Chapter 23
madison
. . .
Maybe I shouldn’t compare the fantasy-turned reality with Washington in his chambers to a police check gone right, but honestly? The shoe fit, and Momma packed her spiky stilettos in anticipation of more.
First, he had backed me into the wall so hard my spine threatened to file charges. Then he spun me around, lifted my hands, and planted them against the wall. My body hummed, eager for the Miranda rights.
Did Mad Madison mind?
No, ma’am.
But I was sticking to my claim. Nothing had happened yesterday evening.
He was behind me.
I didn’t see any crimes committed. And he’d never turn informant to Shonda.
Now, I drifted around my bedroom, smirk cocked sideways, still feeling that man all over me. From behind still the key words here. That man kissed me with the confidence of a judge who gave himself permission to violate the contract his own therapist made him sign.
Kissing him was mindless, beautiful madness.
But what we did to that wall?
We owed that wall an entire fruit basket. The fancy kind. Cheese and chocolate included.
Singing a song that my mind made up in love, I dropped more lace underwear into my carry-on and paused. Lord. Why had I taken scissors to all my lingerie? The sexiest silky items in my arsenal were hair scarves.
Hmm.
Oh, maybe we could fall back on our didn’t-see-it, didn’t-do-it loophole. How would that work? Both of us blindfolded? Then he wouldn’t see me in a Vicky’s Secret T-shirt bra and mismatched panties?
With a moan, I free-fell back into bed. “Girl, this is why you switched to the art track. You’ve done more contemplating now than you did in poli-sci classes.”
Yet? I needed to dig deeper, and not about sex.
I closed my eyes and imagined not bursting into tears while walking into the home we shared. That place had become a physical presence. Living, breathing. Ours. So many memories of us … and Elijah. Could I venture to the second floor?
My blood pressure hit the sky. Anxious perspiration found every surface of my flesh, and my breath ran shallow. I choked up.
How would I pass Eli’s bedroom to get to the double doors leading into our suite? What if Washington’s version of coping included leaving our son’s bedroom door open? Planes graced the wall. And in his room sat a plane-shaped bed, a gift from Dad.
“How did he crash the plane, Madison? How could he not check—”
“Dad, he checked. The management crew at the hangar storing our plane checked! Washington did nothing wrong.”
“Aside from killing your son. My grandson!”
I ran the heel of my palm against my throat.
“You can do this, Madison.” I struggled through the words, pushing away the old thoughts. Thoughts that I could no longer envision myself as happy in that house.
I wasn’t about to allow lies to slither like a den of snakes in my mind.
Deep down, I never blamed Washington. The engine malfunctioned.
The plane had crashed, and our son had died after two painful years.
Washington coped by working and moving on with life.
I had restructured how I was living my best life until all I had left was that little farting-ass Daewoo and my sister’s stony guest room mattress.
I took a deep breath. I’d call Washington. Tell him I’d spend the night with him at our home before the long drive to Shreveport when a text appeared.
WASH: Why did y’all make Sasquatch cry?
I’d forgotten his private name for his cousin, Genèse. But that wasn’t the reason I smirked. I detected the familiar scent of deception.
ME: Excuse me? You mean those manipulative tears last week? And who are you to lecture me, Mr. Clean … from the neck up.
WASH: From the neck up?
ME: Referring to hair, strictly. You’re worried about Genèse crying all of a sudden? I have the feeling that before she ugly cried in her car last Thursday she texted you about us ganging up on her.
WASH: Wrong. My cousin started an ENTIRE group chat with my brothers.
My phone vibrated.
“Why,” I groaned, answering my ex-husband, “do we text twenty-one paragraphs and then call each other?”
“Because I was thinking,” he began.
I lay back in bed, glowy and grinning. Baby, I was happy, but I let my voice become humdrum just because. “Oh, Lord. Here comes the logic.”
“Chère, listen, we should discuss Genèse’s feelings in a more therapeutic setting tonight.”
Smelling a scheme, I played along. “Boy, please, you don’t wanna know Shonda’s prices for an emergency session.”
