Chapter 15
washington
. . .
Although the divorce was only a year ago, three years had slipped by since Madison last tasted like heaven on my lips. Now I starved for oxygen and Madison all at once as I pulled her out of the passenger seat and into my arms.
She laughed, breathy, messy, and the kinda sound that undid me. I swear it echoed through my ribs.
I deepened the kiss, slow and confident, letting her taste bloom warm on my tongue while every bottled-up hour I missed her spilled into a moan. My fingers tangled in the soft strands of her hair, needing proof she was real. Here. Mine again.
My hands, fresh out of lockdown and not giving a damn about parole, roamed shamelessly, touching everywhere they could. Soaking her in. They skimmed underneath her shirt, traced the warm curve of her breast, then found home at her hips.
She started forward. I almost had the door shut when she tripped over a paver.
“Damn, girl, I got you.” I trapped her in my arms to stop her from falling.
As she laughed, I kissed her again. Much gentler than at the rage room.
Soft, like maybe we were two grown folks who’d finally stopped being stupid.
Her little hum against my tongue, Lord help me, made me remember why I’d married her in the first place.
Madison’s hands slid up my chest, and my tongue brushed hers with the same hesitance that turned into fire.
Craving her surrender, I deepened everything about me, savoring her and feeling her warmth against mine.
When my hand bumped into hers against the door handle, I thought she was closing the passenger door, but she didn’t let go. Woman had us playing bumper cars with our fingers.
“Maddy,” I murmured against her lips, my voice thick with the taste of her. “What are you doing, bébé?”
Apparently, we were kissing and wrestling the damn car door. All that aggression had worked in the rage room. But here, right outside our house? Nah. That was a Tyler Perry movie for my woman and her friends.
My dumb ass smiled and chuckled in confusion. “Maddy, let go.”
She pressed her lips to mine, and a low, guttural groan escaped her. “I … I’m trying.”
“What do you mean, bébé?”
She pushed herself against me, feeling all I had for her, and yet she hadn’t let go of that door. Before she kissed me again, her eyes flicked toward …
The house. Damn.
Her fingers were clinging to the handle as if it held her together. Mine wrapped around her waist as if I might throw her over my shoulder and try to hypnotize her with good loving.
Madison pressed her cheek against my chest as she whispered, “Wash, I ca-can’t …”
Maybe I wasn’t hearing her correctly? My fingers fought to pry hers off the handle.
“Baby, I-I can’t go into that house.”
The air knocked out of me like I got sucker punched. How could I forget? For the two years our son was on life support, we’d rented a place closer to the hospital.
I planted my chin on her forehead, still trying to pretend we weren’t both coming undone in different ways.
The following Tuesday, I sat wide-legged next to Madison in the therapist’s office.
I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Shonda, you want us to do what? Not have sex? You … you’re a grief counselor.
” Damn. The insinuation was all up in that, suggesting she wasn’t a Marriage and Family Therapist. Maybe I should’ve started by saying, With all due respect, given the Black in her was about to overcome her professionalism.
Her nostrils flared so hard, I almost flinched at the sight of her nose hairs.
“Sir.” She measured her words, checking herself and not me. “This is for the two of you. You’re rekindling feelings. I believe no sex is the best policy while you resolve your issues.”
Bruh, whose side are you on? Better be mine, with the way my bank account was on autopay.
When the judge accepted Madison’s request to leave the marriage penniless, he mandated court-ordered therapy and for me to pay for it.
Which meant we needed this woman even if we both wanted to kick Shonda’s ass off our sex island.
“You said no sex? None of the positions?” I asked, though I’d heard clear as day.
Madison’s fingers squeezed mine, as if pleading with me to tell this woman to have several seats. I checked my face, wriggled my jaw, then relaxed. At least my wife and I agreed.
“If you count kissing as a position, sure. Do that.”
Madison laughed a little. “Umm, you’re speaking to kissing professionals. And Wash bought the cow and drank the milk. We’ve done the entire book. So, which other positions can we try?”
I pulled out my phone. “Hold on. I’ma find that book. What was it? Oh … yeah. Miss Ma’am & Mr. Sir: A Clinical Study in Physical Chemistry. Yep. That’s the one with all them positions, right?”
Madison went flush. “Yes. We bought it on a very long time ago. We can find it later, baby.”
“Woman, don’t downplay it now. A whole sex doctor wrote it.
A real doctor.” I paused to clear my throat.
“I'm not saying you ain't a doctor, Shonda. I'm just painting the picture. And we did the whole thing.” I began typing into the app. “Let’s see which one of these is …” trauma-focused? “allowed.”
“Yes, we’ll only do what’s allowed.” Madison waved a hand. “Shonda, it was a phenomenal book. It had gymnastics. Stretching. Everything. That has to be therapeutic. Oh, and I even reviewed it on Goodreads.”
I didn’t have the slightest idea what she meant, but it sounded like we were good people. So, I grinned too. See? Good people read.
Madison glanced at me, her eyes lighting up as if the old online order held the key to her joy. She leaned forward, saying, “Also, like we’ve explained, we visited a rage room. I raged.”
“Yeah. She raged. I took it.” Bruhhh. Even my brain screamed Pathetic attempt to get into my ex-wife’s thong. And I still hadn’t brought up the right order.
Shonda placed her Starbucks cup on the end table. It wasn’t even real coffee. Some iced, whipped cream mess. She then snorted. “You took it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I was boy-scout polite, because that woman held my emotional healing with whatever she scribbled on her clipboard. She’d also better write ideas on how to get my woman to come home.
But she didn’t scribble, just sipped more frap. The whipped cream started giving me ideas. Something I should be getting into, cream and Madison. After a second, Shonda took another note. Lady, I’ve been celibate longer than Moses wandered through the desert.
Three years.
Two married.
One divorced.
And this cellphone was sweating in my palm, eyeballs sweating too, as I continued to scroll backward. Damn! How far back did we buy that book?
“Listen, Mr. Babineaux, we all agree that you and Madison had the same view of the rage room. You argued.”
“Yes, we did.” Madison took my hand.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and presented a strong front by kissing the back of her hand.
“We hashed it out.” Now give us the green light for sex.
I had plans. Support my woman. Get her the help she deserved in tandem with …
sex. The second we left here, we’d put a check through our mental health goal.
As a judge, I supported therapy. As a man, I asked, “Are we good now?”
Shonda smiled, the one that said, Bless your heart, but shut yo mouth.
“I found no flaws in your accounts, as you both confirmed each other’s statements.
And I appreciate the entire director’s cut edition of last weekend.
I really do because when you piggyback off each other, it says, We’re on the same page.
There aren’t any perception issues. Nevertheless, that was surface stuff. ”
She sipped her frap, then looked me dead in the eye. “Y’all splashed in the kiddie pool on Saturday evening. Cute. However, the entire ocean was right there waiting. Been waiting. And y’all don’t wanna just jump in. Have you ever been to the ocean?”
“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 was not biting 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.”
“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-thighs part, 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.