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| Divine Intervention |
Willowbrook, Tennessee, wasn’t much more than a couple of stoplights, a Waffle House, and a whole lot of nosy folks who could track your life better than your iPhone ever could. But in that little town, Cicely and Tangie were legendary — best friends since third grade and still riding strong.
They couldn’t have been more different. Cicely was Sunday-morning polished — Bible in hand, hat on head, and not a toe out of line. She prayed hard, worked hard, and was holding out for a God-fearing man who could sing harmony in the choir and wouldn’t flinch when the collection plate came around.
Tangie, on the other hand, was all fire and freedom. She changed her hair like the weather and didn’t believe in waiting—least of all on a man. Their friendship worked because they balanced each other—Cicely was the brakes, and Tangie was the gas.
"Girl, I’m tellin' you," Tangie said one Sunday, fanning herself after service, "that sermon was good, but Deacon Harold snoring through half of it? That man needs a spiritual Red Bull."
Cicely laughed, slipping on her sunglasses. "Be nice. He’s seventy-six. That was his nap time."
They were heading out of church when he walked up.
Quinton Blankenship.
Tall, dark, and dipped in smooth—a charcoal suit and a voice that could read Scripture or seduce it. Cicely barely registered his "Hello, ladies" before her stomach did a somersault.
"I don’t mean to interrupt," he said, eyes settling on Cicely like he already knew her. "But I had to say hello. I’m Quinton. New in town. First time visiting this church."
"Well, welcome," Cicely said, her voice somehow steadier than her heartbeat. "I’m Cicely, and this is my best friend Tangie."
"Pleasure," he said, flashing that smile again. "Would you mind showing me around sometime, Cicely? Maybe grab coffee after work one day?"
Tangie arched a brow but said nothing.
Cicely hesitated, then smiled. "Sure. Why not."
As Quinton walked away, Tangie turned to her with a look that said girl, really?
"Don’t start," Cicely said.
"Oh, I ain't sayin' nothin'. Yet."
But Tangie was already suspicious. Something about him felt a little too polished. Too perfect. And Tangie had learned that charm could be a costume.
___
The following Sunday, Quinton came back to church. This time, he sat a few pews behind Cicely and made sure to catch her eye when the service ended.
Outside, he greeted her with that same smooth energy.
“I was hoping I’d see you again.”
Cicely smiled. “It’s nice being seen.”
They exchanged numbers that day.
Over the next two weeks, what started as casual encounters turned familiar—coffee, dinner, and after choir practice.
"I’ve been through some things, Cicely," he said one night, his tone low and heavy. "Things I’m not proud of. But I’m not that man anymore. I just want peace. Something real. A good woman who sees me for who I am now."
Cicely, moved by the raw honesty in his voice, nodded slowly. She didn’t ask for details. She told herself that grace was about letting the past stay in the past.
She started to believe she’d found someone special — someone who understood her heart and didn’t mind when she turned down his invite to go out on Sunday because she had evening Bible study.
But the warmth started to flicker.
He began texting more—morning check-ins, late-night questions. Why aren’t you answering? Who are you with?
When she didn’t reply for an hour at work, he showed up outside her job with a forced smile.
"Just thought I’d surprise you," he said.
It didn’t feel like a surprise. It felt like stalking.
___
“This dude is giving red flag emoji, caution tape, and restraining order all in one,” Tangie said, flipping her hair. “Sis, this ain’t cute. This is a Lifetime movie waiting to happen.”
“I know he’s been through a lot,” Cicely said, though the words didn’t sit right anymore.
Tangie didn’t respond. She was busy scrolling on her phone.
“Cici… did you see these posts?”
Cicely leaned over. The picture stared back at her—her and Quinton outside the church, smiling.
Below it were comments she hadn’t seen yet.
Good to see him home. God’s good.
Another followed.
Tell Quinton we’re proud of him. Prison didn’t break him.
The room went quiet.
“He’s been in prison,” Tangie said gently. “That explains a lot.”
Cicely swallowed. She already knew what she needed to do. She would hear it from him—just the truth about why he’d been locked up.
