Page 4 of Take Me to Church
Christian is quiet for a minute. His voice is low and soft when he asks, “What about Myra?”
“She’s why I’m here.” I move toward him, feeling confident about this meeting for the first time.
Christian knows me. Knows my family. Knows why I need to get my sister away from them.
“I need you to help her escape her husband.” I dig into my purse, pulling out my phone and swiping the screen, flipping it his way so he can see the proof of just how much danger she’s in. “This was two weeks ago.”
Christian flinches at the image of Myra, her eye swollen and her lip bleeding. “That the first time?”
I shake my head. “Not even close.”
She’s had bruises more often than not since my father married her off to one of the most well-connected men in his congregation, leveraging his way into yet another powerful, wealthy family by using his own flesh and blood as currency.
I drop my arm and move closer. “He’s awful. He locks her up for days at a time. He hits her. He starves her. He—” My voice cracks but I won’t let that stop me from sharing the awful, horrible truth of what my sister and so many of my old friends face. “He rapes her.” I practically spit it out, disgusted at how easily Matthias, and men like him, twist faith into a shield, thinking it will save them from the truth.
It won’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.
“And you’re sure she’s ready to go?” Christian’s skepticism dampens a little of my hope. “Because I need to hear it from her.”
I deflate a little more.
The regular at the bar warned me Myra would have to tell them she wanted to leave herself, but I hoped that rule had a little flexibility. That the picture I showed him would be the unspoken words he needs to hear.
Because right now there’s no way for Myra to tell Christian she wants to leave Matthias.
“I can’t make that happen.” My chin quivers the tiniest bit and I hate how weak it makes me feel. “Because I can’t find her.”
2
CHRISTIAN
LYDIA PARKS IS the last person I expected to walk into my house tonight.
Seeing her standing in my office, a freed woman, is a shock—
And a relief.
The little girl I remember following me around her family’s house was always too sweet to be trapped in the life she was born into, but I knew the chances of her getting out of it were slim to none. Yet here she is, looking like she’s left every part of that world behind her. The long skirts and high-neck shirts women are instructed to wear, out of modesty and to protect men from the sin of lust, have been replaced by cutoff shorts and a draping T-shirt exposing way more than the sinful line of her collarbone. Her long brown hair has been cut just below her shoulders and highlighted, racking up the misdeeds the world we came from would tally against her.
But I’m not here to notice how different, and grown-up, the little girl from my past has become. Lydia came to me for help, and I intend to do everything in my power to offer it to her.
But there are limits.
“Then we have to wait.” I hate having to say this to her, but I do. “I can’t offer Myra help until she tells me she wants it.”
It’s one of the few rules I live by. And as much as I wish I could break it for her, I can’t. I know just how dangerous it is when a woman leaves a man only to go back again, and the likelihood of that happening is greater when she’s not willing to look me in my face and tell me she’s done.
Lydia comes closer, her big brown eyes pleading as they gaze up into mine. “She would tell you if she could, Christian. I promise.” She reaches out to grip the front of my shirt in a bold move that surprises me. “She asked me for help. Begged me to get her away from him.” Her hand twists tighter, like she thinks she can hold me hostage until I agree.
Most people would never try what she is. They’re intimidated by me. Know what I’m capable of. But Lydia’s seen me at my best. She only knows what I used to be before I was faced with the harsh reality of the way the world really works. I want to hold onto that the same way she’s holding onto me so I cover her hand with mine, trying to provide a little comfort in a situation I know is breaking her heart. “I believe you, but saying that to you and saying that to me are two completely different things.” It’s easy to tell your friends and family you’re done. They love you. They’re less likely to hold it against you or judge you if you change your mind.
But me? Telling me means I’m showing up on your doorstep, ready to make whatever mess I have to in order to get you out of there safely. Telling me is final. Telling me means you want to get away by whatever means necessary and you won’t be going back.
Lydia’s hand squeezes tighter, managing to twist a few chest hairs into the bunch of cotton clenched in her fingers, but I welcome the pain. I deserve it.
Because I have to tell her no.
“You know what they’re like, Christian. You know what happens to women who start to stand up to them.” Her voice carries a surprising edge. One that stokes the fire of fury that feeds me.
