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He walks over to me, kneeling down to assess the issue when he reaches me. “I need to get you something a little stronger if I’m going to have you running out here to hang out with me,” he says, gently lifting the tire over the root and freeing me.
I can smell his cologne from this close, and his scent combined with his willingness to help me makes my heart swell a bit in my chest. It’s not strong or overpowering, but the feeling is there. This man really does love me.
“There, try that. Can you move more easily now?” he asks, standing up and shifting me away from the roots in the ground.
Rolling a little to either side, I nod. “I think it’s fine. I just don’t want to tear up the grass with my wheelchair. It’s so well-maintained, it’s going to look like shit when I’m done with it,” I say, partially joking and partially guilty.
“What? Don’t even worry about the grass. It’s just grass. I’d rather have my wife out here with me than perfect grass, for fucksake. I mean, I’ll carry you around if you’re more comfortable that way,” he replies.
I blush a bit. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. At least not yet. I feel like I put on a few pounds being tube fed for two weeks,” I joke.
“Oh, right, the notoriously fattening diet of saline solution and a vitamin drip. Sounds amazing right now,” he says, taking my wheelchair by the handles and pushing me the rest of the way to the shooting range.
The range is lined by a set of carefully-planted trees, one of which tried to trap me on my way out to Adas.
When we’re beyond the tree-line, the range becomes a large swath of green that spans out for what seems like miles.
“This is all our property?” I ask.
Adas nods, picking his gun back up and holding it out to me.
“Oh, I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say cautiously, backing my wheelchair away just a little. “Have I ever fired a gun before?”
He takes a few steps toward me, closing the gap I’ve just created. “No, but it’s never too late for you to learn. Besides, a woman in a wheelchair who knows how to use a gun is extremely sexy. Didn’t know that was something I’m into until now.”
I chuckle nervously, uncertain of whether or not he’s joking. Could he actually bemoreattracted to me in the wheelchair?
I hesitantly reach my hands out for the gun, a small 0.22 he must have chosen just for me in the event that I wanted to come out with him.
When I grasp it, it’s much heavier than I expected it to be. I always wondered why people seemed to be gripping their gun so forcefully in movies. I definitely understand why now.
I examine the grooves and anatomy of the gun, making sure to be excessively careful about the trigger. “Wow, this is kind of a lot.”
He takes it from me gently, holding it up so I can see as he points out the different pieces. “Okay, so this is the slide. This is the part that you’ll want to pull back before you fire. I have the safety on for now. I would never hand you a loaded gun with the safety off without telling you. Do you want to watch me do it first?”
The gun looks so much smaller in his hands than mine. He seems so much more capable than I am, as much as I hate to admit it.
I nod, and he takes position to fire after turning off the safety.
The noise is much louder than I anticipated, and my ears explode into a cacophony of ringing as my brain tries to reassess what just happened.
Suddenly, everything feels totally still, like I’m in a painting.
The ringing continues, but nothing else moves.
In my head, I see the flash of a gun, but it’s not the same kind that Adas has. I feel confined suddenly, and the sound of the bang causes searing pain in my brain, coupled with the memory of the interior of a car.
Where is all this coming from?
My pulse is racing, and the harder I try to control my breathing, the more nauseated and overwhelmed I feel. I’m confused and scared.
He was just trying to show me how to shoot a gun. Why am I reacting this way?
Adas puts the gun down swiftly and rushes to my side, clasping my hand in his. “River, are you okay? Are you in pain?” he asks, but I can barely hear him over the sound of my hyperventilating coupled with the incessant ringing from the gunfire.
It takes me five minutes to calm down enough to give a response. “I just don’t think I’m ready for this. It’s all too intense for me right now. I think I overdid it today,” I explain, feeling uncertain of my own conclusions.
We wait for a moment before returning to the house, but we both remain silent as he wheels me through the courtyard. I’m shaken, and I can’t enjoy the flora as I had on my way out. All I want to do is climb back into my bed.
