CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GEMMA
The best heroes always have scars. If they didn’t, the heroine would have nothing to do. It’s her job to help the hero let all that stuff go in order that her man can be strong enough to fight on but when he’s with her he’s free to just breathe.
—KRISTENASHLEY
In my mind, I’ve written a million backstories for Karson. A million motivations for why he invited me over to learn to shoot guns today. Being that he’s dating someone else, none of them make sense. But they say that’s the difference between fiction and real life. Only fiction has to make sense.
As a writer, I’m still trying to figure it out anyway. I’ve narrowed possible motives down to three options.
1.Karson is nothing more than worried about my safety.He’s still annoyed by my writing but realizes I tend to be unobservant to the world around. He won’t always be here to protect me, and neither will Kai and Charlie. So he’s going to teach me to take care of myself. That’s his job. Personally, I think I’d be more comfortable with a Taser than a gun. I could never actually shoot anybody.
2.Karson and I are friends now.His gorgeous redhead girlfriend (whom I shall visualize as Scarlett Johansson fromBlack Widowsince, you know, Karson is basically Hawkeye) has no reason to be threatened by me. Maybe she’ll even be at his house today, and we’ll become besties. I’ll play her sidekick, because she’s certainly tough enough to shoot supervillains. She’ll set me up with Captain America, and we’ll go on double dates, be in each other’s weddings, and laugh about all this someday.
3.Karson likes me.This is my favorite scenario. And in my mind, he’s not cheating or anything, because there is no redhead. Either Drew made her up as a joke or Karson ended things with her. He may not be ready for a relationship or want to admit his feelings, but our connection during self-defense class and on my ride-along was more than one-sided.
My fingers itch at the idea of scenario three. I get that same feeling when I’m writing romantic scenes, but sadly I don’t have the control of a playwright over my own life. I need to stop trying to script my future. I need a blank page.
“Blank page,” I say aloud.
Siri’s automated voice responds over my car’s speaker, “In one hundred feet, turn right.”
I refocus on the winding forest road that has turned the sun into a strobe light. Gorgeous roads like this make it seem as if I’ve driven hours away from Portland, though really, I’m just outside city limits.
A black mailbox marks a long gravel driveway with the address I’m looking for. I slow to turn, and my eyes scan the shade for any sign of a residence. Nothing yet. My tires crunch through the thick trees for a good minute before a home appears. It’s a simple one story—kind of a ranch house, but with a dramatic roof that makes it seem more modern. It’s painted a natural brown color that effortlessly blends into the surrounding woods.
I pull onto a cement driveway, cut my engine, and just take in the place. “Blank page.”
Karson’s home is the exact opposite of my sister’s home—fresh, peaceful, and simple. Somehow, it’s both unexpected and fitting for the man I know who lives here.
I’d pictured an angry cop to reside in a city apartment with horns honking and neighbors’ music blaring, but again, I’ve watched too many movies. It makes sense that Karson would want to get away from all that. Here, it’s quiet except for birds chirping over the faint murmur of tires in the distance.
I open my car door and breathe in the musty scent of underbrush that never fully dries. The dewy air is cool and dim, even though the temperature is supposed to reach the 90s. Perhaps that’s why the contemporary lights on the house are lit up with a golden glow in the middle of the day.
A mechanical grinding sound startles me, but it’s only the garage door opening. Light shines out from underneath as the door rolls up. I’m about to be let into Karson’s world.
“Blank page.”
While the man was born to wear a police uniform, the raising of the garage door reveals a different look. First, I see scuffed, camel-colored work boots. Next jeans. Not the soft kind that easily gets holes, but the rugged kind that have to be worn a lot to soften. Then a black T-shirt, which I appreciate for being neither too baggy nor too tight.
He’s holding a rifle and wearing a baseball cap, and of the two, it’s that hat that makes my pulse pick up speed. I didn’t realize I liked baseball caps so much. Maybe I just like them on him. Because it means we’re hanging out, and he’s not getting paid to be here right now.
By the time my eyes reach Karson’s face, he’s already looking at me. “I thought I heard you out there. What’d you say?”
“Uh …” I don’t remember saying anything. Do I really talk to myself, like a heroine in a Hallmark movie? “Nice place?”
“Thanks.” He sets the gun down on a long workbench full of other gun-looking things and points to the driveway. “If you keep going, you’ll run into my grandparents’ home. They bought this property in the ’60s.”
I blink the direction he’s pointing. That’s another shocker. But super sweet. Now that I think about it, a policeman probably couldn’t afford to live in this area at today’s prices. “They still live here?”
“Yep.” He picks up a bright-yellow rag and polishes the rifle. “Granddad taught me to shoot, and we have a gun range behind our houses.”
I’d thought we were going to head to an indoor range or something. But this feels so much different. It’s not just a way for Karson to show off. It’s personal. “Your land is beautiful.”
“I know.” He sighs and looks out at the trees. “I left for a while, but this is home.”
I can see that. And I like it. “Where’d you go?”
