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)
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 Amazon 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 Amazon 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?”