Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
And then his eyes flicked across my face as if he was afraid this one year was enough time to undo our love.
“Listen, Madison, I’m right here. Even when pride allowed me to agree to the divorce. Grief doesn’t come with instructions, but I damn sure know it’s best done together. God didn’t create us to be alone. C’mon, bébé. We were always good together. Our best … together.” His words hit something deep in me, something I wanted to believe, but the guilt pressed harder. Crueler.
He might’ve flown that plane, but I paid for those pilot hours. Maybe I had wanted him and Dad to have something in common when my parents visited once in a blue moon? Maybe I had wanted to impress all my rich friends? How many times had I said, Oh, yeah, Wash flew us to whichever big city was fashionable at the moment for a shopping spree?
Maybe I was as ambitious as Judge Plantation Politics DuVall.
“I’ll see you at the Jazz Brunch,” I murmured. “Wash, let’s just finish our messy dating scheme.”
He didn’t move. He stood there, jaw set, eyes darker than heartbreak. I walked off before the ache of missing him consumed me.
The sun hit the wetness on my cheeks, and my heart urged me to return. To not allow suffering to win.
Behind me, Washington’s voice carried enough to reach me. “I’ma always be here, Maddy. You don’t gotta see me to know it.”
mad
. . .
Grumpy Cat, who? Three days after I’d ghosted Washington, I’d gotten slotted in with my grief counselor. I slouched into the seat, carrying the weight of the entire last millennium on my shoulders. If that little fur ball thought he looked rough. Wait, was it a she? Whatever. Grumpy Cat needed to see my RBF.
“It’s been a while, Madison.” Shonda tugged the wire-rimmed glasses from her face. Her expression reminded me of Momma’s … when we met face-to-face. At least I tried to remember that. Long before my parents left for the vacay life, my oldest memory of Mom was us in the mirror. I’d secretly joked about her Karate Kid wax-on, wax-off process of teaching moisturization before age ten. That woman had me on a Mary Kay regimen by the age of twelve. Shonda asked, “How are you feeling?”
I blinked. “Honestly? Like I live with a small, judgmental demon named Mr. Whiskers.”
Her brow rose. “Mr. Whiskers?”
“Grumpy cat energy. Permanent scowl. That cat’s staring at me like I walked in wearing socks with sandals. And not just any sandals. The kind with the separated big toe.” My shoulders trembled at the thought of thick socks and toe posts widening out my feet. I lifted the pillow, smothering my face, instead of addressing the fact that my therapist wanted to discuss Elijah. “Guilt kicks my ass for existing.”
“How do you feel, Madison?” I imagined Shonda drawing a tiny cat on her clipboard. Or maybe she scribbled delusional. I had better clean up my act, or I’d end up in some mental ward, dressed in a straitjacket. I’d mutter about the cat that I might or might not have seen. Okay, I didn’t see a stupid cat.
“I’m always angry. Mad,” I replied. “Then people call me … names. Not like crazy.”
“Who would call you crazy?”
I suppose I’d added that part for Shonda, so she wouldn’t diagnose me as mentally unstable. But she didn’t jot that down. “Oh, nothing. I feel like I need to be depressed. Then I focus on bills and groceries. Sorting laundry.” I scratched the back of my neck.
“To help deepen your depression?”
I smiled.
This woman offered a bless-your-heart look that made me think she had had the number to The House That Ain’t Right, a.k.a., the psych ward in Mid-City, on speed dial. I wanted to grab my café au lait cup and put some space between us, but Shonda leaned forward and took my hands. I edged forward too, still poised for a fifty-yard dash, in case she called that number.
“You feel as if you need to be sadder than you are? The world is hurling labels at you, and you’re this hot mess …”
Okay, reading me well. Proceed.
“… but you’re rolling with it.”
“I think so.” My voice came out low and breathy. I was confused. Exhausted from pushing away the man I loved. From wanting to be alone. But that’s what I knew. Before Wash’s shenanigans? I had loneliness. My sister raised me even before my parents checked out on the job. I couldn’t ruin her adolescence, so I did my best to keep myself to myself.
“It’s that I have this pressure to be deeply, dramatically sad. That it would … please my son. Like I need to sit in the corner with a piano playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.” Again, not restrained by a cropped cardigan featuring not-so-stylish institution buckles. “While I stare at my ceiling contemplating whether chickpea chips count as a cry therapy session.” Because I legit hate this. Therapy … with humans.