Page 33 of Set on You

His jaw is slack in bewilderment, as if I’ve said something insane. “Is that what you really think?”

“My opinion hasn’t changed in the last three seconds.” I struggle to spit those words out, because I remember how he’s petrified of needles like a child, and how he was kind enough to pick up my grandmother from her appointment on his day off. Unfortunately, all of that is clouded by his cockiness.

He scoffs, hands on hips, stance wide. “It’s funny... you’re making snap judgments about me when you preach this message of self-love and no stereotypes. You’re a hypocrite, Crystal.”

I flinch at his words. He isn’t wrong. But I can’t forget his asshole attitude when he refused to leave my squat rack, among his series of affronts against me. It’s not my fault his personality happens to match the stereotype.

He starts stomping off, but after a couple angry strides, he pivots. “And by the way, you can rest easy knowing I’m not pursuing you. My Neanderthal brain got the hint. Loud and clear.”

•••

GRANDMA FLO ISstark silent when I haul ass into the car and slam the door. She’s definitely overheard our argument through the window. She knows something happened between Scott and me, and I’m embarrassed. I brace for a lecture on the drive back, but she doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, she prattles on about her wedding plans, which include having Tara and me as her bridesmaids. Apparently, I still get the pleasure of donning the ill-fitting peach maid of honor dress I purchased for Tara’s wedding. Lucky me.

“Thanks for the ride, dear,” she says when we reach her driveway. “Remind me, next time you come in, I need help with my iPad. I can’t figure out how to turn off those darndingsevery time I get a message. Scares the jeepers out of me every time.”

I muster a fake smile. “Sounds good.”

Just as she’s about to close the passenger door and wave me off, she pops her head back in. “You know, you weren’t very nice to poor Scotty in the parking lot.”

And there it is.“He’s not always nice to me either.”

Her glare is terrifying enough to scare a hardened criminal into submission. “That’s not an excuse.”

“But—”

“Apologize to him, Crystal.”

chapter twelve

IT’S BEEN THREEdays 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 practicesandadultery. 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 readsBattle Axein a bold, white, graffiti-esque font.

“Grandma, that’s an axe-throwing establishment.” I feel the needto 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 definitelynothere with their grandmas.

---