Chapter 24 #2
“Mrs. Bradshaw,” he said with a respectful nod to her mother.
Taylor was stuck staring at him. Mrs. Versey’s eyebrows shot up as Brooks slid in next to Taylor, his thigh pressing against hers in the cramped space.
He nodded politely to the older woman before resting his arm on the back of the pew leaning in close to Taylor’s ear.
“Hope I’m not too late,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin.
Taylor could barely find her voice. “Bae, what are you doing here?”
His expression turned serious, those dark eyes holding hers. “You invited me, remember?”
“But you said...”
“I know. I changed my mind.” He shifted, settling into the pew. “This matters to you. So, I’m willing to try.”
Him stepping into her world for a moment, made tears prick at the corners of her eyes as the weight of his gesture sank in. He’d spent years distancing himself from church after his mother’s death, it was still a soft spot for him, but he was deciding he needed to heal and stop making excuses.
“Thank you,” she whispered resting her head on his shoulder.
She was fighting the urge to climb in his lap and kiss him.
Him sitting here beside her, in her father’s church, because he understood that her faith wasn’t separate from who she was would solidify her coming back to him as he asked this morning.
“You my woman right?”
She nodded.
“Alright no thanks needed. I’m here because I want to be.”
And he wasn’t just saying what she wanted to hear. Taylor knew Brooks Bishop well enough now to recognize the truth in his eyes. After their blow up and slow journey back to solid ground, he’d done some soul-searching.
Emon had become something of a confidant to Brooks, bringing a perspective that Brooks respected. Blake had picked the right man and he’d never another ill word about him.
Just this morning, Emon had called him out during their workout, making it crystal clear that Brooks was way off base about the moving in situation .
“You got something on your chest or you just here to watch me lift heavy shit?” Brooks asked, wiping his face with a towel.
“Why you give Taylor a hard time about moving in with you? You fucked up for that.”
Brooks stilled, the towel pausing mid-air.
“Come again?”
“You heard me,” Emon said flatly. “You acting like y’all not damn near living together anyway. So what’s up? Why push? Why get offended?”
Brooks dropped the towel onto the bench and met his stare. “Why push? Nigga I want my woman with me. What’s wrong with that?”
“Taylor ain't scared to move in with you. She’s scared to disappoint the version of her that was raised to do things in a certain order. You ain’t gotta agree with it, but you better damn sure respect it.”
Brooks clenched his jaw. “I’m not out here playing with her. I been showing up every day. I made room for her in my life, in my world. Hell, I been thinking about putting a ring on it.”
“Then honor what she believes in,” Emon said. “Taylor has values. Standards. If living together before marriage don’t sit right with her spirit, then it shouldn’t sit right with you either. Period.”
Brooks looked away, chest rising slow.
“You gon lose her if you keep acting like she asking for too much when she’s really just asking you to meet her where she stands.”
Taylor had been raised in the church her whole life, living together without marriage wasn’t something she could just shrug off, no matter how much the world had changed.
If Brooks wanted her, really wanted her, he needed to respect those boundaries.
As Emon had bluntly put it: either honor her values or let her go.
And there was never any question which one Brooks would choose.
Letting Taylor go wasn’t even an option he’d consider.
So here he was, meeting her where she needed him to be, not halfway, not reluctantly, but fully present in her sacred space, his silent promise that he would build a life with her that honored all parts of who she was.
Her father’s powerful voice drew her attention back to the pulpit as he began his sermon.
“Turn with me to Ecclesiastes 3,” he commanded, his voice resonating through the sanctuary. “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”
Taylor felt Brooks shift beside her, his attention focused on her father’s words.
“We talk about seasons in the church,” her father continued, pacing the pulpit with measured steps. “Seasons of harvest, seasons of drought. Seasons of joy, seasons of sorrow. But today I want to talk about seasons of transition.”
Taylor froze, her eyes darting to her father’s face. Was he speaking directly to her? His expression gave nothing away, but the words seemed to pierce straight to her heart.
“Sometimes God moves us from one season to another, and we fight it,” Reverend Bradshaw’s voice rose passionately.
“We cling to the familiar even when it no longer bears fruit. We stay in Egypt because at least we know what bondage looks like, rather than stepping into the unknown freedom of the Promised Land.”
