Have Your Cake

“Some of y’all think being a good man means you don’t get tired.”

Marcus Carter stopped pacing.

The church grew quiet.

A few moments earlier, New Covenant Temple had been alive. The organ hummed beneath him. Somebody in the second row had been shouting Amen after nearly every sentence, whether the sentence needed an amen or not.

Now there was silence.

Marcus stood behind the pulpit, one hand resting on his Bible.

He hadn’t planned to say that.

That was happening more lately.

He would prepare all week—scriptures highlighted, notes written neatly in the black notebook Naomi had bought him for his birthday—and somewhere between his opening text and closing prayer, he’d wander into something that felt less like preaching and more like confession.

Nobody seemed to notice the difference.

“Sometimes,” Marcus continued, “the people you call strong are only strong because nobody gave them permission to be anything else.”

“Amen.”

That came from Mother Wallace.

Of course it did.

Marcus smiled.

“There are people sitting in this church right now who everybody depends on. Your family depends on you. Your children depend on you. Your job depends on you. Your church depends on you.”

He paused.

“And you keep telling everybody…”

Marcus smiled wider.

“‘I got it.’”

The congregation laughed.

Because everybody knew somebody like that.

Marcus knew one too.

“Car broke down?”

He shrugged.

“I got it.”

More laughter.

“Light bill due?”

“I got it.”

“Something leaking in the house?”

“I got it.”

“Church needs money?”

Marcus leaned away from the microphone.

The congregation was already laughing.

He shook his head.

“Nah, y’all got that one.”

The sanctuary erupted.

Even Deacon Ray laughed from his seat behind the pulpit.

Marcus glanced toward the front pew.

Naomi was laughing too.

And for half a second, Marcus forgot what he was going to say.

She was beautiful.

Not beautiful because she was his wife.

Just beautiful.

There was a difference.

Naomi Carter would’ve been beautiful if Marcus had never met her.

Today she wore a cream-colored dress that complimented her skin and stopped just below her knees. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder, and when she laughed, she tilted her head backward just enough to make the gold earrings Marcus bought her last Christmas catch the sanctuary lights.

She noticed him staring.

Her eyebrow lifted.

Marcus immediately looked back at the congregation.

“Anyway…”

That got another laugh.

Naomi shook her head.

Marcus cleared his throat.

“I’m serious, though.”

The room settled.

“You can spend so much time being everything everybody needs that eventually you don’t even know how to answer a simple question.”

He stepped away from the pulpit.

“Somebody asks, ‘How are you?’”

He paused.

“And before you even think about it, you say…”

“BLESSED!”

The church answered together.

Marcus laughed.

“See? Y’all already know.”

A few people clapped.

“But what if you aren’t okay?”

The laughter faded.

“What if you’re angry?”

Marcus’s voice softened.

“What if you’re disappointed?”

He looked across the sanctuary.

“What if you’re tired?”

Something shifted inside him.

He swallowed.

“What if you believe God…”

Marcus paused.

“…but you’re still scared?”

The church became completely still.

For the first time that morning, Marcus wasn’t looking at anyone.

His eyes had fallen to the Bible beneath his hand.

For just a moment, he wasn’t Pastor Marcus Carter.

He was a twenty-seven-year-old man standing in the same pulpit where his father had stood nearly every Sunday of Marcus’s life.

The same pulpit where Bishop Nathaniel Carter had preached his final sermon.

Marcus could still hear him sometimes.

Not spiritually.

Nothing spooky.

Memory was powerful enough.

He remembered his father’s hand landing on his shoulder in the hallway after service.

Call me tomorrow.

Marcus’s fingers tightened against the pulpit.

There’s something I need to talk to you about.

Tomorrow never came.

At least not for Nathaniel.

Marcus lifted his head.

“The Bible never promised that faith would make you stop being human.”

Someone whispered, “That’s right.”

“Faith doesn’t mean you never get afraid. It means fear doesn’t get the final say.”

A few people stood.

Marcus felt the familiar warmth rise through the sanctuary.

