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Chapter 5

Taylor’s phone buzzed on the dresser, yanking her from a restless night of sleep. Visions of him had consumed her thoughts during the day and her dreams at night.

She groaned, squinting at the screen. Her pulse kicked up when she saw “Restricted” flashing across it. She already knew who it was.

She should’ve let it go to voicemail. God knew he deserved that much.

But fifteen years of history was hard to ignore. Fifteen years of hearing that their relationship was “ordained.” That word alone was the reason she was still answering.

And truthfully, she never wanted to hear it again.

What kind of ordained love left you stranded in hospital parking lots?

What kind of divine plan came with DUIs, empty promises, and nights spent praying your husband didn’t kill himself, or someone else, on the way home?

She’d been raised to believe marriage was sacred, that perseverance built character, and that any trial could be overcome with prayer. And while she still respected the faith she was raised in; she was starting to question a thing or two. Love wasn’t supposed to have you fighting for your sanity. The math was no longer mathing for her. Her mother would disagree, but they’djust have to agree to disagree. Temptation was knocking on her door.

“Hello?”

“Taylor,” he croaked. “They holdin' me like I did something serious. I ain't even hit nobody. I didn't even fight. But they talkin' about priors and danger to the public, like I'm some kind of damn criminal.”

She closed her eyes, feeling nothing but exhaustion. “Tyree, you are a criminal. You broke the law.”

“Baby, I messed up. I know I did. But I'm not a bad person. I just been having a lot going on.”

“I don't care,” she cut him off, her voice flat. “I'm done with this. Done with you. Find somewhere else to stay when you get out.”

“Taylor, please not now with this dramatic shit.”

“Let me get unproper for you since you always thought I was too proper,” she said, her voice dropping low. “I refuse to argue with a nigga in jail. So, hear me clearly, this is your mess to clean up. Not mine."

"We're done. Enjoy your life.”

She ended the call before he could say another word, blocked his number, and tossed her phone aside. For the first time in years, she felt nothing but relief. Why would she keep sticking around when it was evident what was important to him? She was doing it alone, so she might as well be alone.

It was getting simple and clear each day. It was over. Not legally. Not on paper. But in her soul, in her mind. That was her goodbye.

For a moment, Taylor allowed herself to remember the boy she'd fallen for, seventeen-year-old Tyree with his bright smile and church choir voice. Theboy who'd quoted scripture and promised that he would always have her back. Who'd helped elderly Mrs. Benson with her groceries every Tuesday without fail.

That boy had drowned in the bottom of a bottle years ago. The man who remained was just his shadow, hollow and distorted. And no matter how much she'd prayed, fasted, or bargained with God, she couldn't bring that boy back. Couldn't fix what was broken.

Putting herself first didn't feel selfish, it felt necessary. This was her life. And even if she had to work every day at choosing herself, it was what she would do.

“Hell yeah,” she whispered.

Her phone rang again, and Taylor rubbed her temples, fighting the headache she knew was coming. She silenced it. It went off again, it was her mother calling, probably being led by the holy spirit about her mouth and absence at church.

“Nope. Not today,” she said silencing the phone again and tossing it aside. Whatever lecture was coming could wait. Taylor tossed the covers off her and decided it was time to start her day. She’d lounged around enough. Up and on her feet, Taylor headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. She whispered her prayers in the mirror and headed downstairs to get her coffee started.

She heard the sound of a drill before she even made it to the kitchen. Her stomach flipped.

She peeked through the peephole—and of course, it was him.

Brooks. Hood up. Focused. Calm. Changing her locks like it was just another task.

When she opened the door, he didn’t say much. Just gave her that same unreadable look that made herchest tight.

“You said you were done,” he murmured, not looking up. “Figured your locks should say the same.”