chapter twelve
IT’S BEEN THREE days since my unintended confrontation with Scott, and despite repeated orders from Grandma Flo, I have yet to apologize. In fact, I’m all-out avoiding the gym during the times I know he might be there—eight in the morning or after six in the evening—depending on whether he’s working days or nights.
With each passing day, the guilt of my truth bomb sets in. I shouldn’t have said what I said, even if there was a kernel of truth to it. Scott may be a cocky, infuriating human, but he didn’t deserve a verbal assault, nor did he deserve to be called a Neanderthal.
I’ve thought at length about texting him to make things right, but I don’t because, apparently, I’m an emotionally inept individual. Telling him I’m sorry would be the right thing to do, but my pride can’t take it. I already falsely accused him of unhygienic gym practices and adultery. Now I’ve preemptively struck once again. There’s no way he’ll accept some flimsy apology, which is why I make the wise decision to leave it be.
It’s better this way, I think to myself as I journey to meet Grandma Flo at her florist appointment. Tara was supposed to go, but she got called into work.
When I pull into the parking lot at the dodgy strip mall that houses the florist, Grandma Flo waves manically from the sidewalk, like a kidnapping victim flapping their arms for help on the side of a remote highway after making a daring escape. She crowds me as I get out of the car, ready to pull me into a hug, as if we didn’t just see each other a few days ago.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say. “A virtual session with a client went a little longer than expected.” I leave out the fact that I left in such a frenzy, I forgot to put on a bra. I realized this when I zoomed over a speed bump and my double D boobs practically hit the sunroof. It occurred to me that I could carry on braless, but there’s no taming them in a thin tank top. In the absence of underwire support, there’s a high risk of a nip slip if I bend a certain way. Grandma Flo would condemn me until the end of time, so I doubled back.
“No matter. My appointment is over.” She waves a vague hand and takes the liberty of hiking my tank top to my chin to cover my cleavage. She smiles, satisfied I no longer look like a jezebel.
I knit my brow, checking the time on my phone. “I’m only ten minutes late. Did they take you early?”
She gives me a brief nod. “I was thinking we could do something fun. Spend some quality time together.” She gestures like Vanna White to the unit next to the florist. The black sign reads Battle Axe in a bold, white, graffiti-esque font.
“Grandma, that’s an axe-throwing establishment.” I feel the need to clarify, because there’s no way my crochet-queen grandmother is interested in axe throwing, the very same activity undertaken by people who exclusively wear plaid and think they’re hard-core.
“It’s on my bucket list,” she informs me casually, as if it’s a perfectly normal activity for frail, elderly women. She proceeds to tug at my arm, yanking me toward the door with more force than expected.
When the door opens, the scent of cedar, freshly churned dirt, and testosterone slaps me in the face. A massive lumbersexual dude sporting a man-bun and a predictable flannel shirt gives us an inviting wave from behind an expansive wooden desk. There are no words exchanged between him and Grandma. They just smile at each other conspiratorially, igniting my suspicion.
I eye him sideways as he points to a sinister, all-black hallway to the left. He motions for us to follow him. “You’re all set up in lane two,” he tells Grandma Flo.
“Excuse me?” I cast an accusatory glare at her as we emerge into a large, open room.
There are ten spaces, separated by wire fences. Each section contains its own wooden bull’s-eye and platform. The space on the far right is occupied by a group of hipster college-age guys. They’re definitely not here with their grandmas.
Everything in here is either wood, plaid, or stuffed (there are two taxidermied deer heads mounted on each far wall). This is so not my scene. Nor is it Grandma Flo’s.
Why would she go to the effort of pre-planning this, pretending it was an impromptu decision?
And that’s when I hear it. Two boisterous voices. Two men emerge from what appears to be a hallway leading to the restrooms.
Scott and Martin.
• • •
I’VE BEEN AMBUSHED. No wonder I have trust issues.
Martin plows forward to fold me into a hearty embrace. He smells like a library, old paper and smoky mahogany. Through my shock, I return his hug. It’s everything a typical grandpa hug should be, wholehearted and reassuring.
Or it would be, if Scott wasn’t serving me menacing looks from behind Martin’s shoulder. Based on the fact that he’s grimacing at me as if I’m a vile presence, suffice to say that he’s not over our last encounter.
