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“I don’t talk to her very often. I don’t talk to any of my family very often,” I clarify. “She had a baby last year, my first niece.” I grab my phone from my back pocket and pull up the most recent picture of Ruth I have and show him.
“She’s adorable,” he says sincerely.
“It’s her baptism soon, and Beth wants me to be there for it,” I continue. “It lines up with the show in Charlotte. So she called me to invite me, and also to point out that she’s seen my schedule and has it all planned out for it to work perfectly for me to go home the day before our show there to join them.”
I chew my lip, reaching for my drink and wishing it was something stronger.
No. I don’t.
That was the old way of dealing with things.
“When’s the last time you’ve visited your family?”
I slump back, pushing out a breath. “Four years.” I watch him closely, waiting to see his reaction to that piece of information. Waiting to see judgment, confusion, anything to show me that he’s not the kind, understanding guy I’ve come to know him as.
But there’s not a trace of it there.
He’s still intent on listening to me and patient enough to wait for me to continue in my own time.
“I grew up in a very religious family and community. My father is the preacher of our church and while I don’t think they’re bad people, they weren’t the best parents. They love their God and His word more than they love me.” When I finally came to that realization as a teenager, I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, the idea that they could love something that they can’t even see so much more than their own daughter that was struggling right in front of them.
But it’s just something I’ve come to accept over the years, even if I still don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully understand it.
“Something you have to understand about their church is there is zero room for doubt and zero tolerance for women being anything other than mothers and attentive wives. And when I started having doubts and wasn’t the shiny, sweet, submissive girl that they desired and that would be a role model for other children in the church, I saw it. The disdain in their eyes.”
I saw it when I was twelve and would do everything in my power to get out of going to services every week. My parents couldn’t fathom why I didn’t want to go, why I didn’t want to sit there for hours on end and grew frustrated when I would push back on them, asking why I needed to spend so much time there. They found comfort in the prayers and teachings; I found them suffocating and draining.
I saw it when I was fifteen and came home from a youth group, asking them questions that no person of the faith, let alone the preacher’s daughter, should dare be questioning. You weren’t supposed to question what was being fed to you. Just take it with a smile, tuck it into your heart, and just pray, pray, pray.
I saw it when I was seventeen and I was caught drinking over a friend’s house, only to be dragged home and given a lecture on the sins of alcohol. That lecture went on for four hours. Long enough for the buzz to leave my system and leave me bleary eyed the next morning for Sunday service.
And I last saw it when I was eighteen and chose to move to L.A., to pursue my career instead of being transferred from my father’s authority to a godly husband to serve by his side for the rest of my days.
“I saw it every fucking day. And I also saw how well Beth fit into everything they wanted her to be. And better yet, how much Beth loved being a part of the church, being the model daughter, the soon-to-be perfect wife for some man. I can’t fault her for it. She dreamed of being a wife and mother and knew that would satisfy her. I never once dreamed of those things.
“Instead I started wondering what I was doing wasting all of my time singing about some guy in the sky at church every week when I had real feelings stirring inside of me, doubts and demons creeping forward in my head and taking control. And I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take the disappointment, the judgment, the constant feeling of never being enough and I left. And I haven’t been back.” Except for Beth’s wedding.
I sigh, feeling something wet on my cheeks and when I lift my hand to see what it is, I realize somewhere along the way I started crying.
“Fuck.” I grab my napkin, but it’s covered in barbacoa juice, and I don’t want to burn my eyes. Walker quickly passes me his, but I refuse to meet his gaze, embarrassed by my venting and tears coating my cheeks.
“Hey,” he says gently, “you don’t owe anybody anything. And if you don’t want to go back there, you don’t have to.”
I open my mouth to refute his statement, still feeling some sense of obligation to Beth, though I know deep in her heart, she’d understand. But Walker stops me and says again, this time overenunciating each and every word.
“You don’t owe anybody anything. Point blank, bottom line.”
“You asked me for an explanation,” I counter.
“Yeah ’cause I’m selfish.” He shrugs. “But if you would’ve told me to back off, I would’ve respected that.”
“From what I’ve seen, you’re anything but selfish, James Walker.”
He ducks his head, hiding how my praise affects him.
“So did you give her an answer?”
“No, I said I’d have to check with Vik to buy me a little time. But honestly, it’s just looming over my head, and I hate it.”