Brooks’ hand found hers in the pew, his fingers interlacing with hers, warm and steady against her suddenly trembling ones.
From the pulpit, Reverend Bradshaw paused mid-sermon, his eyes briefly sweeping across the pews as he spoke about new seasons and divine transitions . The usual faces looked back at him, but one unfamiliar one pulled his attention.
Brooks Bishop.
Shoulders squared, posture respectful, even as his discomfort bled through. He didn’t fidget or scroll through his phone like some visitors. He sat there, alert. Still. Present.
But it wasn’t Brooks that made Clarence look a little longer, it was Taylor. The way her body softened like something inside her had finally exhaled.
He looked away, returning to his notes. But the words suddenly felt heavier. Closer. More personal.
“But I’m here to tell you today that new seasons, though frightening, carry God’s provision within them. What looks like ending is often just beginning. What feels like loss is often making room for greater blessing. What a mighty God we serve.”
Taylor sat still, taking it all in. Her daddy was speaking life over her without even realizing it. And Brooks wasn’t squirming or checking his watch. He was there. For her. With her.
Then, her father slowed again, softened just enough for the message to reach deep.
“Even we as parents have to go through our own season of growth and letting go. Especially when they get grown. We gotta remember… what we want for our children ain’t always what they need.
” His voice cracked just a little. “But God knows what they need. An d we must trust and lean into him. Not our own understanding. I’m learning that myself. She was His child first.”
Taylor blinked, chest tightening. She felt her mother’s knowing gaze. And she smirked, her father had indeed showed out. She squeezed Brooks’ hand tighter, and he squeezed back, never letting go.
When it was time for the offering, she noticed him slip a sizable stack of money into the collection plate, the gesture so quick and understated she almost missed it.
“You don’t have to do that. You’re our visitor,” she whispered as the plate moved past them.
Brooks just shrugged, his eyes focused forward. “My mama taught me right. And I give my tithe every month I just don’t need a church to do.”
“I’m learning so much about you.”
When service ended, Taylor braced herself for the inevitable onslaught of attention. She wasn’t wrong. They barely made it to the back of the sanctuary before they were surrounded, curious church members, some who knew Brooks from the community, others who just knew he was someone.
To his credit, Brooks handled it all with a grace that surprised her. He shook hands, introduced himself politely, flirted with the whole mother’s board. Through it all, his hand remained at the small of her back. It was clear who he was there for.
Her mother spotted them from across the corridor, her eyes widening briefly before she made her way over. Taylor tensed, unsure what to expect after their dinner a few weeks back.
“Taylor, honey,” her mother said, embracing her warmly before turning to Brooks. “And Brooks. This is a nice surprise.”
“Mrs. Bradshaw,” Brooks nodded respectfully. “Good to see you again.”
“You as well.” Her mother’s eyes moved between them, a small smile playing on her lips. “Will you be joining us for Sunday dinner? I made your favorite pot roast.”
Taylor hesitated, glancing at Brooks. They hadn’t discussed plans for the rest of the day.
“Actually,” her mother continued, seeming to read her hesitation, “maybe another week would be better. I imagine you two might have your own plans. May wanna talk about the sermon.”
The acceptance in her mother’s tone, the way she so casually acknowledged them as a unit, warmed Taylor. This was progress, small but significant.
“Thank you,” Taylor said, genuine gratitude in her voice. “Maybe next Sunday?”
“I’ll hold you to that,” her mother replied with a smile. She squeezed Taylor’s hand once but looked at them both. “Both of you. Church and dinner. It’s time we start acting like family.”
“Ok, momma.”
As they finally made their way out to the church steps, Taylor couldn’t believe what had just happened. Brooks Bishop had not only come to church, but he’d navigated the social dynamics perfectly.
“That wasn’t as bad as I expected,” she said, her voice soft enough that only he could hear.
Brooks grinned, standing close in front of her blocking the afternoon sun. “What, you thought I’d burst into flames when I crossed the threshold? ”
She laughed, pushing his arm. “No. But I thought there might be more... awkwardness, more stares.”
“About what?” He moved slightly closer. “About me? About us?”
“Both, maybe,” she admitted. “My divorce is still piping hot tea in the church circles. And you’re...”
“A thug?” He supplied, the corner of his mouth curling, more amused than offended.