Page 62 of Big Mad
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.Frombehindstill 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 imaginednotbursting 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 atourhome 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.
