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“Didn’t realize you’d be the reason I regret coming tonight.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.” But there’s a warmth under it now, nothing like the flat, careful voice he used the night of the storm. “How’s the scooter?”
“Perfect, thanks to you.” I shift my weight, arms still crossed, not quite ready to let him off the hook that easily. “You fixed the gas gauge, too.”
“I noticed it was reading wrong, and it didn’t seem right to hand it back half-fixed.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Most guys would’ve just fixed what broke and called it done. I’m not most guys.”
“Clearly.” I tilt my head, studying him. “It still would’ve been nice to hear that from you instead of finding out from Knox.”
“Noted.”
“That’s it? Noted?”
“What do you want me to say?” But there’s no real anger behind it. Instead, there’s a hint of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry I fixed your gas gauge without filing a report.”
“An apology would be a start.”
“Then I’m sorry your ridiculous pink scooter runs better than it used to. It’s truly devastating.”
That gets an actual laugh out of me, short and surprised, like it caught me off guard as much as it did him.
“It’s not ridiculous,” I argue.
“It’s the color of a Barbie Dream House.”
“Barbie pink is a valid aesthetic.”
“Never said it wasn’t. Just didn’t expect a grown woman to ride one down a mountain road.” But he’s still got that almost-smile going. It changes his whole face when it’s there.
“It has character.”
“It has a basket with a fake flower zip-tied to it.”
“That’s part of the character.”
He shakes his head, but he’s fighting a real smile now, losing the fight badly.
“You always this stubborn about defending questionable decisions?”
“Only the good ones.”
“Uh-huh.” He nods toward the lanes behind me, the group of women I abandoned now fully absorbed in their own conversations, nobody’s paying either of us any attention. “You actually planning on throwing tonight or are you just here for moral support?”
“I’m told I have questionable aim.”
“Everybody’s questionable their first time.” He pushes off the wall fully now, some of the guardedness finally dropping away.
“Are you offering to teach me?”
“I’m offering to stand here and watch you struggle.” He tips his head toward an open lane. “It’ll be educational for both of us.”
“Generous.” I roll my eyes, but I’m already moving toward it.
He follows, only reaching for an ax once we’re actually standing in front of a target. “I contain multitudes.” He tests the weight of it in his hand, then holds it out to me, handle first. “Grip’s the whole problem people get wrong.”
I take it and turn it over in my hands, trying it one way, then another. Gripping it high, then low, none of it feeling remotely natural.
