I knew I was wrong. I knew that his wordless nods and chin jerkswerehis greetings and that he was dreadful at small talk. I knew I did not despise him as much as I wanted to believe.
He stared down at me before he left that night, his scowl fresh and unguarded, and there was a second where it seemed like he wanted to say something more. Instead, he pointed a meaningful glance at the water he'd poured for me and reminded me to lock the door behind him.
I wasn't even sure Iwantedto despise him anymore.
The sun wasbright in a blinding way that only seemed to occur on cool mornings in November. These days made me feel electric and alive, like I could juice the sun straight into my veins.
I liked these kinds of days—except when I found myself conscripted into yet another weekend homework assignment.
Perhaps it wasn't the sun blinding me this morning so much as Sebastian's neon orange bubble suit. I couldhearhim scowling clear across the outdoor jousting ring as the instructor secured him into the suit which resembled a massive ball of bubble wrap.
I had to turn away because he looked like some kind of citrus-themed mascot, a tangerine stuck with arms, legs, and murder in mind.
"Shut up, Shap," he called.
"I didn't say anything," I yelled back.
"You are doubled over laughing," he said flatly. "As soon as you're suited up, you're dead."
"Well, now, folks," the instructor said. "We like to think of bubble suit jousting as an opportunity for friendly competition, not—"
"You're going down, Florida," I called to Sebastian. "And you're not getting back up."
"Big words from a little bit," he shouted.
The instructor helped me into a cobalt blue suit as Sebastian paced the perimeter of the sparring ring. "Being closer to the ground is an advantage," I said.
He shook his head as he muttered to himself. It was unacceptably funny to see such a tall, powerful man trapped inside an orange bubble, his arms skewered straight and his steps unsteady. Even the helmet was hilarious, and for no specific reason other than he looked so unlike his usual self. "We'll test that theory," he shot back.
Once I was buttoned up, the instructor, a twentysomething guy with long, curly hair trailing down from under a beanie, who'd introduced himself as Paxton, set a pair of oversized foam jousting lances in the center of the square ring. "Okay, folks. Let's review the rules."
"Fuck the rules," I said.
"No rules," Sebastian agreed.
"I know this is exciting," Paxton said, a warning hand raised, "but we do have safety protocols and—"
"If I kill him, I'll clean up after myself," I said.
"There will be damages," Sebastian said. "Charge me whatever is necessary."
Paxton glanced between us, his jaw slack. "Well, let's wait a second. We don't want anyone getting hurt—"
Sebastian grabbed the lance. "Even if I could hurt her with this, I know how to put her back together."
Despite Paxton's increasing concern, I shuffled up to my lance and took it in hand. "He won't admit it but I know how to put him back together too." I wagged the lance at Sebastian. "Surgeons. Mass General. We can't hurt each other any more here than we hurt each other without the sticks."
Though this didn't appease Paxton, it was all the invitation Sebastian needed to wail me in the bubble belly and send me floundering backward. It was not a great moment as far as my battle strategy went but I was laughing like I'd never laughed before.
From the other side of the ropes, Paxton called, "You folks signed all the waivers, right?"
Getting up meant rolling to my side and climbing to my knees. Sebastian was there waiting for me, his lance poised to crack over my head. But there was power in being close to the ground and I used all of that leverage to topple him with one shove to the bottom curve of his suit, leaving him sprawled and flailing. An overturned turtle with the temperament of a bull.
While I scrambled for my lance, Sebastian managed to heave himself onto his side and gain his feet. He wasted no time in whacking me again but I was prepared for it, my legs braced and my grip on the lance firm.
"Accept that I am going to win," I yelled as he pounded my side. "There will be no victory for you."
"I don't need victory," he shouted over my laughter. "I just need to kick your ass. You can thrash me when I'm done."
