Page 95 of That: Taylor & Brooks

She nodded.

“Alright no thanks needed. I’m here because I want to be.”

And he wasn’t just saying what she wanted to hear. Taylor knew Brooks Bishop well enough now to recognize the truth in his eyes. After their blow up and slow journey back to solid ground, he’d done some soul-searching.

Emon had become something of a confidant to Brooks, bringing a perspective that Brooks respected. Blake had picked the right man and he’d never another ill word about him.

Just this morning, Emon had called him out during their workout, making it crystal clear that Brooks was way off base about the moving in situation.

“You got something on your chest or you just here to watch me lift heavy shit?” Brooks asked, wiping his face with a towel.

“Why you give Taylor a hard time about moving in with you? You fucked up for that.”

Brooks stilled, the towel pausing mid-air.

“Come again?”

“You heard me,” Emon said flatly. “You acting like y’all not damn near living together anyway. So what’s up? Why push? Why get offended?”

Brooks dropped the towel onto the bench and met his stare. “Why push? Nigga I want my woman with me. What’s wrong with that?”

“Taylor ain't scared to move in with you. She’s scared to disappoint the version of her that was raised to do things in a certain order. You ain’t gotta agree with it, but you better damn sure respect it.”

Brooks clenched his jaw. “I’m not out here playing with her. I been showing up every day. I made room for her in my life, in my world. Hell, I been thinking about putting a ring on it.”

“Then honor what she believes in,” Emon said. “Taylor has values. Standards. If living together before marriage don’t sit right with her spirit, then it shouldn’t sit right with you either. Period.”

Brooks looked away, chest rising slow.

“You gon lose her if you keep acting like she asking for too much when she’s really just asking you to meet her where she stands.”

Taylor had been raised in the church her whole life, living together without marriage wasn’t something she could just shrug off, no matter how much the world had changed. If Brooks wanted her, really wanted her,he needed to respect those boundaries. As Emon had bluntly put it: either honor her values or let her go.

And there was never any question which one Brooks would choose. Letting Taylor go wasn’t even an option he’d consider. So here he was, meeting her where she needed him to be, not halfway, not reluctantly, but fully present in her sacred space, his silent promise that he would build a life with her that honored all parts of who she was.

Her father’s powerful voice drew her attention back to the pulpit as he began his sermon.

“Turn with me to Ecclesiastes 3,” he commanded, his voice resonating through the sanctuary. “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”

Taylor felt Brooks shift beside her, his attention focused on her father’s words.

“We talk about seasons in the church,” her father continued, pacing the pulpit with measured steps. “Seasons of harvest, seasons of drought. Seasons of joy, seasons of sorrow. But today I want to talk about seasons of transition.”

Taylor froze, her eyes darting to her father’s face. Was he speaking directly to her? His expression gave nothing away, but the words seemed to pierce straight to her heart.

“Sometimes God moves us from one season to another, and we fight it,” Reverend Bradshaw’s voice rose passionately. “We cling to the familiar even when it no longer bears fruit. We stay in Egypt because at least we know what bondage looks like, rather than stepping into the unknown freedom of the Promised Land.”

Brooks’ hand found hers in the pew, his fingersinterlacing with hers, warm and steady against her suddenly trembling ones.

From the pulpit, Reverend Bradshaw paused mid-sermon, his eyes briefly sweeping across the pews as he spoke aboutnew seasons and divine transitions. The usual faces looked back at him, but one unfamiliar one pulled his attention.

Brooks Bishop.

Shoulders squared, posture respectful, even as his discomfort bled through. He didn’t fidget or scroll through his phone like some visitors. He sat there, alert. Still. Present.

But it wasn’t Brooks that made Clarence look a little longer, it was Taylor. The way her body softened like something inside her had finally exhaled.

He looked away, returning to his notes. But the words suddenly felt heavier. Closer. More personal.

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