I suppose when Brooks said, “See you later,” he meant whenever I came up with my next pathetic ruse to get his attention? I’ve given up on my own ideas. This is more complex than I thought it would be. I threw my hands up and did some research. Read a book called Bitches Get Rings: How to Trap Your Man for Good. In a mere day, it has cleared my head—highlighted my priorities. If I want to get Brooks, if I want him to get on one knee and then say, “I do,” I have to make myself valuable. Have to show my worth—supply versus demand and whatnot.
“Good morning,” two suited men say to me in unison as I reach the top step.
“Morning.” My smile is polite as I step past the heavy doors.
I’m quick, weaving through the herd, slinking down the aisle, eyes searching inconspicuously for the back of his head. It’s Easter Sunday. Brooks told Facebook days ago he’d be here when he declined his co-worker’s invitation to meet up. Another time, man. Going to church with the fam, he’d said. So, I’ve been patient. Have read the book twice, and am committed to following its advice. No text asking him what he’s been up to, no accidental butt-dials, no I-thought-you-said-we’d-talk-later-asshole text. Basically, no pathetic, weak behavior.
I’m set on being a big fucking tease, making him see that he needs me. I stalked him. Followed him. Now, I’m here at church, a place I haven’t been since my parents’ funeral, wearing my Sunday best, prepared to do my best work. My turquoise dress is fitted but modest, only allowing a peek of cleavage—just enough to drive him crazy when he should be thinking about God instead.
The possibility of Deacon being here with the Jansens isn’t something that occurred to me, so I’m relieved to see Brooks sitting with his family near the end of a pew, no man bun in sight. I smooth my hair and pass by him, not daring to turn my eyes in his direction. Strategically, I stop two pews ahead. Smooth my dress, fluff my hair. Turn around to face him as I pretend to sift through my purse, and then face the front again. As I sit, I smile, knowing soon enough we will be poised at the front of this room, exchanging our vows.
The pews begin to fill as the distantly familiar hymns drift from the piano. My hands are clasped tightly in my lap in anticipation. I drive myself crazy questioning whether he’s noticed me yet. Did he watch the sway of my hips as I walked, the pull of the dress against my ass as I prepared to sit? If he did, it’s rather impolite that he hasn’t tried to approach me to say hello, or how about, I don’t know, Happy fucking Easter?
How hard has his shell become?
Quiet goes the sanctuary as a mustached man takes center stage, his purple speckled tie popping against his demure suit.
“Good morning,” he breathes into the mic.
A collective greeting is mumbled back to him.
“Today, we are here for one reason … and that is Jesus. Today, on this wonderful Easter Sunday, we celebrate that He is risen. And boy, what a joyful day this is, right, folks?” He moves down the stage, eyes piercing the audience. “This morning, I want you all to ask yourselves if you’re on the path? Are you, through Him, on the way to becoming that reborn person you never thought you could be? If the answer is no, are you ready and willing to accept the journey He has set before you? That’s the question for today, my sisters and brothers in Christ. If you haven’t taken that beautiful step … will you?” Yawn. Love ya, Jesus, but this guy’s voice may as well render my coffee decaf. I want to turn around so badly, meet Brooks’s eyes. Give him a wink and a smile. A little tit flash. Wake this room full of dull knives up a little. “...to look around and let me know if you see any familiar faces here this Sunday.”
Oh, shit. Heads turn. My hand grabs for my purse.
The pastor waits through silence. Smiles. “I know we’ve got some new faces in here. If you’re sitting next to one of those beautiful new faces, welcome them. Get up and introduce yourselves before we get this celebration started.”
Stare straight ahead. Stare straight ahead. I didn’t come here to mingle with strangers.
A hand falls on my shoulder. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. I’m Marcy.” She’s older, in her sixties, but one of those women you only hope you’ll look like at that age with her still-white teeth and years-younger skin.
My head turns, her other hand sticking out for me to shake. “First time,” I mutter, one solitary nod of my head polite but curt.
“What’s your name, love?”
I bite my cheek, the pain a distraction from how much I don’t want this to be my life right now. But maybe if I engage her, this will all be over soon, and we can get on with the service. “Emily. Nice to meet you.”
“Pastor Maxwell!” she says, her excitement thick, feet skittering toward the front.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no!
She reaches him on the stage. Turns around and points at me—smile gleaming like a diamond. Pastor Maxwell smiles back, and gestures to the rest of the room. My cheeks begin to heat, my breath quickening. This definitely wasn’t in my plan.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “Brothers and sisters in Christ. Our lovely Marcy has found a first-time visitor I’d like for us all to welcome before our service begins today.” His hand waves rapidly before he holds both of his arms out. “Come on up, young lady.”
The creak of wood as bodies shift to look at me. Inspect me. I’m frozen, my eyes burning from holding them open too long. Marcy motions for me, too, her perfect teeth nothing more than a nuisance to me now. I swallow. Let go of my purse. Stand and do my best to walk to and up the stage with grace.
Pastor Maxwell’s hands clasp mine, warm and wrinkled, his wedding ring clanking against a turquoise band on my middle finger—the finger I’d like to give to Marcy for calling me out like this.
“Thrilled to have you, young lady. I’m Pastor Maxwell. What’s your name?”
