Page 82 of That: Taylor & Brooks

He leaned forward slightly. “But you are wrongabout one thing. I’ve never tried to hide who I am. Not from Taylor, not from you, not from anyone. I’m a Bishop and I’m not ashamed of it.”

Through appetizers, Reverend Bradshaw continued testing Brooks subtly, finally asking bluntly, “How do you feel about church? Taylor was raised in faith. Will you be attending church? Getting baptized.”

“I respect Taylor’s faith,” Brooks answered honestly. “I’m not a church-going man myself, but I believe in God.”

“And your... business associates? They respect her faith too?”

Brooks didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just stared him down, steady.

“What makes you think I got associates to worry about?” His voice was calm, but his meaning cut sharp. “I’m not my father.”

“We’ll see.”

He leaned in slightly, voice cold and exact. “But let’s be clear: If anyone ever thought about touching her, I’d burn this damn city down.”

Her father gave Taylor a long look, the kind that said she knew better. The kind that used to shut her up without saying another word. She didn’t cower. If she wasn’t safe with Brooks she wasn’t safe with anyone.

“I worry about influences around Taylor,” her father pressed.

Brooks held his gaze. “Your daughter’s grown. She makes her choices. The only influence I offer is honesty and happiness.”

Her father scoffed, shaking his head. “And where has that gotten her? Divorced and running around with you.”

The table went quiet. Tension hung heavy in the air.

“I think what your father means,” her mother interjected gently, trying to soften the blow, “is that he just wants to make sure you’re happy, Taylor. That’s all any parent wants.”

Then she cut her eyes at her husband and added, “And if that’s not what he meant… he might find himself in the doghouse. Ain’t that right, Clarence?”

Taylor let the silence linger.

Then she looked at Brooks.

Steady. Unbothered. The same dark eyes that never demanded anything from her, never pulled at her peace. He was watching her, waiting on her to decide who she wanted to be in this moment. And also deciding he’d be cool with whoever showed up. He didn’t need her to defend him.

She looked back at her parents.

Taylor set her napkin down sharply, “I’m not running around. I chose Brooks. I didn’t come here for judgment. If you can’t accept my choice, we can leave.”

She felt Brooks lace his fingers through hers—no pressure, just presence. Her father studied them, realizing she wouldn’t back down.

Her father’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes did. He was surprised at her willingness to stand her ground. He’d known Brooks for years and in any other capacity wouldn’t mumble a bad word about Brooks, but it was something about him being with his daughter that unsettled him. His little girl wasn’t a little girl anymore. She even looked differently to him today.

Brooks cleared his throat, meeting Mr. Bradshaw’seyes.

“I came here outta respect—for you, your house, and especially Taylor. You don’t have to like me, but she loves you, and I honor that. I’ll never stand in your way, just don't stand in mine.”

The food arrived, forcing a pause in the tension. Plates were placed, glasses refilled, and for a few minutes, the conversation steered toward neutral ground, church events, summer planning, some light neighborhood gossip. Brooks handled it all with ease, not once defending himself against the petty jabs tucked between her father’s questions.

When dessert hit the table, the Reverend leaned back, ready to test him again.

“Tell me, Bishop,” her father said, tone sharp. “What are your intentions with my daughter? And don’t give me no slick answer. I’m not here for games.”

Brooks didn’t blink, he didn’t do games either.

“Whatever she wants. For as long as she’ll let me.” He paused. “She’s had enough people putting expectations on her.”

Her father’s brow lifted. “Expectations like stability? Marriage? You plan to just play house?”

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