I blinked. “You’re shockingly good at this. I thought this was your first lesson, too.”
“Nah. I got really good with knives when I was… you know, younger, but I haven’t practiced in years.” She flicked her wrist, and another knife landed so close to the first that both of them vibrated. “Turns out it’s like riding a bike.”
Sure. Like a very large, incredibly sharp bike.
“How’d you learn? Did your dad teach you?”
“Not exactly. But my granddad was an outdoorsman. Super into knives and shit. You should have seen the scars on his hands.”
I carefully set down my last knife on the table next to me and shuddered. “That’s… not as reassuring as you might think.”
She picked up her final knife, flipped it in her hand, and launched it at the target. Muscles I hadn’t noticed before bulged in her shoulder and biceps. “Fuck yeah! Bullseye again. Give me that other one if you’re not going to throw it.”
I picked my knife up again and weighed it in my grip. “I’m going to throw it! Just… give me a minute to remember the stance.”
The large muscular throwing instructor—Vinnie? Vicky?—walked over and grabbed me by the hips, manhandling me into throwing position without waiting for permission.
Was it a little weird that I’d practically gotten to second base with this guy and I couldn’t remember his name?
“Angle your hips like this. Chin up, eyes on the target.” His voice sounded like it had been sanded down over time by every nicotine product on the market. “Spread ’em wider.” He kicked one of my feet out to the side a few inches.
My face ignited. This guy’s scent—tobacco and Old Spice—was like a knockoff version of Jack’s delicious, spicy cologne, and I couldn’t help but get a little hot under the collar.
“Better,” Vlad—Van? Valentine?—approved. “You needa be able ta rock your center of gravity over your front foot.” He moved his hands up to my shoulders and squared me to the target.
I tried not to imagine Jack’s hands touching me that way… or how much I’d like it. I couldn’t imagine a knife-throwing boner was a great idea.
As soon as he moved off to help someone in another lane, Crys elbowed me. “Bro, you should see your face. Jack would say it was eight serrano peppers on the Scoville scale.”
The mention of Jack sent my blood pressure into the danger zone. “Can we not talk abouthim, please?”
I threw the knife with all my frustration, imagining it winging its way powerfully into the center of the wooden target at the end of the lane… and watched as it fell with a defeatedclinkabout two feet in front of me.
Crys bit back a laugh. “Try again, Throwdini.”
Instead of giving up and having no “broadened horizons” to show for my day, I asked the instructor very nicely for a new batch of knives so I could try again. And again. And again. I finally got a knife close enough to the target to wave a cheery hello before it, too, landed with a clang on the floor beside the other missed knives I’d thrown. I was striking out on all fronts today.
“That’s it for me,” I told Crys.
I wasn’t sure I’d worked off my aggression exactly, except by making myself too tired to be angry. But if I wasn’t already strong from carrying full serving trays at Panini Jack’s, my arm would have been screaming in agony, and I knew more throwing would make tomorrow’s workday painful.
Crys nodded absently and kept launching the sharp blades down the lane until it was time for us to gather them back up again and reset.
“I think Elizabeth Bennet would have enjoyed knife throwing,” I decided. “It’s kind of feisty.”
“Mmm.”
“I’m surprised morePride and Prejudicevariations don’t have her trying archery like the Gwyneth Paltrow version ofEmmahad in it. I could see her doing that, too, and it was popular back then.”
Crys effortlessly sank into throwing position and sent another knife toward the target. “I’ve used a crossbow before. It was epic.”
“I just find it funny that these aristocratic people would be dressed in gowns and topcoats at a garden party and pick up a bow and arrow between bites of finger sandwiches on the lawn, you know?”
While she began throwing again, this time small handheld axes, I continued talking about Regency-era lawn games, even telling her about my earlier conversation with Jack about baseball and rounders. She was so focused on the axe-throwing she barely grunted in response.
“Sorry. I’m probably boring you,” I finally said. My disappointment was hard to hide. I loved Crys, but… she was no Jack Wyatt.
“Nah. I just don’t share your passion about Jane Austen. It’s kind of like when my friend Sanjay shows me pictures of his cats. There are only so many times a person can ooh and ah over the same fat orange feline sleeping by the window, you know?”
