Page 70 of Church Girl
“Bishop.” I huff out a laugh and pinch the bridge of my nose. Aaliyah tucks her hand behind her and gropes for my hand. Finding it, she squeezes. I don’t know if she’s holding on to me for support or if she’s trying to tell me to shut it down. I’m going to take it as the former because I want to. “For my mama’s sake, I’m going to try to keep it civil with you. But your daughter isn’t a dog or a possession for you to come fetch. She’s a grown woman fully capable of making her own decisions. And has been doing a damn good job of it. If you took half a second to climb down off that pulpit and actually listen, you’d see that.”
“Damn,” Tamara breathes. Then snickers.
Aaliyah’s father’s face grows so dark, I want to ask if he’s got blood pressure issues. If he passes out, I’m not catching his big ass.
“Young man—”
“Von, Bishop. Von Howard.” I curl a hand around the nape of Aaliyah’s neck, and though she stiffens under my touch, I chalk it up to her being nervous with this confrontation that’s way overdue.
I don’t know why he had to bring an armor bearer or whatever purpose this other asshole has for being here.
“Are you serious, Aaliyah?” her father hisses. His gaze drops to the hand I have on her, and when his eyes lift, settling on his daughter’s face, Aaliyah flinches at the fury and disapproval there. The movement is small, but I feel it. So does Tamara, if her shifting closer to her cousin is any indication. “Who have you become since you left home? I thought you’d just had a lapse in judgment, running away from home like a child, but allowing a strange man to put his hands on you in front of your parents and fiancé? What’re you think—”
“Fiancé?” I cut off the bishop’s tirade, zeroing in on that one word, dropping my hand.
In my head, the word echoes. It drowns out all sound, then like a great vacuum has sucked me back into this fucked-up reality, everything becomes painfully clear. The hardwood underneath my feet feels too slick, too cold. My pulse blooms to a loud drone in my ears. And Aaliyah’s scent—so delicate and fruity and carrying the faintest trace of sex—crowds into my nose, choking me while only minutes ago, I wanted to roll in that same fragrance.
“Von.” Aaliyah turns, reaching for my hand. She tips her head back, and the alarm and sadness there has my stomach bottoming out, my chest caving in. “Let me explain.”
“Aaliyah, you and this man seem...familiar. And you didn’t tell him you were engaged?” her mother chides.
“Mom, please,” she replies without taking her gaze off me.
And my stupid ass can’t look away. Hoping against hope that somebody will say something to clear the shit up. To make me feel like I haven’t been fucked over by another woman. Haven’t been lied to by another woman I...cared for.
“This is perfect.” Her father barks out an incredulous laugh. “Yes, young man, Gregory here is my daughter’s fiancé. Though after he’s seen her behavior here tonight, I wouldn’t blame him if he decided otherwise.”
“I can’t believe this shit,” Tamara snaps. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Watch your mouth, young lady,” the bishop thunders.
“This ismyhouse,Uncle Tim.” Tamara pops her hands on her hips. “We’re not in Parsons, and you don’t run me.”
“Von, I can explain.” Aaliyah’s grip tightens, maybe becomes a little desperate. But it doesn’t move me. Not when I read the guilt on her face. “Please...”
“Aaliyah, I think you and I should talk in private,” Gregory interjects, moving closer to her. And even though anger and a knee-buckling pain punches at me, I mug him, daring him to get in her space.
Fuck.
She’s not mine.
Never was, apparently.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I defective, fundamentally broken? Because how did I attract two women who are cheaters? And I confided in her how Sheree did me, how her betrayal hurt me. And with that innocence that I’m beginning to see is a fucking lie like the rest of her she agreed with me that infidelity was a dealbreaker. Sheree might’ve been a cheater, but Aaliyah made me one right along with her. Like the side fuckboy.
Backpedaling away from her, I drag a hand over my braids. I scan the room, taking in her father’s and fiancé’s smug expressions, her mother’s confused one. And Aaliyah. Still fucking playing me, looking hurt.
To think she’d had me almost believing in... Yeah, I’m not finishing that thought.
I’m just...finished.
Snatching free of her grasp, I stalk back down the hall to her room, put my boots on and slide into my coat. When I return to the main part of the apartment, I don’t spare any of them a glance. Humiliation burns my skin, and the only thing that will relieve the pain is getting the hell up out of here.
“Von, please!” Aaliyah calls after me.
But I ignore her, already pulling the front door open and shutting it behind me.
Shutting her behind me.
