Page 15

Chapter 15

Moxie

“A lright, Mr. Outdoorsman,” I say, eyeing Wyatt. He’s still wearing the bright orange shirt he had on for yoga, hugged tight against his muscles, and thankfully a new pair of shorts. “Show me what you’ve got.”

He hesitates, then grins. “Ladies first.”

I don’t have a clue what I'm doing and don’t want to make an ass out of myself, but I'm not about to let that on. “Scared?”

“Of course not.” Confident words, but his voice lacks conviction.

“You know how when you’re driving and someone says watch out for that mailbox and you end up pointing right toward it?” I ask. “I think that same thing is happening with your dayglow orange shirt. You better watch your back.”

“I don’t think that’s actually something that happens. I think you just may be a crappy driver,” he says.

“It’s a thing,” I say confidently.

“ Now who’s the one with the weird metaphors.” He’s got me there.

He retrieves the axe from where it hangs on the side wall of our lane, takes his stance, swings, and throws. The axe spins toward the target in a graceful arc, where it promptly bounces off with a loud bang and clatters to the ground halfway down the lane.

We both jump at the bang, and he turns around to face me with wide eyes. I stifle a laugh.

“It slipped,” he says.

“Mhhmm.” I click to mark his throw as a miss.

“Alright hotshot, let’s see you do better.” Wyatt folds his arms across his chest, so certain that I’ll also fail that he appears to have a mocking chuckle cued up.

I intentionally graze arms with him as we trade places. I can feel his eyes on me as I take a controlled breath, pull my arm back, and launch the axe.

“Oh shit!” I yelp, ducking behind the wall for cover.

It ricochets so hard it almost makes it all the way back to me. Maybe this isn’t going to come as naturally as we thought. Wyatt is so shocked he forgets to laugh.

“Not so easy, is it?” he teases with an adorable grin that makes me weak in the knees.

I’m familiar with lust, and I'd like to chalk it up as just that, but I’m not sure I can. I want him in a physical way, yes, but I'm generally content to hump ‘em and dump ‘em with no desire for further interaction. Even if he hadn’t promised me adventures as part of our pact, I'd be cool with spending time with him.

My mind repeats I like him in a mantra that makes my head go fizzy. That grin kills me. I want his lips on mine so badly, I can’t help myself. Fuck it, it’s practice for our showmance. I glide to him and pull him into a kiss. Wyatt responds quickly, tugging me closer with one hand at the hip while cupping my face in the other.

He eases back, his eyes taking a moment to focus and shake off the dazed expression. “I’m not complaining, but what was that for?”

“You smiled, and I... had to. I figured a little more practice wouldn’t hurt.”

He raises an eyebrow, and the dimples are back on his cheeks. “Is that all I have to do?” he asks, ignoring my comment about practice. He massages his cheeks. “I’ve gotta get these bad boys warmed up.” He’s teasing, but I'm serious. Much more of those dimples, and I’m not sure how long I'll be able to stay away.

We alternate throws, cheering each other on as we try out different tactics and struggle to get the damn thing to stick. Whipping it only earns us glares when the axe crashes to the ground. On his fourth try, Wyatt finally lands it firmly in the cork wall.

“I think I’ve got it now. You want me to help you?” he asks, as if he’s suddenly a pro.

“No, I’ll get it. I think it was close last time.”

“Okay, but loser buys snacks.”

“Seriously? I need a few rounds to loosen up and get a feel for things,” I pout.

Two tries later, I finally get the hang of it, and it feels good. Between confusing feelings for Wyatt and the weird anxiety of putting on a show at yoga, it’s just the stress relief I need. The axe flies toward the zombies projected on the wall and, thunk, it crushes the skull of the projected undead. My arms go up in celebration.

Wyatt’s eyes light up in admiration. “You’re the first person I’m seeking out in the zombie apocalypse. I’ve never seen anyone crush a skull so enthusiastically.”

“It’s weirdly satisfying, isn’t it?” I ask. Part of it was practice and getting into a groove, but the larger part is that I got out of my head and allowed myself to just be with him.