“Hi,” I squeak, breaking my hug with Martin.
There’s a pause as Scott and I size each other up. My tenacity lasts all of ten seconds before I look away like a weakling. I’m not up for the challenge. In fact, I’m about to blurt out an apology for the PTSD he may or may not be suffering from my wrath, until I zero in on his hand.
He’s wielding an axe. When his gaze narrows to my face, I’m convinced he’s about to launch it smack-dab into the center of my forehead. He’s certainly calculating how much force he’ll require for a clean shot, or plotting something equally sinister. He’s practically Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
Without so much as a greeting, he turns his shoulder and stomps into the cage. Grandma Flo and Martin don’t acknowledge the obvious tension between us. They’re too busy observing with bated breath as Saint Scott saunters onto the platform. He wastes no time before expertly overhand-pitching the axe toward the target with one hand. It pierces the center of the bull’s-eye so smoothly, it almost looks effortless.
As the grandparents clap and holler, fervently praising Scott’s superhuman athletic ability, I gulp. I must keep watch. From all angles. He’s liable to murder me in cold blood. This seems like the perfect place to do it. It would be easy enough to fake a slip of hand and pretend it was nothing but a tragic, bloody accident.
“Spend a lot of time practicing?” It’s my half-assed attempt to emit a neutral vibe as he waltzes past me, tossing another axe in the air.
He catches it like it’s a baseball and not a bladed weapon. He’s seemingly pleased with himself for demonstrating his precise assassin skills. When he comes face-to-face with me, the smirk drops, replaced by pure animosity. “Yup. In between being a womanizer and a Neanderthal.” His tone is casual enough so as not to alarm our grandparents. It just comes off like an oddly placed joke. He turns his gaze to Grandma, gently handing her the axe.
Surprisingly, she’s better at this than I would have expected for a woman wearing extra-wide, orthopedic loafers. On her third try, she manages to sink the axe into the wood, despite not hitting the target.
After congratulating his bride-to-be, Martin claps me on the back, giving me a gentle push forward. “Crystal, you need to give this a whirl. It’s a good stress reliever.” I bet it is. For crazed lunatics.
Scott snorts. “Yeah, Crystal. Why don’t you come relieve all that pent-up anger? It might even help with those aggressive mood swings.” He holds me captive with his stare as he dislodges Grandma Flo’s axe from the target.
“Uh, it’s fine. I’m fine right here. Martin, you go first,” I stammer, sweat pooling at the base of my back.
“I insist. Ladies first.” Martin kindly steps aside, ushering me toward Scott.
Scott holds out the axe, handle first.
I swallow a golf ball–size lump in my throat, eyeing him with trepidation. I take it hesitantly. It’s lighter than it looks. “Do the staff not give any safety demos?” I ask, delaying.
Grandma Flo nods. “They did. Before you arrived. But it’s okay. Scotty will show you the proper form.”
Scott flashes her a painfully fake smile, clearly disturbed by the prospect of being within a three-foot radius of me.
“I’m good.” I nervous-cough, wobbling as I hop onto the platform. I’m naturally competitive. I can’t fail and show weakness, especially after Scott’s show-off performance and covert jabs. Here goes nothing. I close my left eye, swinging the axe over my head.
“Holy shit!” Scott’s strong grip catches my hands a millisecond before the axe is released, rudely prying the handle from my fingers without an ounce of delicacy. His eyes are wide, like those of an antisocial loner living off-grid in a one-bedroom cabin with no electricity.
I whip around. “Dude, what’s your deal?”
He holds the axe out of reach. “Your form was all wrong. Are you trying to kill someone?”
I roll my eyes in offense, making a dramatic show of suffering. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m automatically an uncontrollable liability with a weapon. I can handle myself, you know. I played tennis in high school,” I add, knowing damn well tennis and axe throwing are not remotely similar.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he gruffly clasps my shoulders, physically spinning me around to face the target. I have to admit, being manhandled is kind of hot. “What hand do you use?” he demands. His tone is glacial, contrasting the warmth of his chest as it grazes the width of my back.
Jesus. “Uh, I’m right-handed.”
With his calloused fingers, he shoves the axe into my right hand from behind. He positions my palm on the base of the handle before folding my left hand over it to hug my grip. Then, he kicks my left foot out to line up with a black mark on the platform. “Now, when you let the axe go, do it at eye level. Not an inch higher or lower,” he instructs as he guides my arms upward.
