Page 3 of Church Girl
“And two, this isn’t some extended-stay motel. So what’s your plan? Because I just came through town for my homegirl’s bachelorette party, and as fun as this family reunion has been, I’m headed back to Chicago tonight. You can sleep here if you want since the room is paid through tomorrow—”
“Take me with you.”
The words—the plea—burst from me before I have a chance to reconsider.
Even now, I’m still doubting this decision. But that’s part and parcel of being...me. Of being Bishop Montgomery’s daughter. I question and dissect every choice of my own that doesn’t line up with his. His deep, melodic voice echoes in my head, criticizing, picking this decision apart—pickingmeapart.
How’re you going to survive? Just what do you plan on doing for money? You’ve never lived outside your parents’ home—what do you know about paying your own bills, supporting yourself?
The questions slam against my skull. Yes, the answers are murky, as is my immediate future, but I don’t rescind my plea. Something deep inside me shimmers bright—and no, it’s not the Patrón.
It’s this sense of being in the right place at the right time.
“Take me with you, Tamara,” I say again.
She stares at me, not blinking. Finally, she exhales a breath that ends on a chuckle as dry as the air pushing through the antiquated air conditioner.
“Okay, that’s enough alcohol for you.” She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and stands, her hand outstretched toward me.
I cradle the Patrón against my chest.
“I’m not drunk,” I protest. Feelingreeaallyrelaxed maybe, but not drunk. “And this isn’t me being impulsive. Well, not completely.” Tamara props her fists on her hips, eyeing me with a healthy dose of suspicion, and I can’t blame her. I mean, I did just ask her if I could tag along with her cross-country while hugging a bottle of tequila. Still... “No, I didn’t plan on running away from my wedding. And no, I didn’t come here with the intention of asking you to take me with you. But Ihavethought of leaving Parsons. I even...”
I pause, my throat closing around the secret I’d been keeping for over three months now. It’s a conditioned response, limiting what I share with anyone, especially my parents. With my father, because eight times out of ten he’s going to criticize it. And with my mother, because a hundred times out of a hundred she will tell my father everything. So to avoid judgment and the inevitable fallout, I carefully dole out information.
To be fair, my father taught me that not all secrets are bad, especially if they’re to cover your own behind.
And this...this particular secret would’ve caused World War Z. And I would’ve been patient zero and the first person to be eaten alive.
“You even what?” Tamara softly asks.
I lick my suddenly dry lips, swallow past a too tight throat.
“I...I even applied to college.”
Her eyebrows wing high, and surprise flickers through her honey-colored eyes. “Seriously?” Then, with disbelief dripping from her voice, “You?”
I shouldn’t be offended at the incredulity or the question. I get it. I’ve never shown any inclination to be anything other than a dutiful and obedient pastor’s daughter, perfectly content with serving in the women’s and youth ministries, teaching in children’s church and one day becoming first lady of my husband’s church. I’ve never rocked the boat or colored outside the lines. At least, not where others could see.
So no, I shouldn’t feel this flash of irritation with Tamara.
But I do.
I’m more. I want more.
Yet, how do I expect her to believe that when I have trouble convincing myself?
“Yes, me,” I say. “And I’ve been accepted, too. In three weeks, I start at the University of Chicago to earn my bachelor’s in visual arts.”
“And Uncle Tim doesn’t know anything about it?”
“No.” I shake my head, ignoring the nerves and, okay, a smidge of fear in my stomach. “I didn’t tell him or Mom.”
Frankly, I’mstillshocked that neither of them discovered the truth. My father has never claimed to be God in flesh, but sometimes he seems to have divine omniscience. Nothing gets past him. Well, almost nothing.
And I want to get out of Dodge—or Parsons, Alabama—before he finds out.
“That’s...wow. That’s amazing, Aaliyah. Congratulations. But—” she shakes her head, sinking back down on the edge of the mattress “—have you thought this out? Getting accepted is one thing. Actually having the money to attend school and live in Chicago is another. And I don’t mean to discourage you, but Chicago might as well be a whole ’notha world from here. Hell, different galaxy.”
