“What is this place?” I ask as we both pile out of Tristan’s car.
The distant sound of gunfire answers my question before Tristan can. He moves around to the trunk and pulls out a dark equipment bag, slinging it over one shoulder before nudging me and pointing at the house. Just disappearing from sight, I can make out a large wraparound porch. It looks segmented, with little barriers evenly spaced, and the whole thing points towards the tree line. If I squint, I can make out targets at the end, and a few more loud pops of gunfire confirm my suspicions.
“Okay, got it. And why are we at a gun range?” I ask.
Tristan turns and walks toward the entrance, equipment bag in tow.
“Because neither of us knows how to play fucking golf.”
I’m a little bewildered, but I fall in line behind him anyway. I’m sure it’ll make sense eventually. I don’t think I’ve ever actually been to a gun range. Most of my friends had something slapped together on their land or a neighbor’s growing up. We were no exception, with Dad marking out a specific area a couple miles from the trailer where he would drag me out for target practice from time to time.
It was probably the only thing we really did together, other than fight. I haven’t really thought about it in a while. This place seems fucking all class in comparison to Dad, a few beers, and the weathered old AK-47 that one of my uncles smuggled home after Desert Storm, which was my dad’s pride and joy.
I chew on the memories quietly as we head inside. It’s clean and well kept, with a single clerk behind the counter. An older guy with steel gray hair and that tight, controlled body language that seems designed to screamI servedto everyone he meets.
There are a bunch ofDon’t Tread on Mebumper stickers and shit stuck up around the space, and the first time the clerk glances at me, I feel acutely uncomfortable. Like I don’t belong and everyone here is going to know it. Like Sergeant Hartman over here is about to start pointing at me and screaming to everyone else that he spotted my queerness or just the fact that I’m not a fucking libertarian. Normally, that kind of situation gets my blood up. It makes me ready for a fight, and instantly on edge.
I don’t know what’s different today, but instead of anger, I feel the urge to sink in on myself. But as I show the man my ID and sign in, spacing out through the obligatory safety spiel despite my best efforts, nothing happens.
He doesn’t talk to me any differently, and starts walking us outside to a lane like this is all normal. He and Tristan aren’t exactly chit-chatting, but there’s a level of familiarity there that makes me think this isn’t Tristan’s first time here.
Does this guy really know who Tristan is? Him and Ford shacking up was wild gossip in this area, influenced I’m sure by Tristan’s status as a showy outsider, Ford’s reputation as a mysterious recluse, and the fact that they’re both so fucking hot. No one admits the last part, but I know it’s true.
Maybe he does know, and he doesn’t care. I focus on watching Tristan’s posture as I follow along behind, and try to let the way he seems utterly at ease with himself and his surroundings rub off on me a little.
After what seems like forever, our lane is declared hot and the dude leaves us alone. I’m waiting for Tristan to say something profound, but he just gets to work loading the small Beretta he pulled out of his sack of wonders before passing it to me.
“What are we doing, Tristan?” I have to shout because we’re both wearing ear protection now, even though it’s pretty silent here apart from the one other customer standing all the way at the far end of the lanes.
“Shooting,” he says, with a look like I’m dense for not understanding.
“My hand—” I start, looking at the splint that’s been driving me insane.
“You can watch me shoot if you’d prefer. But your work note is almost finished, I think you can handle a little recoil. And I can’t think of a damn thing for us to do that doesn’t require your hands, unless you wanna learn to crochet with your toes.”
I’m tempted to suggest the bar one more time, because that sounds relaxing as hell right now. But also, so does the range. Now that we’re here.
I finally turn and face the target, careful to line up my body and the site the way I was taught, and squeeze the trigger. The sound of it, the smell of gunpowder in the air, the jolt of energy that my body has to absorb as it kicks, it all combines in a waythat’s so familiar, I feel some of the tension in my shoulders automatically unfurling.
The world gets quiet as I focus on nothing but what I’m doing, emptying the clip methodically until Tristan takes it from me and reloads. Which I appreciate, because my hand is fucking sore and my thumb is not feeling up to the job right now, but the pain is nothing compared to the steady flush of endorphins into my body.
We repeat this three times, with my aim improving each round. Eventually, my hand throbs enough that I have to take a break, so I nod to Tristan to have his turn.
Of course, he pulls out a rifle from somewhere, holding it like it’s an extension of his body. He aims for the steel target farther away from us than the one I was hitting. And of course, he decimates me in terms of accuracy. He doesn’t even try to hide the cocky smile when he finishes.
“It’s not classy to gloat. I got taught to shoot by a meth addict, you got taught by the US fucking Army.”
“Bold of you to assume nobody there was on meth,” he says, his grin not dampened even a little. “Deployments can get long, and you can only supervise bored meatheads up to a point.”
The afternoon continues like that. We don’t really talk, just quietly take turns, and by the time we agree to pack up I’m sore everywhere, even though it can’t have been more than an hour.
I feel calm, though. The flustered kind of panic I felt when we arrived doesn’t return when we finally check out to leave, and the clerk’s demeanor hasn’t changed one iota as he thanks us gruffly and sends us on our way.
Once we’re back in the car with the engine on and the radio tuned to some classic rock station turned low, I finally ask him again.
“So, what was that about? Not that I didn’t have fun,” I start.
Tristan makes no move to pull out of the parking lot, but runs his hands over the leather of the steering wheel, like a habit.