All I can do is nod. I’m surprised I’m even still breathing with his body practically enveloping me like this. I try to rid my mind of errant thoughts as I follow through in one smooth motion. The axe lands, sinking into the edge of the target.
I turn to thank Scott for his shockingly advantageous assistance, but he’s no longer behind me. My first assumption is he’s dramatically ducking for cover, but instead, he’s smile-nodding in animated conversation with Grandma Flo as if I don’t exist. The man can turn his charm on and off like a light switch.
We cycle through our turns for the next forty minutes. Scott nails practically every shot, as does Martin, who happily reminds us that firefighters wield axes as part of their equipment. It’s an unfair advantage, as far as I’m concerned. Grandma Flo improves by the end of it, despite her concern she’s thrown out her shoulder.
When our time is up, the four of us walk out in single file, spilling onto the blazingly hot sidewalk. “Wasn’t this just the loveliest time?” Grandma Flo’s gaze jumps back and forth between Scott and me hopefully.
Has she not noticed how we’ve avoided each other like the plague the entire time? Aside from when he so courteously helped me with my form.
“Yeah, it was fun,” I say. Truthfully, axe throwing is kind of exhilarating. The satisfaction of hitting the target is addicting. And even though Martin regaled us with long-winded tales of yesteryear when he was a firefighter, I actually found myself amused by his stories.
“We’ll catch you kids soon. Nice to see you, Crystal. And Scotty, tell your mother I said hi.” Martin waves as he lumbers into the driver’s seat of his Lincoln. As they back out of their parking spot, Scott walks off in silence, presumably to his car.
I stand there like an idiot, staring at his back for far too many paces before the guilt becomes too much.
“Scott?” I call out.
He stops, waiting a few beats. Then he slow-pivots to face me, arms crossed in a wide stance.
My legs carry me halfway through the parking lot, stopping a couple feet in front of him. When his fiery eyes meet mine, my mind blanks, rendering me incapable of forming a proper sentence. “I, uh, I wanted to, um . . . to thank you.”
His forehead creases. “Thank me for what?”
“For helping me with my form,” I spit out. I’m such a coward.
“Didn’t do it for you. I did it in the name of public safety.”
I dip my chin, squinting into the beating sun. “I also wanted to say . . . I-I’m sorry.”
His face flickers with momentary satisfaction before he pulls it back to an expression worthy of a drill sergeant. “You’re sorry for what?” Damn, he is not letting me off easy.
I bite my lip. “I apologize for the other day. For stereotyping you. For assuming you were a man-whore. And for calling you a Neanderthal. It was uncalled-for and hypocritical.”
There’s a prolonged pause as he searches my face. I think he’s waiting to see if I’ll walk back the apology, but I don’t. Finally, he runs his hand along the back of his neck and nods. “Thanks.”
More silence. The longer he stares at the cracked pavement, the further I sink into guilt.
“I really messed up. I have some trust issues I need to work through,” I say, bowing my head.
When I look up, his face softens slightly as he meets my eyes. “It’s fine.”
“So, are we cool now?” I ask hopefully.
He rocks back on his heels, unfolding his arms. “I guess so.”
I nervously twirl a piece of my hair around my fingers. “That doesn’t sound overly convincing.”
“Crystal, I’m fine. Are you convinced now?” He gives me a forced Chandler Bing smile.
I release an exasperated sigh. “Why do you have to be so difficult? Do I need to give you my firstborn child? Sell my soul?”
He’s pensive for a moment, as if he’s actually considering it. Then his lips finally turn into that self-satisfied smile I know all too well. As aggravating as it may be, I’m relieved it’s made a reappearance. “Meet me at the gym tomorrow,” he instructs.
“The gym?”
“Yup. We’ll be doing my choice of workout, though,” he says as he starts toward his car.
I’m tempted to say yes, simply because I don’t shy away from a challenge. And maybe because seeing him work out is a sight to behold. But I already know it can’t lead anywhere good. I ponder this proposition until he’s almost at his car. “And if I do your mystery workout, I’ll be forgiven? Just like that?” I call out.
Even from a distance, his eyes offer a glimmer of amusement. “Don’t underestimate me, Chen. You’ll be working for it.”