Church Girl

Chapter One

One

“Technically, I’m not a runaway bride since I powerwalked to the waiting Uber. No running involved.”

Aaliyah

“T his isn’t what it looks like.”

Crossing her tattooed arms over her ample chest, my cousin Tamara steps out of her hotel room and onto the breezeway, scanning me from the top of my cathedral-length veil to the pearl-encrusted hem of my bridal ball gown.

“Really?” She jerks her chin up, her knotless butterfly braids swinging against her cheek. “Because it looks like you bailed on your own wedding and left that preacher boy at the altar.”

I wince.

“Okay, so maybe it is what it looks like.” I glance over my shoulder like SWAT has its rifle scope centered on my back. I’m not saying my father is having me followed...but I’m not not saying it, either. “Can I come in? Please?”

Yes, I’m begging, but at this point, desperation has settled inside me, and pride has left the building.

Tamara squints at me for several long moments where the itchy feeling of being exposed crawls over my nape like a line of marching ants set out to destroy a picnic. Just when I’m about to plead with her again, she blows out a loud, aggrieved breath and steps aside, granting me entrance.

The room isn’t anything to write home about, given this is one of those chain motels that sits right off I-20. The nondescript room with its plain dresser, TV, round table with one chair and two full-size beds proclaims its middle-of-the-road status. Right now, though? It feels like something better than a luxurious hotel. It feels like sanctuary.

And for the first time since running out of my father’s church and hopping into the back of an Uber, I exhale a long, relieved breath. Not an easy feat in this tightly laced corset.

“Well.” Tamara plops down on the bed closest to the door. “I guess it’s a good thing I wasn’t invited to the wedding. It would’ve been a waste of a trip,” she drawls.

I wince again, hiding the nervous clenching of my fingers in my full skirt. “Yes, I’m sorry about that,” I apologize.

Tamara is my first cousin, my aunt Trulie’s youngest daughter. And according to my father, the wildest and most unrepentant of my cousins. A huge sin in his book. Hence Tamara not being invited to the wedding. And I stress the wedding, not my wedding. Because the only decision I made regarding it was saying yes to Gregory’s proposal. And I still can’t believe I did that.

Who am I kidding? Yes, I can; I know why.

Because as Bishop Timothy James Montgomery’s daughter, I was expected to. And like the obedient preacher’s kid I am, I fell in line. Just like always.

Until about thirty minutes ago, when I fled Greater Faith Christian Ministries a mere twenty minutes before I was set to walk down the aisle and marry Apostle Gregory L. Riley, executive pastor and my father’s right hand.

I guess that makes me a sinner in Dad’s eyes. Probably, a worse one than Tamara because my disappearing act will no doubt humiliate him. Though Dad preaches the importance and power of forgiveness, I don’t foresee that coming my way anytime soon. And yes, just the thought of disappointing Dad has fear crouching at the base of my throat like a cottonmouth right before it strikes.

Yet...here I am, a literal runaway bride hiding out in my cousin’s hotel room.

I sink down to the other bed—or I try to. Between the corset and the voluminous skirt, this dress isn’t conducive to lounging.

Forget it. I’m too anxious to sit anyway.

Pacing the short length of the room, I smooth my hands over my hair and bump the small tiara holding my veil in place. With a tiny growl, I snatch the thing off my head and toss it aside.

“Aaliyah. Here.” Tamara thrusts something at me, and on reflex, I grab the squat bottle labeled Patrón. “Drink this. Then we’ll talk. And either find a way to remove all that shit from under your gown and sitcho ass down or stop walking. I’m still half drunk from last night, and you’re making me queasy.”

She doesn’t return to the bed, but instead pops her hands on her gorgeous full hips and gives me a hard stare. Deciding it’s wise to obey—and because a drink doesn’t sound terrible right now—I twist off the cap and down a healthy swig. Immediately, fire races down my throat, incinerating my esophagus. No, seriously, it’s cauterized.

I start coughing, my eyes watering. Tamara’s lips lift in a small smirk. “Go on. Take another sip. This one will be smoother, I promise.”

