The Unhoneymooners(36)

“Weren’t you just arguing with me about being covered in paint but not mud?”

He growls, but I see him fighting a smile.

I point across the room. “Why don’t you go over to the minibar and work out that aggravation?”

Ethan leans back in, closer than before. He smells unbelievably good, and it is unbelievably annoying. “Let’s do paintball today.”

Turning the page, I shake my head. “Hard nope.”

“Come on,” he wheedles. “You can pick what we do after.”

“Why do you even want to hang out with me? We don’t like each other.”

He grins. “You are clearly not thinking about this strategically. You’ll get to shoot me with paint pellets.”

A video game montage scrolls through my head: my gun spitting out a stream of Skittle-green paintballs, green splatters landing in bursts all across the front of Ethan’s vest. And finally, the kill shot—a giant green splat right over his groin. “You know what? I’ll go ahead and make us some reservations.”

? ? ?

THE HOTEL ARRANGES A BUS to take us to the paintball field. We stop in front of an industrial building fronted by a parking lot on one side, with forest all around. It isn’t outright raining—more like a steady, misty drizzle—and oh yeah, it’s muddy.

Inside, the office is small and smells like—you guessed it—dirt and paint. A big and tall white dude in a hybrid floral/camouflage Hawaiian shirt with a name tag that reads HOGG stands behind the counter to welcome us. He and Ethan discuss the various options for play, but I’m barely listening. Above the counter the walls are covered with helmets and body armor, goggles and gloves. A poster hangs next to another door and reads: STAY CALM AND RELOAD. There are also guns, lots of them.

It’s probably a bad time to realize I’ve never held a gun before, let alone shot one.

Hogg moves to a back room and Ethan turns to me, pointing to a wall with a list of names and rankings—players who have won some sort of paintball war. “This seems pretty intense.”

I point to the other side of the room, and a sign that says WARNING: MY BALLS MIGHT HIT YOU IN THE FACE. “The word I think Hogg was going for is ‘classy.’ ” I pick up an empty paintball gun made to resemble a rifle. “Do you remember that scene in 9 to 5 where Jane Fonda is dressed in safari gear and goes through the office looking for Mr. Hart?”

“No,” Ethan says, tilting his head up at the gear on the walls, sweetly oblivious. “Why?”

I grin when he looks down at me. “No reason.” Pointing to the wall, I ask, “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

Minnesota has some pretty avid sport hunters and who knows? Maybe Ethan is one of them.

He nods and then falls silent while my brain goes down a crazy tunnel, imagining the tragedy of a zebra head mounted on his living room wall. Or a lion. Oh my God, what if he’s one of those horrible people who goes to Africa and hunts rhinos?

My fury at this version of Ethan Thomas starts to return in its full, heated glory, but then he adds, “Just at the shooting range with Dane a couple times, though. It’s more his thing than mine.” He does a double take when he sees my face. “What?”

I pull in a hulking lungful of air, realizing I just did what I always seem to do, which is to immediately dive into the worst-case scenario. “Before you clarified that, I had an image of you in a safari hat with your foot propped up on a dead giraffe.”

“Stop that,” he says. “Gross.”

I shrug, wincing. “It’s just how I’m built.”

“Just get to know me, then. Give me the benefit of the doubt.”

He says these words calmly, almost offhand, and then frowns down at a belt buckle on the counter that reads, The first rule of gun safety: Don’t piss me off.

But I’m still reeling in the deep enormity of his insight—and how exposed I suddenly feel—when Hogg returns, thick arms loaded with gear. He hands us each a pair of camouflage coveralls and gloves, a helmet, and a set of goggles. The gun is plastic and very lightweight, with a long barrel and a plastic hopper affixed to the top where the paintballs are stored. But everything else is heavy. I try to imagine running in this and can’t.

Ethan inspects his gear and leans over the counter. “Do you have any, uh, protection?”

“Protection?”

The tops of Ethan’s ears turn red, and I know in that moment that he is a mind reader and saw my imaginary green paint splats all over his junk. He stares at Hogg meaningfully, but Hogg just shakes his head with a laugh.

“Don’t worry about it, big fella. You’re gonna be just fine.”

I pat his shoulder. “Yeah, big fella. I’ve got your back.”

? ? ?

THE GAME TAKES PLACE ON five acres of dense forest. Dozens of wooden shelters lead off into the tree line, bundles of logs are scattered for cover, and a few bridges stretch overhead, spanning the length between trees. We’re instructed to gather, along with other players, beneath a large metal overhang. The rain is more mist than droplets now, but there’s a damp chill in the air and I feel my shoulders inch up toward my ears beneath my baggy coveralls.

Ethan glances down at me, and from behind his goggles his eyes crinkle in mirth. He’s barely stopped laughing since I stepped out of the changing stall.