I walked with him.
The garden was at the east side of the building — old, overgrown at the edges — raised beds that had been productive once and were going to seed. He walked me through it with his hand still at my back, pointing out things, asking what I thought about the beds nearest the wall, whether lavender would take in this climate.
He was asking me about lavender.
“You don't actually care about the garden,” I said.
“I care about the garden.”
“You care about being seen walking me through it.”
He considered this. “Both things can be true.”
I stopped walking. He stopped beside me, close enough that his shoulder was against mine.
“This morning,” I said carefully. “The sermon.”
“What about it?”
“The part about willful blindness.” I looked at him. “Were you preaching at them or at me?”
His expression did the thing it did — nothing, and then something, and then nothing again, too fast to catch. He looked out at the overgrown beds for a moment.
“Matthew 13,” he said, “is a text about the nature of understanding. Who has ears, let them hear.” He looked back at me. “I preach what the text calls for, Mercy.”
“That's not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed. He reached up and tucked a piece of hair back from my face — that gesture, the one he used like punctuation. “It's not.”
Behind us, somewhere near the front of the church, Billy's laugh rang out — easy and bright — a man with nothing on his conscience and a full flask. Mrs. Arceneaux's voice rose in response, not amused.
Judah's mouth curved. Barely.
“The lavender will take,” I said.
“Will it.”
“South-facing wall, good drainage. It'll take.”
I pretended I knew what I was talking about. I didn’t. It was horseshit — had never not-killed a plant in my entire life.
But it sounded like it was the truth.
I was learning.
He looked at me for a long moment. The midday light was doing something to his face.
He knew what I was doing.
I knew he knew.
He cocked his head and shot me a genuine smile, a little mischievous.
“Good,” he said. “Plant it.”
You’re bluffing,he was saying.I know it. You know it. Prove it.
I don’t know why but it felt oddly thrilling, trying to reach him where he was. Trying to prove to him that I could play his game. Maybe even become better at it than he.
