Page 9 of Church Girl
Now I get why she bothers me.
Part of me sneers at this kind of innocence. And the other half? The other half wants to sully it. Corrupt it. Dirty it so she’s unrecognizable.
Stain that smooth brown skin until she can’t wash me away.
Aaliyah opens the door and walks out, not glancing behind her. Only then do I scrub a hand down my face, tugging on my beard. And now that my office is no longer infused with the delicate scent of peaches and vanilla, I can admit the truth to myself.
It isn’t only her inexperience that would’ve made her a bad fit for the nanny position. There’s also the fact that I might’ve ended up fucking the help.
Yup. It’s for the best that she walked out.
Now if I can just convince my dick of that.
Three
“Y’all gonna get up off Mary Poppins...”
Aaliyah
Imarch into Tamara’s apartment, barely managing not to slam the door closed behind me. I’ve been in Chicago and out from under my parents’ thumbs for two weeks, yet years of conditioning don’t disappear in days. Outward displays of emotion—unless in church—weren’t welcome. Even in church, go on too long and you’d get ushered out the sanctuary. Apparently, even the Holy Ghost got a time limit.
No, in my world—former world—emotional displays were derided, disdained. So for the second time in hours, I check the need to “display” all over the place.
Now, I quietly shut the door.
Earlier, I restrained myself from telling Von Howard to go to hell.
Still, not acting on my fury doesn’t mean it isn’t burning a hole in my chest.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tamara emerges from the kitchen with a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. “And where are you coming from?”
I move farther into the apartment, cutting a left into the living room and plopping down on her couch. Bending down, I slip my shoes off, setting them neatly to the side. Heel to heel. Toe to toe. Cleanliness wasn’t just next to godliness, order was, too.
I stare at them too long while a closed fist of anger, frustration and sadness squeezes my throat. I’m not home anymore. I’m on my own. I don’t need to abide by anyone’s rules but my own. And yet...
Yet I don’t move the shoes.
Sighing, I fall back against the couch, staring at the recessed ceiling.
“Girl, I know you hear me talking to you.” The cushion next to me sinks as Tamara drops down. “Where’re you coming from? Classes don’t start until a couple weeks from now, as you’ve been telling me. Often.”
Okay, so I’m a wee bit excited about starting college and may have been talking about it. A lot.
Shifting my body to face hers, I lift my legs up and curl them under me. Propping an elbow on the back of the couch, I lean my head against my hand. “I had a job interview. I put it on the calendar on the refrigerator,” I say.
She waves her spoon before digging it into the bowl. “I told you I wasn’t paying attention to that,” she says around a bite. “Damn, Aaliyah.” She moans. “You put your whole foot in this banana pudding. I’ma have to spend a few more hours in the gym, but it’ll be worth it.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it.”
I smile, my delight probably disproportionate to her compliment. Tamara wouldn’t let me help pay rent out of the money I brought with me, ordering me to save it along with the first few paychecks I’ll eventually earn. I very much appreciate her generosity. I hadn’t planned on staying with her, but she’d insisted, claiming I would end up on the back of a milk carton with my green ass—her words, not mine. The least I can do to earn my way here is cook and keep her gorgeous condo neat.
And by cook, I mean secretly DoorDash meals and transfer the food to plates.
Because my mother tried, but the cooking gene? It skipped a generation. Aside from banana pudding, I got burgers and boiled eggs covered. Other than that?
Peace be with you.
But Tamara doesn’t need to know that. She would just be upset over me spending my money to get us food. So why get her blood pressure up?
