Michael drove the car slowly through the quiet street. The sun was rising little by little, and the sky was no longer dark.
Inside the car, everything was quiet. Not a word had been said in minutes since he returned inside after picking up the clothes from the house.
He had yet to give them to her.
Michael kept his hands on the wheel, and his eyes stayed fixed on the road. He did not speak. He did not smile. He did not even look her way.
But he knew she was staring at him. He could feel her eyes on the side of his face. She would look at him, then look away, then look again. He saw her do it out of the corner of his eye. But he pretended not to notice.
He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want to think or feel anything. He just wanted to get her cleaned up. Get her away from him. And move on.
It was almost half past six in the morning. The air was cool. The light was soft. He hoped no one would be outside yet. He didn't want any of the nosy neighbors around the pharmacy to see her with him.
He didn't want anyone to start talking.
Thankfully, it was Saturday morning, and many people liked to sleep and get chores done before opening their stores.
He didn't want questions.
Amara sat quietly in the passenger seat. Her hands were stuffed in the empty pocket of his coat. Her legs, still sore, were pressed together tightly.
She glanced at Michael again. His handsome face was stiff. Cold. Like stone. He hadn't said much since they left his house.
Seeing how he was taking her to a hotel instead of his house, she could tell he didn't want someone like her in his home.
Was he perhaps married? She looked at his hand on the steering wheel. No ring. She didn't think he was married. Maybe she was not good enough to be in his house.
Amara blinked when something outside caught her eye—the familiar street and the buildings. She leaned closer to the window, and her eyes widened.
She knew this place. It was the street where his pharmacy was located.
She turned quickly and looked at him again. Was he taking her to his pharmacy? Why?
The car slowed and then stopped right in front of the pharmacy.
Michael turned off the engine. He reached into the center console and took out a fancy key holder with some keys on it.
"Come with me," he said without looking at her. Then he opened the door and got out of the car.
Amara got out of the car and followed him, still barefooted. She waited as Michael turned on his phone's flashlight to unlock the door, and then she stepped in behind him as he opened it.
He reached for the switch and flicked it on. The lights came alive, yellow-white bulbs that lit the whole space.
The pharmacy was quiet, clean, and cool. The white shelves and show glasses were filled with different boxes and bottles.
Amara stood just behind him, her eyes slowly taking it all in. Her lips parted slightly in surprise.
"Wow," she said without thinking. "It looks different now."
Michael turned around, confused. "Have you been here before?"
She looked at him and nodded slowly. "I guess you don't remember me," she said. "Amara. We've met before."
Michael frowned a little. He stared at her. His eyes scanned her face.
He didn't remember.
"Me and you?" he asked, still unsure. "Are you sure?"
Was she one of those girls from his past? No, that couldn't be. He had not touched anyone in a long time. He had stayed away from that kind of life. She sounded like she had been to the pharmacy before, and that was where they met.
"Yes," she said softly. "Before you officially opened the pharmacy. Amara. Delta Igbo."
She tilted her head slightly, hoping he would remember.
Michael looked at her more closely this time.
And then... his heart skipped a beat as it hit him.
He remembered.
The girl who had walked into his almost-empty store two years ago. The one the Holy Spirit had led him to preach to, but he had chosen not to because she looked like a decent Christian girl.
"You…" he whispered, pointing slowly. "You're that girl."
Amara nodded again, a small, shy smile on her face.
"I recognized you back at the church after you let me stay in your car," she explained.
Michael's heart raced. His chest felt heavy. He couldn't believe what was happening. He didn't understand it.
What did this mean?
He looked at her again, from her tired face down to her wounded legs.
How did the innocent-looking girl he met two years ago turn out to be this person? What had happened to her?
He didn't know what to say. He looked away.
"Sit down. I'll be back," he said as he went out to the car to pick up the bag from the backseat where he had left it.
He returned inside the store to meet her. "Come with me," he said, leading her inside his office.
"That's the restroom in there. There's a shower inside. You can freshen up and change into something else. I'll be waiting here so I can look at your legs before I take you to the hotel," he said, handing her the bag.
Amara nodded as she took it from him. "Thank you," she murmured.
Michael didn't say a word as he stepped out of the office and shut the door behind him.
