’t press ignore, Texas!
Even when ghosting your brothers, you know to answer me.
” Then, like any law-abiding citizen fluent in guilt-tripping a person, I said, “Remember when you showed up at me and Wash’s studio apartment in San Jose? Who let you stay?”
Saturday evening I looked too good. My blunt bangs had clocked out and left luxurious baby hairs in charge.
Since baby hairs loved them some waves, I pulled out the titanium iron and got to curling like I was about to walk in slow motion past all my enemies.
Even Chantell from third grade. But tell me why, a few minutes later, I was a cat chasing its tail, reaching for the zipper of the red velvet dress Washington had bought me.
That reminded me. If I could weasel the receipt out of him, I’d return it and use some of the money to help me pay my sister rent in April.
As my body kept spinning around the wood floors, I groaned. Useless. How did I live without my husband for a year? I continued working the zipper, and my mind wandered to another time and another dress.
“Need help, chère?” Washington’s voice had been teasing, low, and tinged with an apology. It was Valentine’s Day, and he’d been late. Court had run long. He’d been working a case with $1.2 billion on the table.
Yeah, I had an attitude. Granted, we’d gone from ramen to him working at one of the most prestigious corporate law firms in Louisiana.
Before he interviewed for the job, he’d warned me it had the potential to destroy relationships.
But his eyes had burned with ambition. I needed to say yes.
He’d wanted that. And now we’d gotten our first taste of good money.
Washington stepped closer, brushing the hair away from my neck. “Forgive me, chère.”
With torturously gentle intent, his lips had pressed against the nape of my neck, making me ache for the touch that would follow the rhythm of my heartbeat. His lips dropped to my collarbone, and I nearly fainted. The scent of him wrapped around me like a vice, mixing with the faint trace of roses.
By the time he’d captured my mouth with his, I no longer had any control. He was holding me up. I was melting. Liquid beneath wherever his hands touched.
“We good now?” he’d murmured, his lips grazing mine, nipping and kissing as he’d reached toward the zipper behind my back.
Funny how he could have my mind and heart wrapped around him.
The zipper crept tantalizingly slow up my spine.
My lips zipped shut as well, as temptation made it hard to utter a single word.
“Okay, so we ain’t good.” His voice came out a laugh, and his mouth dropped on mine in a featherlight kiss. “You know my next step is to beg for forgiveness, Maddy. But you were so angry about missing dinner. Shall I get on my knees and beg forgiveness now? Or after we return from Tableau?”
“Yes …” I replied.
“Which is it?” he asked, slowly undoing the zipper again as if to punish me for not having a confident reply. The titillating sound echoed with my heartbeat. My mind swirled with everything I couldn’t say. How I forgave him. Always would. And how his kisses had given me life.
Washington pressed his forehead against mine while sliding his fingertips over my shoulders to remove the dress. “Better?” he asked, lips brushing against mine, a ghost of a kiss that left me aching.
I nodded, still unable to speak, my body humming from the closeness, the intimacy.
Our position. Me naked and him fully clothed in a suit that cost more than the rent we paid after we married during my second year in college.
And then we’d loved each other. We didn’t end up tasting Tableau until our first Valentine’s post-baby.
But eventually, despite the money, corporate law was killing us. Killing me.
I’d delayed my dream of owning a glassblowing storefront for years and worked out of our home so he could fulfill his.
When career burnout in corporate law had finally hit, Washington needed time in the juvenile court field.
Then we’d had Elijah, so I postponed my dream a little longer and continued creating out of my small workshop at home.
When Eli began transitional kinder … I got my dream, then came the crash.
I had only owned my shop for less than a year.
The frustrating memories vanished, and I made another catlike spin to try the zipper again.
ZIPPP.
Halfway there, I switched positions and finished. “Time for your first date, Mad.”
I told myself that if I recognized anyone tonight who’d given me a nickname, Messy Energy Maddy, among others, I’d err on the side of positive Mood Swing Maddy.
A long time ago, in my other life, I’d created a vase for Anthony Mackie. He was a damn good actor. Tonight, I’d channel him. Do my best. I’d be … good-ish.