“I meant inside our shower. It spans half a room. Very clinical. Good acoustics. So, if we can’t agree on why y’all made Genèse cry, you stand beneath your rainspout. I’ll stand beneath mine, no touching. How does that sound?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Washington, you’re using your cousin’s fake-ass meltdown as a cover. You big freak!”
“I’m multitasking. Also, Shreveport isn’t the next city over. Tomorrow, I’ve gotta wake up at the crack of dawn and drive thirty minutes out of my way to get you.”
“Sir, stop.” I laughed. “Okay. Yes. I’ll spend the night.”
The word slipped out most accidentally, but the silence that followed? It snapped my entire world into focus.
Washington didn’t respond. And neither did I. My mind boggled at what I’d agreed to do.
Not the shower. Or the ridiculous number of rain-shower heads. Nor the ridiculous therapy setting he tried to sell, half in jest. I’d said yes to returning home. Back to the house I hadn’t stepped foot in since the crash.
A slow breath expanded my chest, tight with memories that didn’t choke me anymore, but still burrowed beneath my skin.
“Our house … used to echo with the sound of laughter, an occasional prayer, and love. We can do that again, Washington.”
“Madison? You sure, bébé?”
“Yep, I’ll be … home in an hour.”
Iwheeled my luggage into the living room of my sister’s place, glancing around as if I’d never return.
Honest to God, I needed this to work. Once we returned from Shreveport, I wanted Washington and me to make the jump.
Well, I’d keep my meeting with Omari and Martin on Monday.
Nerves might cause me to delay packing until after I had news.
I didn’t want to return to our home as a burden on Washington.
“Then we’ll make it official on Tuesday after therapy,” I muttered to myself, checking through my purse.
The front door flew open. Lynetta rushed in, bouncing in her NASA prototype rejects. “You’re spending the night at his home? At your home?”
“You look happy.”
“Girl, I’m your ride or die. I’ll cop the same attitude you have. We came to that conclusion already.”
I hadn’t expected us to become so close. Lynetta always ran with her crew. The day I left for college in California, she started at NYU.
But now, we embraced, jumping around like an old sitcom, the horrible theme song in my head.
“Maddy, Washington better treat you good, because frowning is messing with all of this.” She gestured to her face. “Yours too.”
“Okay, Mom Junior.”
“You packed your facial serum and moisturizer?”
“You know … it,” I paused, staring at the open front door that, in my sister’s elation, she hadn’t closed.
A man stood there. Muscles from his head to pinkie toes.
I still couldn’t wrap my mind around Washington’s third-hand account of Texas hiding in the Dollar Tree from somebody.
He was well over six feet, like the rest of his brothers.
His head barely cleared the doorframe. And his personality was usually bigger than his namesake.
Today though?
From behind him, the evening NOLA sun washed out the glow he usually carried like a personal spotlight. Texas scrubbed a hand over his face. His dreadlocks, normally fresh, crisp, and styled within an inch of their life, begged for a retwist. Frizz puffed at the roots as if waving for attention.
A tumbleweed beard obscured the clean-muscular line of his jaw. Texas was always hustling, always one step away from questionable life choices. But he always smelled of expensive soap and apparent good intentions. The contradiction was impressive. Olympic level. But today?
My heart hurt to look at him.
Lynetta raised her eyebrows. “Hey, Texas, or is it Tennessee?”
“Texas,” I muttered, since all he did was offer a halfhearted wave.
“Okay, Texas. Come in.” She tapped her fingertips against her thigh. “I’ll leave you to this.”
As she strolled away from the living room, I came alive and rushed to the door, hugging the guy who would always be my little “Incredible Hulk” brother. “Tex, where the hell have you been?” Yep, the bass behind my tone firmly cemented me into that role too. “How are you?”
“I can’t call it,” he replied in that slow, smooth drawl. I riddled him with questions about the Dollar Tree, and he stared at me as if he had the number to the nearest psychiatric paddy-wagon on speed dial.
