Chapter 20 Monique
Monique stood in the blush dress that her kids had picked out, still in the hotel room. She slipped her feet into the silver kitten heels Justin had been so excited for her to have. Five minutes until the ceremony.
Maurice had left twenty minutes ago. His words were still in the room with her, thickening the air with their tenderness. I’m not scared of your scars. I want you. All of you.
He had been handsome there, so buttoned up.
The all-black of his outfit made his strong features and smooth skin stand out even more.
She’d ached to touch him, to straighten his collar—the little white square he wore there intrigued her, like a shackle that she wanted to remove.
Most of all, she wanted to kiss him as she sent him off to his work and then kiss him one more time.
But she didn’t. And she didn’t know when she’d have another chance. She looked at herself in the mirror, makeup fixed. Evidence of her tears masked. Her phone buzzed.
JASMINE
Have fun at the wedding! Love you Mom
JUSTIN
Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do
She took a deep breath and smoothed her hand over her dress.
MONIQUE
Love you both. Behaving myself.
Mostly. She could still change her flight. Book something tonight. Be home by morning.
But Chickie had made her promise. Don’t you dare come home early.
And Maurice had said he’d be there when she was ready. Not if. When. Like he believed she’d come back.
Monique grabbed her clutch and walked to the door.
I’m not scared of your diagnosis or your scars. I want you. All of you.
She opened the door.
A few people milled about the hotel lobby and courtyard when Monique exited the elevator. Soft music seeped through the closed garden doorway, sticking her to where she stood.
The wedding had started, and Monique felt a pang of guilt and grief. Then, the door swung open as a server exited with an empty cart, and she sank into the depths of his voice.
“Love is patient,” he said, leaving a long pause as if giving the words time to embed themselves into her psyche.
Patience had never been her strong suit. Time and circumstances never gave her the space to learn how to be patient. Monique thought she understood love. But this week had set her entire worldview on its head, and she didn’t know which way was up anymore.
“Love… is kind…” His words gently tapped against her ribcage, reanimating her stilled feet.
She stepped farther into the small corridor, past the potted palms and climbing bougainvillea, past a cadre of event workers who had assembled, waiting for their cue. Monique let a young woman, probably no older than her kids, lead her to an open seat in the back.
Monique hadn’t been to many weddings, but she always wondered why some people cried at them.
From her seat, tucked under the canopy of broad leaves and flowers, she could see the back of the wedding party and saw Cassie dab at her cheeks.
But Cassie seemed to feel everything and wasn’t ashamed to show it.
Although the two had only just met, her open book-ness made Monique confident in her assessment.
Besides, she was Lanie’s home girl, her Soro.
She loved the unapologetic register that Cassie vibrated on, even envied it.
“Love… it does not boast, and it does not envy,” Maurice said with a quiet authority that had some in the small group of witnesses shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
Monique lifted her gaze from the guests to the man who had delivered those words that had inspired the discomfort. His soft eyes bounced between Lanie and Tommie, as if they were having a private conversation, yet his tone left no room to wonder about its intended target.
“Lemme tell you some other things about love. We get so caught up in our messes that we lose sight. I already said love was patient and kind, right?” His gaze shifted to where her aunts sat.
A gentle smile curled his lips, and Monique noticed a sheen in Maurice’s eyes when the two women, almost on cue, tipped their heads toward one another and softly swayed as if rocked in the current of his words, in the lightness they invoked, a reminder and acknowledgment of what they had fought so hard to preserve.
A staff member nearby rocked and hummed in agreement right along with the crowd.
“First Corinthians 13 says a lot more, y’all.
” Maurice’s attention shifted throughout all those gathered, his eyes landing on each one present.
“A whole lot more in its thirteen verses. First Corinthians 13 is a blueprint, a rule book, if you will.” When his eyes homed in on where she sat, heat licked at Monique’s skin.
Aunt Don shouted amens and hallelujahs, and Monique leaned to see better—a childhood practice she couldn’t seem to shake whenever somebody caught the Holy Ghost. When people fell out in the spirit, her family’s Baptist church home was almost as entertaining to her younger self as Soul Train.
