The Infinite Moment of Us (5 page)

even known he would see her at Grady. But his hand had

been warm in hers as she stitched him up, and he’d smelled

like pine trees, and being with him hadn’t felt random at

all.

His eyes were the same shade of auburn as his tousled

hair. She’d lost herself in them, because who had auburn

eyes?

“So?” Tessa demanded.

“Huh?”

“The shooting range. What do you say?”

“Oh. Um, sure.”

“But it’ll be so— Wait. What?”

“It’s something new thing to try. I
want
to try new things.

Unless you think that’s dumb?”

“No!” Tessa said quickly. “Wren! Yay! We are going to

have so much fun!”

Wren wasn’t sure, but she was willing to give it a chance.

“After you, ladies,” P.G. said, using his body to hold open

the door to the Sure Shot Shooting Range. In each hand he

held a gun case. One contained multiple small pistols. The

other case held a huge revolver, which took bullets bigger

than Wren’s thumb. Bigger than anyone’s thumb.

The guns still made Wren feel queasy, but to P.G.’s

credit, he’d spent hours teaching Wren and Tessa about

gun safety before bringing them here. He took the task

seriously, because it turned out that, when it came to guns,

P.G. was very serious.

“You’re kind of freaking me out,” Tessa had said after

P.G. explained, point by point, the differences between a

handgun, a semiautomatic, and a revolver. “Are you ever

going to smile?”

“I am smiling,” he’d said without altering his expression.

It was the closest thing to a joke he’d made all day.

Before the morning was over, Wren had learned what

the different parts of a gun were called and how they

worked. She’d learned where to put her trigger finger

when holding a gun and where to point the barrel, and

she’d learned that, with the exception of hunters, a gun

owner’s primary goal should be to prevent the loss of life.

“If you choose to bear arms, it should be so that you can

defend yourself and those around you,” P.G. had explained.

“Are there gun nuts out there who do nothing but drink

beer and shoot Bambi? Sure, but that’s a stereotype. The

majority of people who own firearms treat them with

enormous respect.”

Later, Tessa had waved one of the unloaded pistols

around, pretending to be a bank robber, and P.G. had

grabbed her wrist and gently but firmly guided her hand

down.

“Watch it,” he’d said.

“Sorry,” Tessa had replied, crinkling her nose.

“Good,” P.G. had said. “When you’re dealing with weap-

ons, there’s no room for mistakes.”

Tessa had uncrinkled her nose. “Okay,” she’d said in a

much smaller voice.

Wren, for one, had been impressed. She could tell that

P.G. hadn’t been trying to make Tessa feel bad. He’d just

wanted her to know that she couldn’t be silly if she had a

gun in her hand. Oh, except P.G. didn’t use the word
gun
.

He preferred the term
weapon
or
firearm
.

At any rate, Wren felt surprisingly well-prepared as she

followed Tessa into the shooting range. Then she made the

mistake of looking around.

“Whoa, this is crazy,” Tessa said.

“What you said,” Wren replied. She took in the rows

and racks and counters and shelves of guns, guns, and more

guns before her. Also, ammunition. Also, gun safes, which

looked like refrigerators. The safes had oversize price tags

on them, which was how Wren knew what they were.

She flipped one of the tags over. here’s the fire-resistant

gun safe you’ve always wanted, at a patriot-sale price you

can’t pass up! it read in thick black letters. holds up to 24

long guns & protects them from fire for up to 30 minutes!

“Hey, I thought this was a shooting range,” Tessa said,

tugging on P.G.’s sleeve. She wasn’t crinkling her nose, but

she was back in flirty mode. “Is it a store, too? Do they sell shoes?” She grinned at P.G.’s consternation. “Kidding!”

Wren joined Tessa, who was standing by a glassed-in

counter.

“Aw,” Tessa said. She tapped on the glass. “Look, Wren,

it’s pink! It’s a pink camouflage gun! I mean
weapon
! I mean
firearm
!”

“It’s a Glock,” P.G. said.

“It’s so cute,” Tessa cooed, and Wren caught P.G. shoot-

ing the man behind the counter a look that said, “Sorry,

dude.” The man wore a bright orange vest and a bright

orange hunting cap.

