“So, we still on for dinner tonight?” he asks. “You wanna just stay in and get some pizza or something?”
“Sure,” I say, stopping short of the kitchen and turning to him, “and maybe we can watch one of the hundreds of man movies you’ve got up there. It was like a big box of testosterone. I grew hair on my chest just looking at them.” I am teasing him, and I’m not quite sure how he is going to take it.
“Hair on your chest, huh? You should check out the other box of movies I’ve got up there. They’ll make your hairy chest blush.” Ahhh, so he does have a box of porn. I knew it.
“I doubt it. My brothers got the best of me already on that front. I stopped blushing at porn when I was eleven.”
I don’t think David knows what to say in response to my remark, so instead of talking, he comes over, wraps his arms around me, and kisses the top of my head. He holds me like this for a minute or two, then lets go and steps back.
“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.