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“I’m sorry,” he says. Then, after a brief pause he adds, “let’s order a pizza. But first, I want to take you to the firing range. I mean, if you still want to learn how to shoot that gun.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
We spend the next two hours at the firing range. David is a very careful teacher, showing me how to load the gun and how to aim. I am completely surprised at the amount of energy contained in such a small piece of metal. Every time I pull the trigger, the gun kicks back at me, lifting my arms and shifting my body. I hit the paper target only three times while we are there. The rest of my shots completely miss. David tells me it takes time to learn how to shoot straight and that it isn’t nearly as easy as it looks in the movies. No kidding. It’s kinda fun, though, shooting the gun. It makes me feel powerful, autonomous even. I can see that David feels the same when he pulls the trigger. He’s dripping with dominance and totally loving it. I make him promise to bring me back here again next weekend, and I tell him that now he is really in trouble if he sets off my ass alarm.
We spend the evening eating pizza and watching Dirty Harry—now, there is a man who knows how to shoot a gun. When the movie is over, we sit on my couch, talking. We talk about our favorite movies, our middle names and our mutual love of Cheetos. David makes me laugh. Makes me feel at home. Makes me feel comfortable in my own company. There is something about him that is so real, so solid. He is soothing, which sounds utterly ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to describe his temperament. I feel natural talking to him. It is genuine and sincere. And even though I am looking for sorrow, I don’t see a single hint of it. At least not when he is with me. He is right. We are pretty great together.
I don’t know how long we sit there talking, but when my thirst takes over and I excuse myself to get a drink from the kitchen, the microwave says it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. Shit. I have to leave for work in six hours.
“Jesus, David. I have to go to bed. I need to be up by six.”
“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Can I stay? I mean, someone should be here to make sure you hear your alarm, right?”
“Very funny,” I say with sass. “Good thing I can hear my ass alarm loud and clear.”
“I’m not trying to be an ass, I’m trying to be helpful. Seriously, I’ll stay and make sure you aren’t late for work. I’ll even drive you to town so you can get an extra half hour of sleep.”
I pause for a moment, not sure how this is going to go. “Okay,” I say. “You can stay. And you can drive. And thanks. For tonight and for tomorrow morning.”
“Anytime.”
Ten minutes later we are asleep.



chapter Nineteen

Monday at the office is more of the same. More design, more circuitry, more Matt. We are nearly halfway done with the project now, so at least I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. The second half of the project, though, is far more challenging than the first, and because of that, I’m guessing I’ll be working with Matt for at least a few more weeks. Admittedly, he seems calmer today than he did last week. Perhaps my comment at lunch on Friday about him not being able to handle whatever it is that I’m smoking embarrassed him enough to make him want to ease off of the drivel. He is chatting, yes, but it isn’t a steady stream. And it isn’t all about him. Instead he is talking about two of the other guys who work with us, telling me their backgrounds and how he thinks they are two of the smartest people he has ever met. I pretend to listen to him intently and tell him that perhaps someday, if I ever get to work with them, I’ll discover for myself how smart they really are. And then he asks about David.
“So, what does your boyfriend do? I mean, the guy that picked you up on Wednesday. I’m assuming he’s your boyfriend, right?” Jesus. I do not want to do this. I do not want to talk about this.
“Well,” I say without taking my eyes off the papers in front of me, “I wouldn’t really call him my boyfriend, per se, but I guess you could say that he is. Kind of, I mean. He’s a carpenter.”
“Oh,” Matt says, with what I think is a mix of holier-than-thou-attitude and disdain. “A carpenter, huh? How long have you guys been together?”
“Not long.” I am getting irritated already.
“He, um, he seems like an interesting guy.” Matt is fishing for something, but I can’t tell what. “He seems pretty intense, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, lifting my head and looking right at Matt. “Look, Matt, is there some point you’re trying to get to here? Because if there is, you can just say it. Or you can ask me about it. Or whatever.” He is staring at me with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. I immediately regret being so blunt. I don’t think Matt knows what to do with blunt.
Matt closes his mouth and swallows. His eyes narrow, and he leans over and quietly says, “My point, Emma, is simply to make conversation. There is no underlying motive. I’m not trying to make the moves on you. I’m not trying to be your best friend. I’m just here to do my job, to make sure things go smoothly, and to make you feel welcome here. And, for most people, conversations are a part of the work day. If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine with me. But say so. Don’t dole out the attitude without giving me some sort of warning first.” Now it is me who is standing here with my eyes wide and my mouth open. I didn’t think he had it in him. Shit.
“Look, Matt, I’m a pretty private person. I don’t like chitchat. I’m not patient. I’m not understanding. And I’m not a very good listener. It’s not that I don’t care about you—as a person, I mean—it’s just that I don’t get the point of it all.”