My back is still to the audience. There’s no fucking way Brooks doesn’t know I’m here now. Of course he does. He isn’t blind. And dammit, because this is JUST what I wanted, right? To be spotlighted and embarrassed! Not exactly the value I was hoping to exhibit.
“Emily,” I whisper.
“Emily!” the pastor shouts, dropping my hands. “Let’s all welcome Emily to our church family, everyone.”
I slowly turn, a mannequin on display to be judged—eyes on the left side of the room, avoiding where I’d come from, where I know my Brooks sits.
“Emily, I understand this is your first time here, correct?”
“Yes,” I say meekly, my stomach turning.
“Well, we’re happy to have you here on this glorious Easter morning. Aren’t we, folks?”
The crowd gives a collective “yes,” and my heart beats faster in my chest.
“Now, Emily, I have an important question to ask—the most important question you’ll ever be asked.” His hand motions for Marcy, and she zips over to me. “Are you ready?”
No. “All right.” Not all right. This is one of the most torturous moments I could have imagined. I came here to stalk. To begin the execution of a plan. Not to be interrogated.
“Emily,” he says, turning to me, taking one of my hands in his again. “Are you a child of God? Have you asked Jesus to live forever in your heart—to forgive you of your sins? Before you answer … if you haven’t, we are ready to help you today. We can walk you through the most important and meaningful step to accepting that gift of everlasting life that He is ready and willing to bestow upon you.”
My eyes stare blankly at the crowd. I shift on my feet, my hand growing wet in his. I swallow the rising lump in my throat. No wonder my parents didn’t go to church. Is this really what they do? This public burrowing of eyes, ears ready to hear whether you’ll be rooming with them in God’s house in the afterlife or sweating it up with Satan?
“I...” My eyes sweep involuntarily, landing on my love, my life, and something else. A gorgeous brunette tiptoeing past bodies, clearly making her way to an empty space next to him, delicate pink dress contrasting against her tropical tan and pulled taut against her perfect, medium-size tits. He meets her eyes, and she sits. Grabs his jaw and plants her bee-stung lips right on his fucking cheek. My heart fights its way to my ears, thrashing loudly inside me and drowning out the low whispers of the churchgoers. The devil herself looks at me, then glances to Brooks—a little nudge of her elbow causing him to shrug before his eyes fall on me again.
“Emily?” the pastor calls.
My eyes jolt to him, his ridiculous tie overwhelming. I feel as if I’m going to faint. The room suddenly burns hot, my face on fire, head dizzy as I contemplate who in the hell she could be.
“Are you all right?” Marcy whispers.
Pastor Maxwell hears the concern in her voice, sees the horror on my face, and steps forward to the front of the stage, simultaneously waving at Marcy, presumably for her to do something with me. “I think our new visitor isn’t feeling very well, if we could give her a few minutes, folks.”
Marcy takes me by the arm, hand gently pulling me down the stage, my head turning back to see the invader again—the way she’s eyeing me, not a care in the world as she rips apart everything I’ve managed to accomplish.
“You look pale,” Marcy says, as we brush through the church doors into a short hallway. “We need to get you some water or some juice, maybe some crackers. Do you have blood sugar issues?”
We stop, and I lift off my heels to see through the window in one of the doors. Brooks’s head is turned to the devil before he unexpectedly meets my gaze, and I scurry backward. I think I’m going to be sick. This can’t be happening. No, no, no. He’s seeing someone—someone who can’t possibly love him like I do. I mean, Eliza … he was only a dumb fucking teenager when they began dating—when she stole him. But this woman, when did they meet? How long has he been fucking her? The thought makes my stomach go rancid.
“Sweetie, you look terrible. Do you need an ambulance?”
“N—no. I’m fine, I—I just feel like I’m going to pass out.”
Her arms hook under my shoulder, and she supports my weight as she leads me to a chair. I feel dizzier as I sit, my body starting to shake.
“You’re sweating. Sweetheart, I really think you should let me call—”
The sanctuary door swings open. A breeze of sweet, cool air as Brooks emerges, Pink Dress close behind. They’re a couple. Oh my God, he lied to me. He lied. Brooks is a liar. He’s fucking this woman, this woman who may very well be prettier than I am, who may fuck better than I do, who may not have lunch meat, who may be part of his fucking inner rich circle.
“Emily!” he says. “Emily, are you okay?”
My head drops to my lap as I bend over and hug my knees. I can’t look at him. Can’t look at her. I should have known after he didn’t contact me that there was someone else. What man wouldn’t at least want an attractive fuck buddy? The kiss we shared before was passionate, however brief.
Marcy stands, and Brooks sits beside me. I see the shoes of Pink Dress still planted near the front of the door. Brooks’s hand rests on my back, his other arm pulling me up. Jesus, help me. I feel like I’m dying of a broken heart all over again. His hand grabs my cheek as he turns my face to his, both our blue eyes connecting to make one endless ocean of love.
“Emily?” he whispers, his cinnamon gum breath warm on my lips.
“Brooks,” I mutter. This is all so very, very bad. I came here confident, ready to puppeteer him to the life I know he wants—the life he promised me. Instead I was meat, hung for the butcher. His eyes slice me further, love spilling into the air between us, soul unintentionally transparent before him.
I look away, and do the only thing I know to do—fall toward his lap, eyes rolling back into my head, his arms reaching out to catch me as his lover looks on.