We switch over to a classic bullseye, and after another couple of rounds, we retreat to the bar for some pizza.

I collapse into my chair, laughing. “Every time I go out with you, I have such a good time that it becomes my new favorite day.” As soon as the words are out, I'm shocked that I've said them, but I can’t deny their honesty.

He tips an imaginary hat, and that bubbly feeling fills my chest.

“What was your favorite day before?” he asks.

I shrug. “It’s hard to choose just one day.”

“Okay, but pick one.”

I pause to think for a moment, distracted by the distant clunk of axes and nearby buzz of bar patrons, but a memory comes into focus. Suddenly, the long-ago day is crystal clear in my mind. I can feel the crisp cold water hitting my skin and hear the birds chirping.

“A family friend had a cottage on a lake they let us use for the weekend. It was my parents and me, and I was maybe twelve years old—young enough that I wasn’t too cool to hang with my parents, and the three of us had the best time. There was a rope swing hanging from a tree that we could use to swing out over the water, and my dad and I went out on it again and again until our hands had calluses. We spent the whole day outside and picnicked on the sand.”

“That sounds like one kickass day,” he says.

I chuckle. “Yeah, it was. What about you?”

“I’m living the dream. Every day I get to go up in the mountains is the best day ever,” he says.

“That’s cheating. You have to pick one.”

He holds up his hands. “Alright, you got me. The day we opened up Shred and Tread. Starting a business would be a big deal for anyone, but it wasn’t always my dream.”

“No? What was?”

“When I was in high school, I was a pitcher, and I was good. Scouts came from all over to watch me play, and I was on track to make it big. I had a scholarship to play ball, and it was going to be everything I ever wanted.”

My heart drops as he talks, knowing this is probably going to take a bad turn. I lean forward, hanging on his every word. “What happened?”

“I tore my rotator cuff which sucked, but usually surgery and a little recovery time gets you right back in the game. There were complications with the surgery that delayed my recovery and when I finally did come back, I couldn’t throw like before. It never felt right again and if I’m honest, I couldn’t get the injury out of my head. It’s mostly better now, but I'll never be able to throw like I used to. My scholarship went out the window, and nobody was willing to give me another shot after that. I learned quickly that your dreams can be taken away from you in an instant. I might be impulsive sometimes, but it’s because I know you only get one chance at things, and I don’t ever want to miss an opportunity again.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” I put my hand over his, and he flips his over to hold mine.

“That was my dream, and it was gone. I thought I was done, but then I met Noah. He was the friend I needed at the exact right time, and together we found a life dream with Shred and Tread. It took so much work to get everything ready, and when we opened our doors it was World-Series-level satisfaction. We had like ten customers that day, and they were all family and friends, but it didn’t matter because we were putting ourselves out there and doing it.” I'm in complete awe. I can’t even bring myself to leave the job I hate for something I might enjoy more, let alone take the huge risk of starting a business.

“I admire that.” My breathing slows and my lungs expand as a fog rolls in over my good humor.

Wyatt seems to sense the change in my mood. He eyes me cautiously as he dishes out a slice for each of us and hands me my plate. My logical brain is screaming at me to eat my pizza and continue enjoying the afternoon, but my heart is ordering me to talk to him. I’m completely baffled to find that I’m close to caving to my heart.

“Everything alright?” he finally asks, and the question opens the floodgates.

“I know a big part of why I'm enjoying myself so much lately is you.”

He smiles, his eyes locked on me, encouraging me to go on.

“You get out there and do things. You’ve made a career out of it. I don’t know why I haven’t taken advantage of living in the mountains when adventure was my whole reason for moving out here.”

“I wouldn’t have met you if you hadn’t signed up for the rafting trip.”

My stomach rumbles, and I take a bite of pizza to settle it while I think. My skin crawls with the discomfort of unloading my truth to him, but I’ve already started. “No, I’ve been doing all the same things. If it wasn’t for Hannah trying to get me to meet you, I wouldn’t have gone rafting. I said I wanted adventure, but really I came here because my family life was kind of a mess.”