“Faith doesn’t mean you never get tired.”

“Amen!”

“It means when you’re tired…”

The organist found him.

A soft chord rolled beneath Marcus’s voice.

“…you know where your strength comes from.”

The church rose.

And just like that, Pastor Marcus Carter was back.

Twenty-three minutes later, Marcus regretted preaching any of it.

“Pastor!”

He had made it approximately six feet from the pulpit.

That was a personal record.

Marcus turned.

“Sister Daniels.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Of course you do.

The thought entered his mind so quickly that guilt followed immediately behind it.

Marcus smiled.

“Absolutely.”

“My daughter is going through something.”

Marcus nodded.

“What kind of something?”

Sister Daniels looked around.

Then leaned closer.

Marcus already knew this wasn’t going to be short.

Across the sanctuary, Naomi was talking to three women at once.

Unlike Marcus, his wife seemed to gain energy from people.

Marcus had never understood it.

Naomi could leave the house saying she didn’t feel like being bothered, arrive somewhere, meet six strangers, learn three birthdays, somebody’s childhood trauma, two recipes and an entire family’s business—

and somehow come home refreshed.

Marcus could have one unexpected conversation at the grocery store and need forty-five minutes alone afterward.

Opposites attract.

Whoever came up with that phrase should’ve included a warning label.

“Pastor?”

Marcus blinked.

Sister Daniels was staring at him.

“I’m sorry. Say that last part again.”

She continued.

Marcus listened.

Or tried to.

Ten minutes became fifteen.

Fifteen became twenty.

When the conversation finally ended, another member was waiting.

Then another.

Then one of the trustees needed a signature.

Then somebody wanted to know if Marcus had approved the youth department’s fundraiser.

He hadn’t even known there was a fundraiser.

Then Deacon Ray appeared.

That usually meant something was broken, somebody was upset, or money was involved.

Sometimes all three.

“Pastor.”

Marcus exhaled through his nose.

“Deacon.”

“We got a problem.”

Naturally.

“What happened?”

“Boiler.”

Marcus stared at him.

“Didn’t we just have somebody out here for that?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Did you call them?”

“Wanted to speak to you first.”

Marcus rubbed his forehead.

“Ray.”

“Yes, Pastor?”

“If the building is cold and the boiler ain’t working, you don’t need the Holy Ghost to tell you to call the boiler company.”

Ray’s mouth twitched.

Marcus immediately regretted saying it.

Not because it was wrong.

Because Ray was going to remember it.

“You know,” Ray said slowly, “your father always wanted to be informed before we called anybody.”

There it was.

Marcus lowered his hand.

“My father also knew more about boilers than I do.”

Ray smiled.

“That’s true.”

Marcus couldn’t help laughing.

“I’ll call them.”

“Thank you.”

Ray started to walk away, then stopped.

“Oh, and Pastor?”

Marcus closed his eyes.

“What?”

“Good word today.”

That caught him off guard.

Marcus opened his eyes.

Ray nodded.

“Your father would’ve been proud.”

Then he walked away.

Marcus stood there.

Funny.

Four words could feel like a compliment and a weight at the same time.

“Pastor Carter!”

Marcus turned toward the voice.

Naomi was standing near the sanctuary doors.

She had her purse over one shoulder and his suit jacket folded over her arm.

“We going home today or you starting another service?”

Marcus checked his watch.

2:17.

Service had ended at 1:11.

“I’m coming.”

“You said that thirty minutes ago.”

“I had people talking to me.”

Naomi widened her eyes dramatically.

“People? At church?”

Marcus stared at her.

“Don’t start.”

She smiled.

“I would never.”

Marcus walked toward her.

That’s when he noticed the man standing beside her.

Tall.

Maybe thirty.

Dark suit. No tie.

Marcus recognized his face but couldn’t immediately place the name.

The man was smiling.

Naomi was smiling.

Something inside Marcus changed.

Not much.

Just enough.

“Baby,” Naomi said, “you remember Andre?”

Marcus did now.

