Page 2 of Church Girl
I move to the bed, and hiking up my voluminous skirt and the hoop petticoat under it, I drop to the mattress with a grunt. I lean my back against the plain headboard and make grabby hands at the tequila bottle. Rolling her eyes, my cousin picks it up and walks the short distance to give it to me. She’s not smiling, but I swear there’s humor in her dark eyes.
“I feel like I’m going to regret this,” she mutters, passing me the alcohol. Shaking her head, she plops down on the other bed, crossing her legs. “Uncle Tim already thinks I’m going to hell. If he could see me enabling your corruption, he might call ahead and reserve my staycation there.”
I gulp down more tequila then hold up a finger. I start to shake my head, too, butwhoa. The room feels wavy...or maybe that’s me.
“Believe me, you are the least of his worries. Right now, he’s probably too busy interceding on my behalf to blame you for anything.”
“Please.” She flicks her hand, and I can’t help but notice her long, pink nails with tiny diamonds. “If any of them—your father, mother, my father—found out you’re here with me, I would get blamed for...” She waves her fingers up and down my form. “Whatever this is. You ready to talk now? And—no offense—but why are you here?”
I cradle the bottle to my chest as if it will jump out of my arms and flee. It’s difficult to meet her direct gaze because the truth is, we’re not close. Though Tamara’s only a year older than me, once we hit high school, my parents “discouraged” me from hanging around her. Claimed she was a bad influence. Back then—and shoot, up until about an hour ago—I followed their edicts.
But desperation and panic are strange bedfellows. Add fear, and you have a ménage that’s downright messy.
I could give Tamara some made-up story right now. Attempt to hold on to the scraps of my pride. But I mean... I’m in a wedding gown clutching a bottle like it’s my best friend.
So I go for honesty.
“I don’t have anyone else to go to.”
Something flickers in Tamara’s light brown eyes, but it’s there and gone, too quick for me to decipher it. But then her lips twist into a sardonic...well, I can’t call it a smile. She arches a dark eyebrow.
“And you thought of me. I don’t know whether to be offended or, shit, offended.” Heaving another sigh, she tucks thick, long legs bared by a pair of pink boy shorts under her. “What happened?”
“I left my fiancé at the altar.”
“Well, I already got that,” she scoffs. “Why? What happened to have you pulling a jailbreak?”
“I wouldn’t call it a—” Tamara cocks her head to the side, and okay, fine. It’s too late for me to play semantics. “You’re right,” I murmur. “There’s no point in lying about it now.In vino veritas, and all that.”
“You’re drinking tequila, but whatever.” She waves a hand. “Go ahead.”
Closing my eyes, I press my head back against the headboard. “Tamara, there I was, standing in the children’s church room, staring at myself in the mirror, waiting for Daddy to come get me so he could escort me down the aisle. One moment, I was fine. And in the next...” I swallow, my mouth suddenly as dry as it’d gone in that room with finger paintings of Noah’s ark decorating the walls. “In the next, I started to suffocate. Honest to God suffocate. It was like I was having an allergic reaction to strawberries, except I hadn’t eaten any of them. But my throat started closing shut. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes started to water. I thought I was dying.”
“You were having a panic attack.”
“Yes, I get that now. But then...” I shiver. “Then, I was terrified Daddy would walk in and find my body sprawled on the Jesus-feeding-the-hundreds play mats.” Worried about how annoyed he would be over the inconvenience of my untimely passing. “But even more, I was terrified I would be fine and have to enter the church sanctuary, walk down that aisle and vow ’til death do us part to Gregory.”
“Breathe, babe,” Tamara murmurs.
I give a jerky nod and lift the Patrón for another sip. This story is best told drunk, where the consequences of my reckless actions don’t seem so...what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh right.
Apocalyptic.
“So, I grabbed my phone and purse, opened that door, made sure no one was in the hallway and ran. I didn’t stop until the church was no longer in sight, and only then did I call an Uber. And well, here I am.”
“Suddenly, I’m thinking you’ve bumped me out of first place for the most petitions at intercessory prayer.”
I grimace. She’s not wrong. Daddy is always praying for her soul in that godless place she works—his words, not mine. I personally don’t think there’s anything wrong with Tamara being a stripper. I mean, if she’s anything like Mercedes onP-Valley—and my cousin definitely has a body that rivals hers—then more power to her.
But now, I bet Daddy would rather have me tatted up and swinging around a pole than abandoning Gregory at the altar and humiliating him. Both of them.
“You might be right.”
The knot binding my chest pulls even tighter. I rub my knuckles over the spot, but it doesn’t loosen. So I tip the tequila bottle and down another sip.
Tamara scoffs. “I know I’m right. So what now? You can’t hide out in this room forever. One—” she pops up a finger “—Parsons is way too small. Matter of fact, if the front desk clerk saw you hauling ass out that Uber, your father is probably on his way over here right now.”
Oh God. I didn’t think of that.
