Page 112 of Pack Me Up
She does, once, twice. On the third try, her hand steadies.
“You want to stop?” I ask.
She shakes her head, almost fierce. “No. Again.”
This time, I stand behind her, both hands at her waist, lining up her stance. She’s tense, but not rigid. I guide her arms, thumb on her elbow, and when she sights down the barrel, I can feel her focus sharpen through the bond.
“Easy,” I say, voice at her ear. “You’re not fighting it. Let it do the work.”
She fires. The shot is tighter this time, the recoil less violent.
She does it again. And again.
With every shot, the panic recedes. I see it in her posture: the way she stands taller, the way her chin lifts with every hit.
Colton and Cody watch from the next lane, pretending not to, but I can hear the pride in their quiet whispers.
After half a box of ammo, Brittney lowers the gun and blows a strand of hair out of her face. She’s sweating, but her eyes are bright.
“That was…” she starts, then laughs. “Kind of awesome, actually.”
I let her go, step back. “Told you. Nothing to be scared of.”
She looks down at her hands, flexes them. “I don’t like the noise, but the rest is okay.”
“We can get you a silencer next time,” I say.
She hands the gun back, but my fingers brush hers and linger a second too long.
“Thanks, Hunter,” she says, voice quiet.
“Anytime,” I say, meaning it.
We clean up, pack the gear, and head back out into the world. The clouds haven’t moved, but the day feels lighter, like something tight has finally unclenched.
On the walk back to the car, I signal Colton and Cody to stay back so I can have another moment alone with Brittney before we leave.
We get in the car and Brittney’s in the seat next to me, her hair wild from the wind and her cheeks still flushed. She stares out the windshield, hands folded in her lap, but every so often she glances my way. Each time she does, something in my chest goes off—a flicker of static, a pulse like the first shot from a starter’s pistol.
I wait until she’s not looking, then say, “You were amazing back there with the gun.”
She huffs, embarrassed. “I missed half the time.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’m proud of you for going outside your comfort zone.”
She shrugs, not buying it. “I almost freaked out. You saw.”
“I did,” I say, “and then you kept going. That’s what matters.”
I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline crash or something else, but the need to be honest is eating me alive.
“Britt,” I say, and the sound of her name is a punch I can’t explain. “There’s, uh, something I should tell you.”
She turns, finally meeting my eyes. In the dull morning light, hers look like bottled honey with gold at the center and ringed in brown. “Yeah?”
I try to play it off, but my throat’s gone dry. “I love you,” I say, before I can chicken out.
The words hang in the air, huge and dumb and perfect.