Andre Coleman.

He had started attending about two months ago.

Not every Sunday.

Just enough that Marcus knew his face.

“Yeah.” Marcus extended his hand. “How you doing, man?”

“Good, Pastor.”

Andre shook it.

Strong grip.

Maybe a little too strong.

Or maybe Marcus imagined that.

“Great sermon.”

“Appreciate you.”

“I was just telling First Lady she did a great job with the decorations last week.”

Marcus glanced at Naomi.

“Oh.”

Naomi smiled.

“And I was telling him that wasn’t me. That was Sister Patrice.”

Andre laughed.

“See? Giving away the credit already.”

Naomi laughed too.

Marcus smiled.

Because there was nothing not to smile about.

It was a normal conversation.

Completely normal.

Andre looked at Naomi.

“Well, whoever did it, you should tell them it looked good.”

“I will.”

“Good seeing you, Pastor.”

“You too.”

Andre walked away.

Naomi immediately started toward the doors.

Marcus followed.

Three steps.

Four.

Five.

He looked over his shoulder.

Andre was talking to somebody else.

Marcus turned back around.

Naomi didn’t say anything.

They reached the parking lot.

Still nothing.

Marcus unlocked the car.

Naomi got inside.

Marcus walked around to the driver’s side.

By the time he started the engine, Naomi was looking at him.

Marcus pretended not to notice.

He backed out.

They made it to the street.

Naomi lasted another thirty seconds.

“Okay.”

Marcus kept his eyes on the road.

“Okay what?”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Marcus.”

He sighed.

“Naomi.”

“Don’t Naomi me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.”

Marcus looked at her.

“What does that even mean?”

“You get quiet.”

“I am quiet.”

“No. You’re naturally quiet. Then there’s your something is bothering me but I’m going to act like nothing is bothering me until you drag it out of me quiet.”

Marcus looked back at the road.

“That is way too specific.”

“Because we’ve been married.”

“So?”

“So I know you.”

Marcus didn’t answer.

Naomi folded her arms.

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That.”

“What?”

“That!”

Marcus laughed despite himself.

“You’re pointing at nothing.”

“I’m pointing at your attitude.”

“I don’t have an attitude.”

“Marcus, you have had an attitude since Andre walked up.”

Marcus’s smile disappeared.

“I don’t care about that man.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Then why are we talking about him?”

“Because apparently we’re not.”

Marcus shook his head.

Naomi stared through the windshield.

Silence filled the car.

Marcus hated when she did that.

Not because she was wrong.

Because silence was supposed to be his thing.

“You were laughing a lot,” he finally said.

Naomi slowly turned her head.

There it was.

The look.

Marcus immediately wished he’d chosen different words.

“I was… laughing?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You literally just said I was laughing too much.”

“No. I said you were laughing a lot.”

“Oh, excuse me. Completely different.”

“Naomi.”

“No, I’m trying to understand. What is the acceptable number of laughs per conversation with a male church member?”

Marcus tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“You’re making it bigger than what I’m saying.”

“Then say what you’re saying.”

Marcus opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because saying it aloud made it sound stupid.

I didn’t like how comfortable he seemed talking to you.

That was closer.

But even that wasn’t completely it.

Marcus knew men.

He knew how they looked at women they found attractive.

He also knew his wife was beautiful.

He’d known that before he married her.

And Naomi was friendly.

Very friendly.

Not flirtatious.

Marcus knew the difference.

Usually.

“I just think sometimes you don’t notice people’s intentions.”

Naomi’s expression changed.

Not angry.

Hurt.

“You think I’m stupid?”

Marcus frowned.

“What? No.”

“You said I’m not aware of people’s intentions.”

“That’s not calling you stupid.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re friendly with everybody.”

“That’s who I am.”

“I know.”

“You married me like this.”

“I know.”

“Then why does it suddenly bother you?”

Marcus didn’t answer.

Because it hadn’t suddenly started bothering him.

He had always noticed.

Dating had simply given him fewer rights to say anything about it.