Wyatt puts down his pizza, his attention focused as he waits for me to go on. While I pull my thoughts together and try to decide what I want to share with him, a comfortable silence settles between us. It’s that comfort and the gentle look in his eyes that makes exposing my feelings a little less scary.

“The short story is that my parents bought and ran a wedding barn venue and event planning business with their friend Allison. They trusted her completely, and in the end, she wound up betraying them. They were destroyed financially and emotionally. They’d loved working with couples to make their dream day special. Allison embezzled funds, didn’t pay bills, and took deposits from people when she knew they were double-booked. The business ended up being forcibly shut down, and my parents’ reputation was ruined. They were heartbroken. When that was taken from them, they’d lost such a core piece of who they were, it took them a long time to find themselves again. The lesson that no one could be trusted was the mantra in our house, so it became clear that the only person I could count on was myself, and that the only way to keep myself safe was to keep moving and never get attached to anyone or anything.”

“What a horrible experience for your family.”

I shrug because I try not to think about her and the whole shitty situation, but lately, as I've become less satisfied with work, it’s been on my mind.

“I came out here with that same burning need to stay moving, and in my search for something new, I somehow did the opposite. I don’t know where I went wrong.”

“Nothing in your life is set in stone. You can change with the wind.”

“I’m not just bored with my job. I hate it,” I blurt, surprised because I haven’t shared this with anyone. I wait for the usual, nobody-loves-every-second-of-their-job platitudes, but then I remember I'm talking to Wyatt, and he spends his days doing exactly what he’s made for. I can tell from his furrowed brows that it doesn’t compute.

“How come?”

“I don’t know. When you’re young, you can’t go to casinos, so they carry a certain mystique that made them seem like the most exciting thing in the world. But the days are all the same, and I'm locked in a room with no windows for hours on end. I feel like I'm drowning.”

“Fortunately, I've got experience pulling you out of the water.” He gives my hand a squeeze, and we each take a few bites. “How can I help?”

My gut reaction is to wave him off, so I do.

“No, seriously. I know you’re not actually my girlfriend, but you’re stuck with me for a while. We might as well be friends, and friends help each other. I’m really asking if something I can do would improve things for you. I don’t have magic powers, but I'll sure as hell try.

Another friend gained in these last few wild weeks. Letting people in still makes my skin crawl, but maybe, just maybe I can get used to it. Friends don’t have to be complicated.

Wyatt patiently watches me as he waits for a plea for help. I consider the question. Maybe accepting help from someone wouldn’t lead to the end of my world, but I don’t know where to begin. “I don’t know, but it feels like you already are. Just keep being you. That’s enough, I think.”

He smiles his beautiful smile.

“That I can do.” Wyatt takes another bite of pizza.

“And you?” I ask him.

“What about me?” he asks.

“Are you happy?” He certainly seems like it. I want him to be happy. I want him to love every second of life. In this moment when I feel so vulnerable, I want him to open up to me a bit too, not just about his past, but about now.

“With my job?” he asks.

“In general,” I say.

“Yeah, I think I am.”

I glance at the table and pick at the crust on my slice, trying not to frown. It’s twisted that I’m disappointed to hear that he’s happy, and I kind of hate myself for it.

“Most of the time,” he adds, and my head shoots up.

“When are you not?” I say each word with caution.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I see my parents, and I see Noah with Mindy, and that’s a different kind of happy. I love my life, my friends, and my family, but sometimes I look around my quiet house and my life seems empty. I get a little jealous.”

My heart thumps away in my chest. “Oh,” I say densely.

He catches sight of my expression, and his own eyes widen. I can practically see him on the bicycle frantically backpedaling.

“That came out wrong. I didn’t mean that I have any expectations for us. I know that’s not what you’re looking for. I just meant when we’re done with this, that’s what I’d like to find.”

I force a smile while my brain does somersaults. I should be worried that despite what he says, he might be harboring hopes for us that I can’t give him. Instead, I’m trying to understand why the idea of him moving on from our fake relationship to find something real with someone else is making me jealous.

“I know. Don't worry about it. I get what you meant,” I say.

“We good?” he cautiously asks.