___
They met at a little café off Main Street. Quiet. Neutral. The kind of place where gospel music played low and the waitress called you "baby."
Cicely sat at the table already, her hands folded tight in her lap, waiting. When Quinton walked in, he smiled like everything was fine.
"Hey, beautiful," he said, sliding into the seat across from her.
She didn’t smile back. "We need to talk."
Quinton’s expression shifted, just for a second, like a flicker in the lights. "Everything alright?"
“I need you to be honest with me,” Cicely said. “I know you’ve been to prison. I just want to hear it from you.”
He blinked, silence stretching as he leaned back and exhaled.
“I told you I had a past.”
Cicely didn’t blink. “You told me you’d been through some things. You didn’t tell me that you went to prison.”
"Yeah. It’s true. I messed up. That was another life. I’ve changed."
Cicely looked at him. His eyes didn’t hold shame. They held calculation.
"What did you do?”
He hesitated.
“Armed robbery,” he said. “I was young. I was desperate. I paid for it.”
Cicely nodded. “That’s something you don’t hide from a woman you’re trying to build with.”
Quinton scoffed. “See? This is why I didn’t say nothing. I knew you’d judge me.”
"I wouldn’t have judged you," she said quietly. "But lying? That’s different."
His jaw tightened. "You act like you’re better than me."
Cicely’s heart beat faster. His tone had shifted—darker now, colder.
"I’m not better. But I do deserve honesty. And respect."
Quinton leaned forward. " You ain't as perfect as you think."
Just like that, the warmth was gone. The charm stripped away. This wasn’t the man she met after church.
Cicely stood, her purse in hand. “I wish you the best, Quinton. But we’re done.”
She left the café with her head high.
And she didn’t look back.
___
A week passed. Cicely began to breathe again. Back in her rhythm. Back at church. Back to journaling and morning devotionals.
But one evening, as she opened her apartment door, her breath caught in her throat.
Quinton was inside, rummaging through her things like he belonged there.
"What are you doing here?!" she gasped.
He turned, startled, then his eyes darkened. “You should’ve called me back, Cicely. We weren’t finished.”
She stepped back. “Get out—or I’m calling the police.”
"You’re not calling anybody." He crossed the room in two steps, grabbing her arm before she could run.
She struggled, pushing against him, but he was stronger — too strong. He dragged her outside, down the steps, to her own car.
Then came the click.
A gun.
Cold metal pressed to her ribs.
"Get in. Drive to your little friend Tangie’s place. Now."
Cicely’s hands shook as she fumbled with the keys. Her breath came fast—but her mind was clear. Survival.
"What do you want with Tangie?" she asked, her voice tight.
"She put that mess in your head. Turned you against me."
"You should’ve told me the truth, Quinton."
"I was going to!"
He waved the gun. "Just shut up and drive!"
Cicely drove, her eyes everywhere—mirrors, intersections, porches. She needed a way out.
As they neared Tangie’s neighborhood, she prayed under her breath. "Lord, help me. Give me something. Anything."
Then she saw it — a sharp curve by the old lamppost near the corner store. She gripped the wheel.
And jerked it hard.
The car slammed into the post. Airbags exploded. Quinton’s grip loosened.
Cicely didn’t wait.
She kicked the door open, ran barefoot across the lawn of the nearest house, screaming at the top of her lungs.
"Help! Somebody help me!"
Doors opened. Neighbors rushed out. One woman called the police while two men kept Quinton from fleeing.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
When the officers arrived, Cicely collapsed into the arms of the neighbor who held her, sobbing in relief.
Tangie pulled up minutes later, eyes wide. She ran to Cicely, who grabbed her hand and held on tight.
Quinton was cuffed and taken away, rage still burning in his eyes.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
Cicely had survived.
And she knew deep in her spirit — it wasn’t luck. It was grace. Covered. Protected by something stronger than fear.
Faith had saved her life.
And beside her, Tangie squeezed her hand and whispered, "Told you I had your back."
Together, they stood. Not broken — but rebuilt. Stronger.
And still riding strong.
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