Marriage hadn’t made the insecurity appear.

Marriage had just given it somewhere to live.

Naomi turned toward the window.

Marcus glanced at her.

“Baby.”

“I’m fine.”

He almost laughed.

The hypocrisy would’ve been funny if the car didn’t suddenly feel ten degrees colder.

“Naomi.”

She continued looking outside.

Marcus reached over and rested his hand on her thigh.

She didn’t move it.

That was something.

“I don’t think you’re doing anything.”

She finally looked at him.

“Then trust me.”

Four words.

Simple words.

Marcus nodded.

“I do.”

Naomi studied his face.

She didn’t say it.

She didn’t have to.

Do you?

Marcus looked back at the road.

He loved his wife.

There wasn’t a question in his mind about that.

He trusted her.

At least he believed he did.

It was everybody else he had trouble trusting.

That was what Marcus always told himself.

But somewhere underneath that explanation lived a question he didn’t particularly enjoy asking.

If he completely trusted Naomi…

why did everybody else matter?

That night, Marcus couldn’t sleep.

Naomi could.

Of course.

She was curled beside him with one hand beneath her pillow, breathing softly.

They had made up hours ago.

Nothing dramatic.

Marcus apologized.

Naomi apologized for getting sarcastic.

They ordered food, watched half a movie, and Naomi fell asleep before finding out who the killer was.

Marcus envied that about her.

She could put things down.

Marcus carried everything.

He stared at the ceiling.

His sermon returned to him.

What if you believe God but you’re still scared?

Marcus closed his eyes.

He hated when his own preaching preached back to him.

His phone vibrated on the nightstand.

Marcus opened his eyes.

11:43 p.m.

Who was texting him this late?

He reached for the phone carefully so he wouldn’t wake Naomi.

Unknown number.

Marcus opened the message.

Good evening, Pastor Carter. Sorry for texting so late. Deacon Brooks gave me your number. My name is Arielle James. I’ll be coordinating the community outreach partnership with New Covenant. He said I should reach out to you so we could discuss everything.

Marcus stared at the screen.

Community outreach.

Right.

Ray had mentioned something about that.

Marcus typed:

Good evening. No problem. We can talk tomorrow.

He was about to put the phone down when three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

A second message came through.

Sounds good. And for what it’s worth, I heard your sermon this morning. I needed that. Especially the part about strong people not being given permission to be anything else.

Marcus read it twice.

Something about the sentence made him pause.

Not because it was inappropriate.

It wasn’t.

Not because he knew this woman.

He didn’t.

But out of everything he’d said that morning…

that was the part she’d heard.

Marcus looked over at Naomi.

Still asleep.

He looked back at the phone.

He typed:

Thank you. I’m glad it helped.

Then he stopped.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Thank you. Sometimes I think I was preaching to myself.

His thumb hovered over send.

For some reason, Marcus couldn’t explain why that felt different.

Too personal?

Maybe.

Or maybe he was overthinking it.

He deleted the sentence.

Typed:

Thank you. I’m glad it helped. We’ll talk tomorrow. God bless.

Send.

Marcus placed the phone facedown.

He closed his eyes.

Five seconds later, it vibrated again.

He didn’t check it.

Beside him, Naomi shifted closer in her sleep and rested her head against his shoulder.

Marcus wrapped an arm around her.

Then he stared into the darkness.

He didn’t know Arielle James.

He didn’t know that one year from now, he’d remember this night.

He didn’t know that something as ordinary as a text message could force him to confront things about his marriage, his ministry, his father—

and himself—

that he’d spent years avoiding.

All Marcus knew was that tomorrow morning he had a meeting at nine, a boiler company to call, two members to check on, a sermon to start preparing, and a wife he’d promised to take to dinner.

His life was full.

Blessed, people called it.

And Marcus was grateful.

He really was.

But as sleep finally began pulling him under, a thought passed through his mind.

One he would never dare say from the pulpit.

Sometimes being blessed felt an awful lot like being tired.

And tomorrow…

everybody would need him again.