“We’re good,” I say, but on the inside I'm far from good. My anxiety is through the roof. The jealousy hit me out of nowhere, and it isn’t even fair of me to feel because I’m not looking for anything long-term. Giving my heart to someone despite knowing what humans are capable of doing to one another is not something I ever see myself doing.

We pay our bill, and he offers me his arm as we walk down the hallway. We’re nearing the exit when an area of the facility we haven’t been to yet catches my eye.

“Have you ever tried the rage room?” I hastily ask.

“No...” Wyatt draws out the “o.” I’m clinging to his arm with a death grip. It had never crossed my mind to do the rage room before, but now that it has, it feels like a lifeboat to the Moxie flailing around on an ocean of nerves inside me. He glances down at my arm, and like a light switch he flips into charm mode and smirks.

“It’s just an empty room that holds all the garage sale leftovers that no one wants. They outfit you with safety gear and give you a big hammer or a bat and you get to whack it all to pieces. It’s surprisingly therapeutic.”

“Do you have a lot of pent-up aggression that I should be worried about?”

“Maybe a little bit,” I say wryly.

“I never imagined such violent tendencies would be wrapped in such a pretty package.” Wyatt eyes the sinister neon graffiti covered rage room with trepidation.

"Don’t knock it until you try it. I think we should give it a go.” I silently beg him to go with me on this.

“Okay, let's do it.” Wyatt wastes no time tugging me up to the desk in front of the small rage room. “You go first. I want to see you attack that room.”

“Okay, but you’re doing it too.” I sign the waiver and head into the room.

Heavy metal blasts through the speakers as I put on safety gloves and safety goggles, and I pick up a hefty sledgehammer.

Confusion swirls in my brain, and the pressure is heavy on my chest. My heart thunders, and my breaths come fast and shallow.

I need to channel this. Like a yoga exercise, I start with my toes and picture all the nervous energy leaving each part of my body and working its way down my arms. Then, I start swinging. Shrapnel flies in every direction as I destroy pottery, bottles, and an old television as if it had personally offended me. About halfway through my time, a guttural scream escapes me.

The freedom this unfettered rage fest allows me is like an orgasm. I’m no longer in control of my faculties. What’s coming out of me is pure instinct.

I take a deep breath and set down my weapon of destruction and personality-changing goggles, and I return to a wide-eyed Wyatt. He silently hands me my drink.

After a quiet moment he says, “Holy shit, you were like a Tasmanian devil in there. I will try my best not to make you mad.” One side of his mouth curves up in a smirk.

“Did I scare you?”

“Maybe a little.” He winks at me.

“Well, it’s your turn now. Get in there and beat the shit out of lots of obsolete junk. You’ll love it.” I push him toward the room.

“Stand back. I’m going to bust that up.”

Once the door closes, Wyatt grabs the sledgehammer and circles a television and printer like he’s a lion on the hunt.

He starts swinging and tearing things apart, but his heart isn’t in it yet. I want him to have the same cathartic moment I did. We both got a lot off our chests, and now it’s time to shake off the lingering heaviness.

He glances over at me and I nod. He tosses the hammer from one hand to the other and meets my eyes once more. That's it. Feel it.

When he swings again, the printer erupts into a spray of tiny pieces, and he lets out a howl of satisfaction. After a few minutes of thrashing around, he exits the room, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear.

I hand him his beer and ask, “Well, what do you think?” I can tell by the bright look in his eyes that he enjoyed it.

“I’m kind of disappointed that I wasn’t mad when I came here because swinging that sledgehammer is incredibly satisfying.”

“Do you want me to make you mad?” I lean into that solid chest in a playful challenge, and I swear I’ve lost all control over anything I do. Get a grip, Moxie. Stop flirting with him.

“I don’t think you could make me mad.” He drinks me in with mushy eyes, and I’ve got to get out of here before I say or do anything else to lead him, or myself, on.

“Oh please, I can be as annoying as the next person. But you’re right, I’m too tired to get you riled up.” Heart-to-hearts and destructive stress relief take it out of a person. “I should probably get going. I want to have some time to freshen up at home before work.”

When we part ways, I'm left feeling more confused than ever.