Page 14

Wes

Did I overreact? Possibly. But it doesn’t change the fact that the love of my life, the one whom I would do anything for, tried to make me her backup plan. What I heard loud and clear was, if she doesn’t find anyone she likes better, she’ll settle for me. Ouch.

I can already figure out her likely thought pattern: No one online is working out, so I guess I’ll settle for reliable Wes. Double ouch.

What hurt the most was knowing that she doesn’t feel anything near to what I feel. She didn’t even understand why I was upset.

One thing is clear: I need to separate myself from Honor.

Just the thought feels like I’m cutting off a limb, but it’s the only way I will ever be able to free myself from the infatuation.

I hope one day I’ll be able to truly just be friends with her, to not feel the same yearning ache within my heart, to not be jealous of anyone she dates. But that day isn’t today.

So, I ignore her. I ignore her texts and her calls.

I sent her one response, telling her that I needed some space and time, and ignored the rest. Even though it tore me up inside to see how upset she was.

I wanted to be the hero and to go back to the way things were and tell her everything was fine between us.

But that wouldn’t have been true to myself and my own feelings. It was time to move on.

Then her texts stopped. And I couldn’t say which situation felt worse.

Luckily, I have a major distraction in the form of the Play It Forward Day event at the Midsommer Faire, which is taking far more time to coordinate than I ever imagined. I’ve got so many things to do, I barely even think about Honor or wonder what she’s doing. Much.

Zeke and I arrive at the Midsommer Faire at the Thurston County fairgrounds early the morning of the event.

The day is shaping up to be beautiful. Weather is always a chancy thing in the Pacific Northwest, even in the summer, but today’s forecast calls for a temperature in the high seventies and sunny skies with a bit of cloud cover.

“You ready for the big day?” I ask Zeke. He cracks his knuckles and nods, but I can see the uncertainty under the bravado. “You’ll do great, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” he says. “I was trained by the best and, yes, this time I do mean you.”

“Thanks, buddy,” I say, holding out my fist. “Hit the rock.”

He bumps my fist with his and grins.

This morning is cool, and Zeke and I work with a couple other guys from my team on setting up the list, which is the rectangular wooden structure that establishes the boundaries of a fight, similar to a modern-day octagon ring.

Mike drives in the truck with the materials and we unload it, making quick work of it.

After the list, we set up a number of tents to house our gear and supplies, including one for a staging area for fighters to get ready.

We unload food and water from another truck, stacking it inside the tent.

As events are full-day affairs involving a lot of exertion under hot padding and steel armor, we need a lot.

Then we set up the sound system and distribute the event schedule with all of the duels, pro fights, and melees listed. By the time we’re finished, it’s already midday. I chug water as I watch some of my teammates warming up.

“Hey now, this looks like fun,” I hear to my side.

I turn to see a man in his mid-forties, lanky and with a slightly receding hairline and a small paunch. He wears a windbreaker over a polo shirt, khakis, and a fanny pack. He sticks his hands on his hips as he surveys the area like a king looking out over his domain.

“Can I help you?” I ask. “The fighters are getting ready, but the events don’t start for another hour.” For that matter, I didn’t think faire attendees were going to be let in for another half-hour. I scratch my head, wondering how he got in.

“Do you mind if I give it a try?” he asks. He holds up his arms like he’s wielding an imaginary sword and makes some chopping motions. “I’ve always been a big Excalibur fan.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I look around to see if there are any faire officials who are supposed to be monitoring for early trespassers into the fairgrounds.

“Miles O’Donnell, at your service,” he says, holding out his hand. As he shifts his stance, I notice that his windbreaker says “Play It Forward” on the front of it.

“Oh, you must be Milo!” I say, grasping his hand. He shakes it with a surprisingly strong grip. “Thanks for coming all the way to Washington.”

“Wherever Play It Forward is, there I am,” Milo says, bobbing his head.

I clock the slightly strange statement, but let it go. “I need to introduce you to my mentee.” I call Zeke over. “Zeke, meet Milo, the Director of Play It Forward.”

“Cool,” Zeke says, and holds up his fist for Milo to bump.

“Well, pleasure to meet you, young man,” Milo says. He reaches out and instead of bumping Milo’s fist, he shakes it. “I’m looking forward to seeing your sport.”

“Uh, yeah, cool,” Zeke repeats, looking slightly puzzled by Milo’s fist-shake.

Milo steps forward to the list, his eyes darting around as he takes in the fighters practicing. “I sure would like to give it a try.”

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“Nope, but I’ve always wanted to.”