And Aldonia Lane-Fairbanks knew how to put on a show.
“You better tell it, Pastor,” Aunt Don shouted, waving her handkerchief.
Monique stifled a laugh at the familiarity.
“Yes, ma’am,” Maurice said, and smiled wide at her, “I will.”
Pastor? Monique froze. She’d known since before she saw the collar, known since she’d met him. But knowing and witnessing were two different things. When he spoke, the air shifted. She wasn’t the only one affected.
“Verses one, two, and three say that you can speak in tongues and manifest all these wonderful gifts of the Holy Spirit. The Word tells us that even if you share them with others, even down to your earthly gifts and possessions, even sharing of yourself…” he let his attention drift over the crowd, “if you ain’t doing it in love—real love—you’re just making noise and serving yourself.
God doesn’t ask a lot of us, ’cept for one thing: to love. ”
The guests replied with a mix of “Yes, pastor,” and “You better preach,” that rose above the chorus of hums surrounding Monique in the dark corridor.
“But why is love so important? Why is love the greatest of these? Greater than faith? Greater than hope?”
He’s a for-real, for-real pastor…
Monique had known people who’d done time and inexplicably found religion.
The rules of it, the restrictions found in a faith system, replaced the boundaries within a carceral one.
And she could tell that much about Maurice in the way he spoke to and about himself.
But the way he spoke to others? Why didn’t he say something?
Like something two days ago, when she was practically humping his leg after knowing him for five minutes.
“First Corinthians 13 shows us that love matures us. It enlightens us.” His eyes fell to the shadows where she sat. “This week has taught me things about First Corinthians 13, taught me things about myself that I hadn’t considered before.” He did not look away, and neither did she.
“See, I did all those things the Word says in this book,” he said, tapping the page as if punctuating his statement. “Where I come from, I had nothing but time to study, to reflect. To commit these directives to my soul, my psyche, to make them as familiar and automatic as breathing.”
Maurice’s attention shifted to the book in his hands. He drew in a long breath before closing it. Something made his posture and his eyes straighten. “I had been convinced that I was walking and serving, living in love. For years—decades—before I had even understood the scriptures.”
He chuckled to himself and Monique couldn’t look away.
“I thought I was nice with it.” He smiled.
She did too. “That there was nothing else to learn. See, I’ve taken thousands of hours of classes and have more degrees than I knew one person could have, but I never truly understood anything until this week. ”
Maurice’s gaze pressed on her, crumbling Monique’s resolve. She let her lids close, engulfing her in complete darkness. Only the fans and her heartbeat could be heard. Maybe she heard his too, across the expanse of greenery and ancient tiles and glass. It was as if she could only sense him.
A quaking began deep within her, a sensation that only happened once before. Monique clapped her hands over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut. If she had another set of hands, she’d clamp them over her ears too. She needed to stall the sounds that tried to break out from her body.
“Love is patient,” Maurice said again, and Monique whimpered, trying to rise from her seat. Guilt seized her, locking her in place. He had proven in these few short days just how much he believed the words he shared.
“Love is kind.”
How could he believe in that, those words scribbled by some man to exercise control over others? The words weren’t bad, but they had been weaponized—she bore the scars of those battles. Her nervous system recognized the impending doom.
She broke through the doors and into the lobby, gasping for breath as if she had been sucked into the vacuum of space. Her throat ached with the need to scream, and her vision blurred from the threat of tears.
This was for the best. She had done what she’d set out to do. She’d attended the wedding and had something that looked like a holiday fling. Now it was over.
Real life bulldozed their short-lived fantasy. And she’d probably never see him again. It wasn’t like she had a practice of going out East, and Tommie and them almost always did drive-bys when they were in her area.
She’d never see Maurice again after tonight.
Monique had managed to collect herself in time for the wedding party to spill into the garden and terrace, where wrought iron tables circled the blue and yellow-tiled fountain that gleamed in the candlelight.
Water trickled from a lion’s mouth and into the basin below, adding to the ambient music that filled the space.