The question becomes, have I changed enough to accept that?I have no fucking clarity at all.
I fire again and the round drifts just outside the inner ring.
“Motherfucker,” I snarl, angry that I’m not able to focus.
The range door opens behind me and I glance over to see Reid heading to the gun locker.The armory door releases with a soft electronic tone as he scans in.Through the reflection in the lane divider, I watch him select a Sig Sauer P320.He checks the chamber with efficient precision, loads a magazine, and signs it out without a word.
He takes the lane beside mine, puts on his ear protection and sends his target downrange.
Three shots break in quick succession.
When I glance at his monitor, the grouping is tight enough to pass for a single impact from a distance.
I glance at him and he winks back at me.
Fucker.
We shoot side by side for several minutes, the air filled with the percussion of gunfire and spent powder.Normally, this is grounding and an hour on the range always tends to clear my mental clutter.
My target, however, is telling a different story.I anticipate recoil just enough to pull one low.Another drifts right.My breathing isn’t off, my grip isn’t wrong, and yet the results say otherwise.
Reid finishes his string before lowering his weapon and removing his ear protection.I do the same, the sudden relative quiet grating.
He studies the monitor above my lane for a moment.“Your grouping’s off,” he says, not accusatory, just observant.
“It’s fine,” I reply, though we both know it isn’t.
“You don’t shoot like that unless you’re distracted.”
I clear the Glock, ejecting the magazine and locking the slide back before stepping away from the firing line.“Guess I’m distracted.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.“Tessa?”
The question lands with more accuracy than any of my shots have today.I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
Reid’s not one to take the obvious hint though.“Thought that might happen.”
“What might happen?”I ask, irritated.
“Feelings, bro.I thought feelings might happen.”
I set the cleared Glock on the bench and rest my hands briefly on the edge of it, feeling the cool metal beneath my palms.“It’s not like I planned this,” I grumble.
“What’s the big deal?Seems to me reconnecting with a lost love is good, right?”
“Except reconnecting wasn’t in the plan,” I admit.I look downrange at the imperfect pattern showing my lack of focus.“I always thought if she came back, it would be because she chose to.Not because she had nowhere else to go.”
Reid doesn’t interrupt, merely turns fully to me, ears open.
“I gave her an ultimatum when we ended it,” I continue, the memory still heavy even years later.“I told her I couldn’t live waiting for the call that she’d been caught in a situation she couldn’t walk away from.It wasn’t anger.It was fear.”
“And she chose the job over you,” he surmises.
“She had no choice,” I say quietly.“It’s who she is, and I had to respect it.”
He studies me for a long moment.“And now?”
“Now she’s here because she’s in deep shit,” I answer.“But when this is over, she’ll go back to it.I know she will.”