Okay, maybe Washington’s father got that wrong? Ezekiel had seen Wash and Montana only a handful of times since he had gone to prison when they were little. Safe to say it was an honest mistake.
“Don’t know nothing about all that. Got your text, though.” He held up that raggedy phone with its one-inch screen and large, ancient button numbers. Damn burner phone model had to be his age. Montana had told Washington that neither PI could track his number because of it.
“So, you had that but couldn’t call nobody?”
“Sis, all y’all’s texts, calls? I’m surprised the phone didn’t explode in my hand. Can’t even play Tetris.”
“Texas!” I gasped, strolling toward the kitchen with him in tow.
“Nah! Y’all asses owe me a new phone.”
“I see you still have that don’t-give-a-crap sense of humor. Cute.” I pulled a pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge and snorted when he gave me a half-serious look, even though I knew he was kidding. “Okay, we’ll all pitch in. Five bucks each should get you another piece of crap.”
“Madison? Language, bébé!” The so-not-a-saint placed his hand on his chest. Boy, please.
“Where have you been?” I handed him the glass of tea.
“Bruh, no ice?”
“No!”
“Can you at least make me breakfast, gran s?r?” He smirked, calling me big sister.
Dude knew my buttons. I’d always wanted a baby brother. “Yeah, sit.”
“I hope you gave Wash half this attitude.”
“Oh, I did.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, bébé!”
Chuckling, I got to work. As I chopped vegetables for an omelet and warmed a pot for instant grits, Texas sat at the table, arms folded, face hidden. Then came the sound of snoring.
Lord, don’t let him be coming down from something.
I jotted a quick text to his brothers. We thought he was selling drugs.
He’d sold them in high school, so it wasn’t a stretch.
He was a decade younger than Washington and even tried to hustle dime bags at Aquatic Park when visiting us for our wedding.
So far, he’d avoided issues with the law. But who was after him?
“Tex, Texas?” I felt half bad as I woke him, eyes watering for too many reasons.
“Why are you crying, chère?”
“Your momma prayed way too much for you to …” I shook my head. Not my place to judge him.
“Go on, finish what you got to say,” he replied, voice a low rumble.
“Nah, I won’t judge you.”
He chuckled. “I remember when I went to your wedding in Cali. Your family looked like they’d groomed you to become a Supreme Court Justice. You never looked down at me.”
“You were fourteen, a kid. A cute … busy kid.”
The doorbell rang. Dang, I thought I had more time and wanted to get his story before his brothers arrived.
“Eat,” I replied, heading out of the room.
“Maersi.” This larger-than-life man, a solid six-six, thanked me. But that voice was gruff, low, and humble enough to tear my heart out.
At the front door, I placed a finger to my lips, letting Washington and Tennessee inside. Montana had texted that as soon as he handed the Philadelphia Phillies their asses tonight, he’d be here.
Tennessee still wore part of his firefighter turnout gear. He nodded in my direction as they strolled into the kitchen.
Texas had eaten half the omelet, the fork in his fisted hand, when he glanced between the three of us.
I mouthed, Sorry.
“I knew you’d betray me, sis. It’s okay. I been wanting you and Wash to work it out.”
Dramatic ass.
In a matter of seconds, Washington turned into a daytime courtroom TV drama, while Tennessee transformed into a silent, building volcano.
I cut in, arms folded. “Tex, you’re gonna sit and eat while Washington digs into you? How can you not care? If my … son had …” My voice broke, and Washington looped an arm around me. “If Elijah lived to be as old as you, I’d fight him before I let him waste his life.”
Texas nodded and smiled. “I respect that. If Eli did half the crap I had, gran s?r, I’d help you.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Tennessee snarled. He was Texas’s spitting image, except Ten wore his hair in neat cornrows.
In response, Texas picked up his fork and took another bite. He pointed the fork at me. “Maddy, for instant grits, bébé, you’re on to something.”
“No, sir. We’re not here for your award-winning humor, Texas,” I replied.
He shrugged and finished his omelet in one last large bite. “Just had me some breakfast for dinner. Now, which one of y’all gone give me a place to lay my head tonight?”