Free Seasoned with Grace by Nigeria Lockley

Unfortunately, this time it had taken her too long to recognize that things were out of control. After lunch with Junell, Grace had opted for a yoga session, instead of the Bible study Junell had recommended.
    â€œI shall not be moved. I shall not be moved,” she repeated, standing in a warrior pose in front of her floor-to-ceiling living-room windows.
    Grace shook her head. No thee, thou, or shall. It had taken only two days at Mount Carmel Community Church for her to revert to what she knew—the Bible. When she was a young girl, her mother would wake her up by singing “Bless the Lord, O My Soul.” She placed her in every religious class, from vacation Bible school to the various youth ministries that convened at her church. Honour thy mother and thy father . . . that it may go well with thee, was how her mother had chastised her. It seemed as though the only words ever spoken in the King household were from the Bible, until Grace found herself two months pregnant. The blessings stopped, and the cursing began.
    Braking the warrior pose to clutch her belly, where her baby once lived, Grace sighed. Filling the emptiness of her womb had once been her only goal in life, but as the pool of men who were not neurotic or narcissistic and were not on narcotics had grown slimmer than Kate Moss in her heyday, Grace had given up on finding Mr. Right. That longing had been replaced with the need for retribution, which burned in her like a wildfire.
    â€œI’ve heard you’re not in the getting business, so you probably won’t ever answer this prayer, but I want those a—” Grace paused, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t have to tell you what they are, because you know what they are and where they are, and I pray that the same emptiness that haunts my life consumes them. I pray that they come to know loss and suffering the same way I know them—like the back of my hand. Amen.” Having concluded her prayer, Grace returned to the warrior pose. With her arms outstretched toward the ceiling, she chanted, “I am a warrior. I am a warrior.”
    Her new therapist, Dr. Sternberg, had said that she internalized everything, especially the things that were negative about her, and then reproduced them in the form of rage-driven outbursts. Today Grace tried to internalize the warrior chant. “If I put in positivity, then positivity will flow right out of me.” She elongated her arms and stiffened her neck, taking deep breaths between each chant and awaiting her metamorphosis.
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    Ethan stood in front of the cranberry-tinged metal door to Grace’s unit. He fished through his pocket for the spare keys the firm had coerced Grace into giving him after her third arrest, in case of an emergency. Initially, he had resisted the idea as much as she had, since an emergency to the firm consisted of hiding any drug paraphernalia and pills before the cops came and fetching her makeup bag so that she could paint on remorse during her arraignment and sentencing. She had never gone to trial, thanks to Ethan. He was an expert when it came to poking holes in the defense’s argument, and he was cunning enough to get witnesses to recant or incriminate themselves before even taking the stand.
    A smile swept across his face once he finally discovered her keys. This visit was set to be a more cordial and delightful one. He was beyond elated to finally add some sunshine to what seemed like a case of torrential rainstorms in Grace’s life.
    Grace’s plumb, arched backside greeted him. His eyes took on a life of their own and traced her silhouette, from the big toe that her left leg rested on, up her muscular calf, and to her meaty thigh. Blinking hard to fight back his former desires, Ethan tried to conjure up the image of Candace’s round face. He swallowed hard and loosened the knot on his navy blue–and white-striped tie.
    â€œGrace,” he called out, his voice