Normally I would never in a million years put a rookie in the ring, but it’s the Play It Forward Director and since he’s mentioned it more than once, it seems like a pretty strong desire. “Uh, sure. I’m sure you could borrow some armor from someone and give it a go.”

“Really?” Milo asks, his eyes lighting up like a kid at Christmas. “That would be swell. Definitely something to write home to the gang about.”

“Yeah, I just need to find you someone’s armor. How tall are you?”

“Five eleven.”

I frown. I’m six feet tall and I can see over his head. There’s no way this guy is 5’11. But asking him if he was sure about his height seems insulting, so I go with it. “You can borrow mine, then. Zeke, can you help him get into it?”

Twenty minutes later, Milo is standing in my armor, which is clearly too big for him. He looks like a kid dressing up in an older brother’s costume. The armor practically stands up on its own and he can barely see out of the eye slits in the helmet. If he trips, he’s just going to topple over.

“This is great,” Milo keeps saying. He passes his phone to Zeke. “Here, take a picture. Martha’s gonna love this.”

I don’t know who Martha is, but pretty sure she’s going to think he looks ridiculous. But I don’t say that to him as he lifts a sword to pose for the picture.

I lift up the slat to the list entrance when he’s done. “Okay, head on in. Mike and Terry are in here. Guys, this is Milo. He’s a newbie who wants to try it out. Go easy on him, okay?”

“Sure,” Mike says. He gestures for Milo to step forward. “Feel free to come at me and I’ll show you some basic defensive moves.”

“You ready for me?” Milo asks. He bounces from one foot to the other like a boxer. The oversized steel suit clangs with each bounce.

“I’ll do my best,” Mike says, winking at me. He doesn’t even get into the preparatory crouch, clearly expecting Milo to take one swing at him and bounce off.

With a sudden roar, Milo charges Mike. Mike’s eyes widen and he takes a step back, but it’s too late.

Milo’s sword strikes at Mike’s helmet before Mike can get his sword up.

Mike stumbles backward. In a storm of swinging steel, Milo knocks the weapon out of Mike’s hand and then uses some sort of ninja move to trip Mike, knocking him to the ground.

Dust billows up from where Mike hits the dirt. He sits stunned for a moment before getting back up.

I stare at them in shock. Mike was no expert, but he just got owned by a forty-something newbie who looked like he didn’t work out a day in his life.

“Uhh, what just happened?” Zeke whispers to me.

“No clue.”

“Wowee,” Milo says, doing an awkward shuffle dance in the armor. “That was awesome.”

“You sure you’ve never done this before, Milo?” I ask.

“Nope. Beginner’s luck is the best kind of luck,” He spins around and does a moonwalk in the armor, then pop and locks like a professional.

Terry snorts. “You hear that, Mike? You got beat by a beginner.”

“Hey, you! Want to try that again and see what happens?” Mike asks, his face red.

“No, thank you,” Milo says. “Once was enough for me.”

Mike looks around at the grinning spectators. “Well, it wasn’t enough for me. Try it again. Bet you won’t get the same luck twice.”

“Come on, Mike,” I say, stepping in to what looks like a brewing situation. “It was harmless. He’s just the director for the organization I volunteer for.”

“Sorry, young man, but I never do anything twice,” Milo says. “As they say, life’s a jukebox, don’t ever play the same song twice.” While we all stare at him, befuddled, he turns to me. “Thanks for letting me have a go, but I imagine you need this armor back.”

“Er, yes,” I say, and follow him to the tent, Milo whistling the whole way. Inside, I help him remove the armor. “How did you do that? The fight, I mean. How did you disarm Mike so easily?”

“Easy,” he says, “the same way I do everything else: One step at a time.”

I shake my head, mystified. “Do you want to stay to watch the youth fight? Zeke has been training for months.”

“Of course. That’s my whole reason for being here.” A digital beep interrupts us. “Oops, I’ll have to excuse myself for a minute.”

“No problem. We’ll be out here all afternoon. And if you want to try out my armor again, just say the word.”

Milo excuses himself and exits the tent. I focus on putting on my armor so that I can join in the scheduled melees later, buckling on the brigandine and fastening the sabatons.

The flaps to the tent open. “Did you forget something?” I ask without turning around.

“No,” a voice says. “But it seems my best friend has forgotten me.”

I spin around. Honor stands in the entrance to the tent, looking as lovely as ever. But on her face a storm cloud brews, and I have a strong feeling she came to bring her own fight, one that I’m as unprepared as Mike for.