Rm w/a Vu(24)

I do this all in under twenty seconds, and Dad chuckles proudly. “Glad to see you remember all of this.”

“Of course I do. Gun safety is important,” I tell him, parroting words he’s spoken my entire life.

While I set the broken-down firearm out in front of me, I think back to a time when I was little. Fresh home from work, my dad would always, always unload his guns, being sure to put the ammo out of reach. It was ingrained into me from the minute I could understand that we were to respect the rules of gun safety.

Every time he would set up to clean them, I would sit at the table and watch him, propping my face in my tiny hands. It was fascinating to me as a child, especially when he would explain what he was doing as he did it and why. I learned a lot just watching him.

I was sixteen when he and my mother felt I was old enough to let me learn how to disassemble a gun. Always a responsible gun owner, he had checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded and the safety was on before handing it over and tutoring me.

It was later that day that he took me to the shooting range and taught me how to use it. I won’t lie; I thought it was going to be easy. I mean, I had shot a bow and arrow in archery class for gym before and had to wonder how much harder aiming a gun could be. Well, bows don’t have a kickback, and I missed the targets time and time again.

Eventually, I got the hang of it, and I very rarely miss my intended target these days.

I’ve got the gun’s parts laid out in front of me in the order I’ll be cleaning them: frame, slide, barrel, and, finally, the guide rod and recoil spring. I look up to see that Dad is already wiping the parts to his backup firearm—a Smith and Wesson Airweight Revolver—down, and I reach for an extra rag.

Since Dad doesn’t fire his gun often—a blessing, to be sure—there’s not a lot of carbon build up to be removed. After wiping all of the parts down, I apply the solvent and let it sit for a few minutes before scrubbing the whole gun and wiping it clean with a lint-free cloth—inside and out.

Finally, I oil the inside of the barrel and the rest of the necessary parts thoroughly. Satisfied with how clean it is, I reassemble the gun and check that all the parts slide properly before wiping it down to remove any excess oil.

“There you go,” I say, handing the gun over to Dad for one final inspection.

He sets his revolver down and looks over my work. I’m not offended; I need to know that it’s operational so that it doesn’t misfire when he might need it most.

“You did good, Jules,” he praises. “Maybe I was a little premature to think you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

“Well, to be fair, I only cleaned the gun.” I smirk mischievously. “Though, if you’d like to take me to the range to see if my aim is still better than yours, old man…”

Just then, the door opens and Mom calls out for us.

Dad smiles. “You’re lucky your mother’s home.”

With a scoff, I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “You mean you’re lucky,” I correct him cockily.

“Potayto, potahto.” He sets his finished revolver down and pushes away from the table to greet my mom as she enters the kitchen. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Mom giggles as Dad wraps his arms around her and kisses her. It doesn’t take long before they forget I’m here, and I loudly scrape my chair across the tile before standing up. “Okay, well I can see the two of you are in need of some adult time.” Mom and Dad don’t let go of each other, but they do acknowledge me by turning their heads.

Backing out of the kitchen, I point over my shoulder. “I’ll, uh, be up in my room. Music blaring. Dad, I’ll call Greyston and see if dinner tomorrow sounds good?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I turn around and book it up the stairs. “Cool! Later!”

Up in my room, I close my door and turn on my stereo. It’s not too loud, and I can hear the murmured voices of my parents below me. If I listen really close—not that I’m doing it on purpose, believe me—it sounds like they’re on separate ends of the kitchen and not…you know…together.

I’m able to relax a little knowing that I’m not going to hear them in the throes of passion, and I pull my phone from my pocket, flopping down on the edge of my bed. My fingers move swiftly over the touch screen until I locate Greyston’s contact info.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hey. Miss me already?” Obviously he doesn’t realize who’s calling him; maybe he thinks it’s that girl…Callie.

Nervously, I bite my lip and try to hide the disappointment in my voice. “Hi, um, this is Juliette?” I don’t know why I sound like I’m questioning my own identity, but I do.