Wincing, I follow her instructions, and either the lining of my throat has been seared away or she’s right about the second round going down easier. Because I don’t feel anything except the warm burst of heat in my chest and belly.

So, I take another sip because, why not?

“All right now,” Tamara drawls, nabbing the bottle and setting it on the dresser behind her. “Slow down because if you fall out on the floor, I’m just gonna roll your little ass up in all that tulle and step over you on my way out.”

“That’s fair,” I rasp.

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, but whoa . 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 on P-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.

“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—picking me apart.

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. Feeling reeaally relaxed 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 I have thought 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’m still shocked 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.”

“I know. Of course I know that.” I set the bottle on the other side of me and lean toward her. “But am I supposed to let not having traveled farther than Huntsville stop me from leaving? Keep me trapped here to live the life mapped out for me, the life I had no input in?” That I went along with . “Shouldn’t I at least try?”

The thought of trying and failing hunts me like a stalking beast. I can already taste the faint, metallic flavor of it in the back of my throat. But I can’t allow that to stop me, either. Shoot, whether it’s here or Chicago, I’ll be alone. I might as well be alone doing something I want.

For once.

Sympathy flashes in Tamara’s eyes, and that burns through my veins like acid. I don’t want her pity. I need her help.

“Aaliyah...” she murmurs, and I catch the regret in her voice.

Desperation surges inside of me, and my body charges into fight-or-flight mode.

“No,” I sharply say, cutting off her gentle letdown. “You got out, Tamara. You know firsthand what it is to feel like you’re slowly suffocating under the heavy weight of expectation, of standards so high that trying to reach them is just a setup for failure. You know what freedom tastes like. Please,” I rasp, my anger and passion ebbing, replaced by a quiet sadness. “Help me to leave here. Help me to finally live .”

Humiliation sears me as my desperation echoes in the room and inside my head. I can’t run from it, can’t hide. It’s all there, out in the open, and I feel so damn exposed. It’s uncomfortable, and I cringe away from it. Vulnerability isn’t an asset or an admirable quality. At best, it’s an emotionally out-of-control state. At worst...well, at worst, it’s a weapon willingly handed over to be abused.

Physically and emotionally.

I don’t know if Tamara will tell me to get a grip and compose myself, or view my confession as an opportunity to hold something over my head.

Yet, she’s the only person I’ve felt close to for a long time. And that includes my almost husband.

God, I sound so pathetic. Not that I’m going to let that stop me. It’s dramatic to claim this is a matter of life or death. But that’s how I feel. This emptiness and fear are so consuming that I’m seconds from being swallowed up by it. And then I will be nothing.

“I’ve been saving up money for three years,” I softly confess. “Even before I consciously made the decision to leave, I started saving for it. This is my chance, Tamara. I don’t think I’ll have another one. And I’m not talking about my father, I’m talking about me. I don’t know if I’ll have the courage to do this again.”

Tamara stares at me for a long while. So long my heart sinks toward my belly and disappointment embeds itself in my chest.

“Fine.” Tamara sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“What?” Shock propels the air from my lungs so the question emerges on a wheeze.

Sighing, my cousin lifts her head, and those light brown eyes narrow on me. “I know I’m bound to regret this but fine. You can come with me.”

Still not sure I’ve heard her correctly, I lean forward—as far as my corset and skirt will allow. “Are you serious? You’re...”

“Yeah, Aaliyah, I’m serious.” She shakes her head, and when she looks at me, her indecision and irritation are abundantly clear. Standing from the bed, she waves a hand. “Now get up. We need to get you out of this dress. And then we need to get on the road before they come knocking at my door.”

Shoving off the bed, I get to my feet and turn around, giving her my back. Immediately, her fingers go to the long row of delicate buttons that march down my spine.

“Tamara,” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Whatever. I’m not certain I’m doing the right thing, and I’m sure both of us are going to regret this.” Several beats of silence pass between us. “You’re welcome.”

I smile at the far wall, and moments later, when the wedding gown falls to the floor in a billowing heap, it’s as if I’ve shed dead skin. As if I’m standing in a brand-new, soft, untried body.

Words I’ve heard my father say a million times take on new meaning.

I’m born again.