Page 98 of That: Taylor & Brooks

“Thank you for coming today,” she called, knowing he could hear her.

“If it matters to you, it matters to me.” They both grinned.

As she drove away, Taylor felt peace washing over her. After all the running, the hiding, the holding her breath around everyone else’s expectations, today had been a line in the sand. She could have both, faith and fire. Be both grace and grit. Her old life and the one she was building now with Brooks. She could have it all, because God had already made a way, cleared them a path. It wouldn’t be without its trouble but they’d do it together.

∞∞∞

Chapter 25

He left church in silence, the choir’s final note still echoing in his ears. He wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere, just driving with no real plan, letting the city pass him by. Somewhere between the back roads and his thoughts, he knew exactly where he needed to be. And he didn’t have to use GPS to get there.

Her father’s sermon on seasons hit him harder than he let on. He wasn’t in mourning anymore. That weight had been replaced with something softer. Something sacred. Love was blooming now, where grief used to settle.

The cemetery sat beyond a line of oaks, tall and weathered, standing guard like old men who’d seen too much. Gravel popped beneath his tires as he pulled in, the silence pressing in tight around him. He hadn’t been here in years. Too long.

But he was here now.

Brooks sat in the car for a moment, letting his heartbeat slow. Peace hung in the air—but even that made him flinch a little. Peace hadn’t always been constant. When things got quiet in his world, it usually meant something was about to go wrong.

But that was before Taylor.

She’d changed the way silence felt. Changed the wayhefelt.

Taylor didn’t just love him, shesawhim. Andnow, standing at the edge of who he’d been and who he was becoming, Brooks knew he couldn’t fully step forward until he looked back.

Until he faced them.

The ones who gave him life.

The ones he’d been running from ever since they were gone.

He left the engine running, as if part of him still thought he might need a quick escape. A fresh bouquet of white lilies sat on the passenger seat. Taylor had said they reminded her of fresh starts, of resurrection. So, he’d stopped to grab some. His dad would be laughing or fussing; he always said flowers were just overpriced decorations for dead folks.

‘What the hell I need flowers for, Brooks? Imma be dead.’

The memory of his father’s voice, so clear it could have been yesterday, made his chest ache with hollowness.

He walked the path he could never forget, like grief had carved it into his bones. Each step felt heavier than the last, carrying the weight of years of absence, of conversations never had, of moments never shared. When he reached the two headstones, he froze. His father’s was simple. Strong. No-frills. Just like the man. Donald ‘Soulja’ Bishop. Beloved husband and father. Rest in Power.

His mother’s was the opposite, classy script etched into smooth granite. Robinette Yvonne Bishop. Beloved wife, mother, light of our lives.

He’d made sure she went out in style and elegance. It was what she requested. She wanted it all. His father had created a monster in both of his girls.

He crouched slowly, knees cracking like old doors, and set the lilies between them. Gently, he wiped the dust from their names with the edge of his sleeve, fingers trembling just slightly. This small act of care felt like atonement. He hoped they could see him trying.

“Ma. Pops,” he whispered, as if not wanting to disturb them or hoping they were already listening.

“I know it’s been a minute. I wasn’t ready. But I am now.” The wind stirred softly through the trees. They’d joined him, he could feel it in that sudden warmth that wrapped around him.

“I miss y’all. I miss you bad.” His voice caught, thick with emotion he rarely let surface. “Wish heaven had a damn phone line, Ma. You know I’d blow that bitch up every day just to hear you say, ‘Brooksie, give your momma the biggest hug.’”

He smiled, but it was broken. Fractured. That memory had teeth that tore at him sometimes at night.

He paused, swallowing hard, jaw clenched to keep the emotions from spilling over.

“I was mad at you for a long time,” he confessed. “Never said it out loud. Not to Blake, not to nobody. But I was. Mad that you gave up. Mad that you let the grief win. I get it now, I do. You lost your person, and nobody checked on you as hard as you checked on them. But we were still here, Ma. I was still here.”

He crouched down, resting a hand gently on the edge of her stone, thumb brushing the smooth marble like he used to rub the back of her hand when she was too tired to speak.

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