As Michael waited for her to join him, he paced around the store, talking to himself and God.
Amy? Amara?
After she left that day two years ago, he had thought about her from time to time, waiting and hoping she would return so that he could preach to her, but she had never shown up as she had promised.
How could she turn up now, two years later, as a prostitute, and God was saying she was his wife?
Michael was still lost in thoughts when Amara returned. She was now dressed in his sister's jeans and long-sleeve top. He was glad to see that it was a good fit, as he had thought it would be.
But seeing how she was still hugging his jacket, he raised a brow, wondering if she was cold.
"Are you cold?"
She shook her head, looking slightly embarrassed. "I'm not wearing anything under the shirt, so I'm uncomfortable," she explained.
Michael scoffed inwardly.
Did she just say she was uncomfortable because she wasn't wearing anything under the long-sleeved shirt? Had she not been the one half-naked in a mini dress with an open back?
He gestured for her to sit down. At least now that she had changed out of those clothes, she looked much more like the Amara of the past. The only difference was the long lash extension and her long braids.
Amara sat down as Michael went to get his first aid box. He sat down opposite her and placed the small white box on the floor between them.
He opened it slowly, one hand on the lid, the other sorting through cotton wool, spirit, scissors, and clean gauze.
Michael looked at her legs.
Small cuts ran across her ankles, and the soles of her feet looked rough and swollen.
"Stretch out your leg," he said quietly.
Amara shifted on the chair, her eyes flickering toward him for a second before she looked down. She pulled her right leg out first, gently placing her heel on the floor.
Her feet were small. Her legs shaky. Michael could see where tiny thorns must have pricked her.
He poured some spirit into a metal bowl and dipped a cotton ball into it. He glanced at her once. "It will sting," he said.
She gave a slight nod. Her eyes stayed on her hands, which were gripping the arms of the chair.
He reached down.
The moment the spirit touched her skin, she jerked. Her breath hitched. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth.
Michael paused. "I told you," he murmured.
Amara didn't answer. She only nodded again.
He cleaned the wound slowly. Carefully. The room was very quiet.
Michael still did not look at her face, but he saw her flinch each time the cotton pressed against a tender spot. He could feel her eyes on him again, watching him like she wanted to ask something, but she didn't know how.
When Michael was done, he took a clean towel and dabbed her feet dry. After that, he took a small bottle of antiseptic cream and squeezed some into his palm. He rubbed it gently on each wound, his fingers slow and sure.
Every touch made Amara's face grow warmer. She felt embarrassed and didn't know where to look.
It felt awkward even though she knew he was doing it because he was a pharmacist and nothing more.
He wiped his hands with a towel and reached for the bandage next. As he wrapped her ankle, Amara spoke, her voice low.
"How much will this cost?"
Michael stopped and looked up at her.
"You don't have to pay," he said, then looked back down at her feet.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He finished the bandage and sat back. He picked up the metal bowl and the stained cotton balls and placed them aside before standing up.
"You'll need to wear slippers," he said. "I'll find you one, and then we can go find somewhere to lodge you."
As he turned to leave the office, Amara stopped him with her voice.
"Mike."
He turned slowly, remembering that he had told her his name was Mike.
He didn't speak. He waited for her to tell him the reason she called him.
"I'm sorry for being such a nuisance. You don't have to lodge me anywhere. You've done more than enough. I will…"
"I'm not complaining. I'm helping you because God asked me to help you. I'll lodge you in a hotel until we figure out what next," he said, and she blinked in surprise before giving him a nod.
Then he walked out, leaving the door half-open behind him. A moment later, he returned with bathroom slippers bigger than her feet.
"You can manage this one for now. I'll send someone to get you something else when stores open. What size do you wear?"
"39."
"Okay. Let's go," he said, and they left for the hotel together.
When they got there, Michael let her wait in the car while he went in to book the room. When he was done, he told them she would come get the key.
The last thing he wanted was to be seen inside a hotel with a girl beside him.
After he was done and she had gone in, Michael sat in his car and covered his face as he prayed.
'God, please, let this cup pass over me. I'm sorry for not preaching to her back then. Please, Lord. I can't marry her. I just can't.'