Page 35 of Set on You

Jesus.“Uh, I’m right-handed.”

With his calloused fingers, he shoves the axe into my righthand from behind. He positions my palm on the base of the handle before folding my left hand over it to hug my grip. Then, he kicks my left foot out to line up with a black mark on the platform. “Now, when you let the axe go, do it at eye level. Not an inch higher or lower,” he instructs as he guides my arms upward.

All I can do is nod. I’m surprised I’m even still breathing with his body practically enveloping me like this. I try to rid my mind of errant thoughts as I follow through in one smooth motion. The axe lands, sinking into the edge of the target.

I turn to thank Scott for his shockingly advantageous assistance, but he’s no longer behind me. My first assumption is he’s dramatically ducking for cover, but instead, he’s smile-nodding in animated conversation with Grandma Flo as if I don’t exist. The man can turn his charm on and off like a light switch.

We cycle through our turns for the next forty minutes. Scott nails practically every shot, as does Martin, who happily reminds us that firefighters wield axes as part of their equipment. It’s an unfair advantage, as far as I’m concerned. Grandma Flo improves by the end of it, despite her concern she’s thrown out her shoulder.

When our time is up, the four of us walk out in single file, spilling onto the blazingly hot sidewalk. “Wasn’t this just the loveliest time?” Grandma Flo’s gaze jumps back and forth between Scott and me hopefully.

Has she not noticed how we’ve avoided each other like the plague the entire time? Aside from when he so courteously helped me with my form.

“Yeah, it was fun,” I say. Truthfully, axe throwing is kind of exhilarating. The satisfaction of hitting the target is addicting. And even though Martin regaled us with long-winded tales ofyesteryear when he was a firefighter, I actually found myself amused by his stories.

“We’ll catch you kids soon. Nice to see you, Crystal. And Scotty, tell your mother I said hi.” Martin waves as he lumbers into the driver’s seat of his Lincoln. As they back out of their parking spot, Scott walks off in silence, presumably to his car.

I stand there like an idiot, staring at his back for far too many paces before the guilt becomes too much.

“Scott?” I call out.

He stops, waiting a few beats. Then he slow-pivots to face me, arms crossed in a wide stance.

My legs carry me halfway through the parking lot, stopping a couple feet in front of him. When his fiery eyes meet mine, my mind blanks, rendering me incapable of forming a proper sentence. “I, uh, I wanted to, um... to thank you.”

His forehead creases. “Thank me for what?”

“For helping me with my form,” I spit out. I’m such a coward.

“Didn’t do it for you. I did it in the name of public safety.”

I dip my chin, squinting into the beating sun. “I also wanted to say... I-I’m sorry.”

His face flickers with momentary satisfaction before he pulls it back to an expression worthy of a drill sergeant. “You’re sorry for what?” Damn, he is not letting me off easy.

I bite my lip. “I apologize for the other day. For stereotyping you. For assuming you were a man-whore. And for calling you a Neanderthal. It was uncalled-for and hypocritical.”

There’s a prolonged pause as he searches my face. I think he’s waiting to see if I’ll walk back the apology, but I don’t. Finally, he runs his hand along the back of his neck and nods. “Thanks.”

More silence. The longer he stares at the cracked pavement, the further I sink into guilt.

“I really messed up. I have some trust issues I need to work through,” I say, bowing my head.

When I look up, his face softens slightly as he meets my eyes. “It’s fine.”

“So, are we cool now?” I ask hopefully.

He rocks back on his heels, unfolding his arms. “I guess so.”

I nervously twirl a piece of my hair around my fingers. “That doesn’t sound overly convincing.”

“Crystal, I’m fine. Are you convinced now?” He gives me a forced Chandler Bing smile.

I release an exasperated sigh. “Why do you have to be so difficult? Do I need to give you my firstborn child? Sell my soul?”

He’s pensive for a moment, as if he’s actually considering it. Then his lips finally turn into that self-satisfied smile I know all too well. As aggravating as it may be, I’m relieved it’s made a reappearance. “Meet me at the gym tomorrow,” he instructs.

“The gym?”

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