Page 25 of Through the Water

There was a distinct difference between church members and church followers. Church members were welcome to every Sunday service and heavily encouraged to ‘step out in faith and tithe.’

With the exception of Brad, the followers who lived within the community were connected to our family through either marriage or blood. They were also ridiculously wealthy and pledged more per year than most people probably made in twenty.

No, Tiffani was better off outside the walls.

“So, like, I think I keep missing him. When exactly does Pastor James drop by to check on you?”

Never,I mouthed. It seems I was sacrificed on the altar of a BMW Z4.

“I’m sorry,” Tiffani apologized. “I’m trying to read your lips but can’t quite—did you say Sunday at four?”

For only the second time in my life, I found I could speak without stammering, but no one could hear me.

How’s that for a paradox?

I shrugged noncommittally and went back to picking at my lunch. Tristan had returned to his stage, preaching the very sermon I’d heard in the van and giving interviews to any network that would have him.

“Is this seat taken?”

I paused in my pursuit of chasing an English pea across the plate and slowly raised my head. Except for the staff, no one spoke to me.

Ever.

My heart skipped and stumbled when our eyes met, temporarily forgetting the very crux of its existence.

Him.

I wasn’t sure who I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t the crutch-wielding jerk from across the hall. I’d hoped our encounter in the hall was one we’d never repeat—yet, here he was again—proving that God must have had quite a sense of humor.

I’d spent a good chunk of my life wanting nothing more than to be seen, only to have my request granted at the most inopportune of times.

Be careful what you pray for, am I right?

“What’s that?” He leaned down as far as the crutches would allow, still towering over me in a way that felt intimidating. “Did you say something?”

Tiffani cleared her throat. “Well, she can’t—”

“Okay, great. Yeah, just place it right there,” he muttered distractedly. An aide placed his tray next to mine and returned to the kitchen before anyone could voice their objections.

Our new table mate flashed us a smile before glancing down to my wheelchair. “Oh, uh, you dropped something.”

A quick check of my lap confirmed the napkin lying near his feet was indeed mine. This was no paper napkin, either. Oh no, True North only used the best of everything. Linen napkins, starched tablecloths—even vases with fresh cut flowers.

It was such a stark change from the hospital—where everything was disposable and easily discarded. If I didn’t like the night nurse, it was just a matter of waiting for a shift change. Here, though, there was consistency with the staff and the well-decorated tables.

I pushed back from the table, only to be stopped by the sound of his voice.

“Stay there, I’ve got it.” He adjusted his weight and tried bending over, succeeding in rattling his crutches, but not much else. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, ridiculously satisfied in watching him make a scene over a scrap of linen.

“You know what? We’ll just do this,” he snagged a napkin off the table next to mine and handed it over with a flourish.

I placed it on my tray, searching his face through narrowed eyes. What was it he wanted? There had to be a hidden motive.

There always was.

He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of my stare before carefully lowering himself onto the empty chair beside me. A strand of jet-black hair flopped onto his forehead, and he casually brushed it back without once breaking eye contact. Gruff exterior notwithstanding, the man was ridiculously good-looking.

I should know.

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