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“Or what? What’s the other option?”
“That maybe you’re secretly a maniac on the loose that I should be hunting down. Because you have a bunch of bodies hidden in your basement.”
I laughed at the absurdity of her assessment. “Marisa, this is California. People don’t have basements.”
Marisa laughed. “Fine, you win.”
“So, you agree?”
She cocked her head in confusion at my words.
“You agree with me. That this is a date?”
“I meant that you’re overly optimistic.”
“Nah. Like I said, I’m just happy.”
She smiled. “Me too.”
“You make me happy,” I admitted. It was a chance I was willing to take to let her in—just a little—about how she made me feel.
“Me too.”
“Good.”
We fell silent again as we finished our coffees and danishes. Even with our tiny admissions to one another, the air between us felt awkward.
“Hey, I have an idea,” I said, breaking the silence. Maybe I was selfish. Maybe I was a fool. I didn’t want our day date to end. Marisa’s eyebrows lifted, and it took everything in me not to suggest something sexual. Instead, I asked, “Shooting range?” That appeared to capture her interest. “There’s a really good one about an hour or so from here that I like.”
“Uh—” She seemed to be thinking about it. Did she not want to spend any more time with me? Had I told her too much? Did the story of my past put her off?
“It’s okay. Never mind,” I told her, sparing myself from her rejection.
“No, I want to go. I just have a lot of stuff to do, and that’s two hours travel time just to get there and back. And that’s without any traffic.”
“We’ll take my bike.”
“We’ll take your bike. But we’ll go to my range instead, yeah? It’s closer.”
She wasn’t turning me down. This was good news. “Sounds fun.”
“I gotta go home and change really quick though.”
I took her proffered hand, ready to have some fun outside the bedroom. I was sorry that she’d be changing out of her dress, but I couldn’t wait to have her straddling me from behind on my bike.
* * *
Boom! Bang! Pop!
I felt the vibrations of the shots through the walls of the thick viewing glass. The sounds of gunfire were somewhat muffled through the earmuffs I wore, but the echoes were still loud.
There were a few cops down at the end of the line. Marisa acknowledged them with a friendly wave when we came in then directed me to the lanes where she wanted us. A discarded shell rolled underneath my foot as I stepped into my dedicated area. I picked it up and placed it onto the ledge, planning to discard it with mine when we left.
This was going to be a different experience for me. I felt a little rush of adrenaline as Marisa handed me a Glock. I felt a different kind of excitement than I did when shooting with my buddies. We were always responsible when handling any weapon. Handguns, machine guns, rifles, pistols, knives, launchers—it didn’t matter what was in our hands. We always made sure to practice safety before anything else. Combat of any kind required skill, patience, and precision. Being a SEAL gave me a sense of power. Not a superiority kind of power where I felt I was better than everyone else. It was a sense of power and pride that came from protecting and serving my country, of being a part of something that helped the citizens of my country.
A million other things were rushing through my head as I tried to recall a few of the important lessons I learned when first learning to shoot. How to handle the gun, keeping my thumb on the side of the frame, never putting my finger on the trigger until I was ready to shoot, keeping my thumbs aligned to maintain a good grip.
BANG! I felt the heavy recoil of the pistol push back into my hands. I loved this feeling.