“It’s pink,” Wren said.

“Uh-huh,” Tessa said.

“How can pink be camouflage?” Wren said.

“Well, look at it,” Tessa said. “It is.”

“Okay, yes. But
where
would pink be camouflage? At a

baby shower?”

Tessa laughed. So did P.G. The man in the vest stayed

impassive.

“This way,” P.G. said, leading Tessa and Wren to another

counter. This, it seemed, was where you rented a lane at

the shooting range. It reminded Wren of bowling. So did

the muffled but still-loud noise coming from behind a set

of heavy doors.

“One lane, one hour,” P.G. told the guy manning the

register. Like the first man, he wore a bright orange vest

and cap.

“They eighteen?” the guy in the hunting attire asked.

“Yep,” P.G. said.

“They’ve had a safety class?”

“Yep,” P.G. said. He handed the guy two twenties.

“Thanks, bud. Have a good one.” To Tessa and Wren, he

said, “Grab a pair of safety glasses and ear protectors. Let’s do this thing.”

They had to go through a double-door system to get to

the shooting lanes. The moment they passed through the

second door, the sound of guns going off hit Wren hard.

She flinched and put on her ear protectors.

P.G. said something else, but Wren couldn’t make it out

over the explosive bangs and pops.

“Huh?” Wren yelled.

He tapped his safety glasses, which he’d already put on,

and which were far cooler-looking than the nerd-wear

loaners Wren clutched.

“Oh!” Wren yelled. “Right!”

“Quit yelling!” Tessa yelled.

“What?”

“You’re yelling!”

“Huh? Speak up!”

“Sweet baby Jesus,” P.G. might have said, and Tessa

smiled a smile that was just for Wren.

Wren slipped on her safety glasses. The frames dug into

the sides of her head. P.G. passed her one of his handguns

and showed her where to position herself in the lane. She

was still uncertain how she felt about this whole experi-

ence, but here she was, so she lined up the sight on the

bull’s-eye target five yards away, then pulled the trigger.

Since she was the one controlling it, the
bang
the gun made didn’t make her flinch. And she hit it! She hit the target!

Nowhere near the center circle, but still!

“I hit it!” she yelled. “Did you see? Look!”

“Very nice!” P.G. yelled. “Especially for a rookie!”

“Way to go!” Tessa yelled, slapping her a high five.

Wren shot the five remaining bullets in the cham-

ber,
bam, bam, bam, bam, bam
. Her reaction confused her.

There was a thrill to shooting a gun—she had to admit

it. If there’d been more rounds in the chamber, she would

have fired them all off, every last one. But wasn’t that what

made guns scary? The fact that shooting them was fun?

She returned the gun to P.G., who reloaded the clip and

jammed it into place with the heel of his palm.
Yes, he’s hot
, Wren admitted to Tessa with her eyes. He handed the gun

to Tessa this time. He stood behind her, resting his hand on

the small of her back.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded. “Wider base equals

a steadier shot!”

Tessa spread her legs. She was wearing a short, flippy

skirt, and she looked sexy.

Wren thought of Charlie. How she’d held his hand.

Touched his skin. How they’d sat so close, their legs almost

touched. A warm flush spread through her body, com-

pletely distracting her.

Focus, she told herself. Focus on your friend, because

she is why you are here, and she has a gun in her hands.

Watch her shoot things!

Tessa pulled the trigger. The bullet zinged past the tar-

get, missing it entirely.

“You anticipated the recoil!” P.G. yelled. “That’s what

threw you off!”

“Huh?” Tessa yelled. She handed the gun to him. “You

do it!”

P.G. took the gun, and his body language told Wren

he’d done this many times before. He shut his left eye and

extended his right arm as he fired the round. It almost tore

off the upper right corner of the target, and his next shots

finished the job. He made it look easy.

“Dude!” Tessa crowed. “You did worse than Wren!”

Wren shook her head. The holes from her shots were

scattered, and one of her bullets had missed the target

completely. P.G.’s bullets had landed in almost exactly the

same spot, all on top of each other.

“He wasn’t aiming for the center,” Wren told her.

“What?” Tessa yelled.

Wren raised her voice. “His aim was dead-on!”

“What?!”

P.G. grabbed his second gun case—the one carrying the

big gun—and put it on the shelf in front of him.

Guys from other lanes looked over. Not at Tessa. Not at

Wren. All their attention was on the weapon.

“Smith and Wesson 500?” yelled a guy wearing a tattered

Halo shirt.

P.G. nodded, and the guy yelled, “Now,
that’s
a fucking gun.”

“Your face is a fucking gun!” the Halo guy’s friend yelled.

The Halo guy ignored him, as did P.G. He loaded the

firearm and offered it to Tessa.

“Try this,” he told her. “You keep it steady, and I guaran-

tee you’ll knock out that bull’s-eye.”

“You’ll knock out the fucking target!” Halo Guy yelled.

“Your face’ll knock out the fucking target!” his friend

echoed.

Tessa hesitated, toeing the floor. Wren couldn’t believe

it. Was Tessa playacting? No way. That wasn’t Tessa’s style.

It
was
a very big gun. A very big revolver, to be precise, with an enormous cylinder that P.G. had already loaded.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, Wren thought.

“I’ll shoot it,” she yelled, stepping forward. She took the

revolver, and it was so heavy, she swayed.

“Aw, Christ, no,” Halo Guy yelled. “Dude, that’s gonna

knock her flat on her ass!”

“Your face is gonna knock her flat on her ass!” his friend

yelled.

“She can handle it,” P.G. responded.

He helped guide her right hand around the grip and her

left hand over her right hand. He adjusted the position of

her thumbs while she rested her right finger on the slide.

She wasn’t supposed to put her finger on the trigger until

she was ready to shoot.

“It’s going to kick like a mule,” P.G. said directly into her

ear. He probably wanted to avoid the inevitable “Your face

kicks like a mule!” but his proximity was unnerving. Wren

thought of Charlie again. She bet Charlie could shoot a gun

if he had to—but only if he had to. She didn’t see him as

the gun-shooting type.

P.G. patted her shoulder and stepped back. “Do it, girl.”

“Your face’ll—” began Halo Guy’s friend.

Wren pulled the trigger—she had to pull
hard
—and a

sonic boom knocked her three steps backward. The front

of the barrel, which she’d aimed at the target, now pointed

at the ceiling, and her right shoulder stung. She wasn’t

foolish enough to say so, but she could have sworn she saw

flames shoot out.

“Dude!” Halo Guy cheered.

“Nice!” his buddy yelled.

“Your face is nice!” Wren yelled, adrenaline coursing

through her. She was sure she was grinning foolishly.

“Check it out,” P.G. said, jerking his chin at the target.

The hole in the target was as big as a fist. The bull’s-eye

was gone.

Afterward, they sat at an outdoor table at El Elegante.

P.G. ordered a pitcher of margaritas, and the waiter asked

to see their IDs. When only P.G. produced one—fake, of

course—the waiter said, “Sorry, señor. No pitcher for one

person.”

“You’re killing my reputation,” P.G. told the waiter,

spreading his hands. “You know that, right?”

“Chips and salsa?” the waiter asked.

“Yeah, whatever, and a Corona for me,” P.G. said. “No,

Cokes all around.” He made a fist and stuck it into the mid-

dle of the table. “Solidarity. Righteous.”

Wren and Tessa glanced at each other, amused, and

added their fists to his.

“Righteous,” Wren said, making Tessa laugh.

Tessa could have gotten them margaritas if she tried.

She’d done so before. Once, when Wren and Tessa were

juniors, they’d gone to a Mexican restaurant and Tessa

had offered the waiter a kiss for a frozen strawberry mar-

garita. When he agreed, she’d offered him a second kiss for

another. “For my friend,” Tessa had said.

Wren had been embarrassed that the waiter didn’t

ask for a kiss from Wren herself. On the other hand, she

wouldn’t have kissed him if he had. She also didn’t drink

her free margarita. She drank with Tessa at parties some-