Page 64 of Aperture

He grabs a pair and places them over my ears. He smiles at me and says something.

“What?” I yell. He reaches over and turns a black knob underneath the left ear and says,

“Now you can hear me.”

“I can,” I yell excitedly.

“Stay here while I go set up the target,” he tells me. He carefully sets the gun in the trunk of the car and grabs a big cardboard target with the outline of a man on it. He walks over to an area where he can hang the target. There’s nothing around, just a big dirt hill behind it. When he returns, he smiles at me and says, “Follow me.”

We walk up to an area about ten yards from the target. My shoes make a tinging sound every time I take a step and kick bullet shells of all sizes out of the way.

“Are you right-eye dominant or left-eye dominant?” He asks.

“Right eye,” I respond excitedly. I actually know the answer to this question since I’m always looking through the lens of my camera.

“OK, this is what I want you to do,” Wyatt says, as he starts to show me how to stand and hold the gun. He shows me how to use the sights, if I need to do that, but encourages me to keep both eyes open, if I can.

“Stand behind me,” he directs. Then he takes his stance and shoots the target three times quickly, unloading directly into the chest two times and once in the head. It might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Watching him be so capable and confident makes my whole body tingle.

“Now, I want you to try it,” he says. “When you squeeze the trigger, I want the pad of your index finger on the trigger and squeeze consistently until you feel it fire. It will have a bit of a kick. It’s going to surprise you.”

“Should I aim for the target?”

“Yes, but don’t worry about hitting anything right now. I just want you to get used to the gun's feel.”

I grip the gun carefully, take a calming breath and hold it up in front of me, the way he taught me. He directs me the entire time, standing over my shoulder. I squeeze the trigger and feel the inertia of the bullet leave the gun and push my shoulder back. It’s surprising, for sure, but I quickly learn to expect it. We continue this way, stopping to reload, as necessary, until I feel ready to aim for the target.

He shows me the front site and how to use it. I aim, squeeze the trigger, and I think I hit the target in the shoulder. I smile. With Wyatt behind me, the metallic smell of the bullets, the way the shells hit the ground with a “clank,” and the weight of the gun in my hand, I feel powerful. It’s the first time I’ve felt in control of anything recently.

I get better as we go, but I’m not sure if I ever even hit the target. Wyatt encourages me and by the time we walk back to the car, I have the biggest smile on my face. After we drop everything back in the trunk, I launch myself, without thinking, into Wyatt’s arms.

“Thank you,” I say as I squeeze him tight. “Thank you for helping me feel like myself again.”

He kisses the top of my head and holds me against him tight. Then he steps back and runs his hands up and down my sides while leaning down to meet my eyes.

“There is nothing I won’t do for you, Millie,” he says.

I want so badly to throw myself back into his arms and kiss him with all of the emotion I’m feeling, but I know it would be wrong for so many reasons. So, I simply grab his shirt and tug him close to me again, and whisper in his ear, “Thank you, Wyatt.”

I’m still feeling pretty good about the day when Wyatt asks if I’m hungry for lunch.

“I’d love to grab some food,” I tell him.

“I know a cool place. It’s a little hole in the wall,” he says.

“Sounds perfect. Let’s do it.”

We drive back to the police station so he can lock up the stuff we used and switch out cars. Soon we are headed out of town in the Mustang, with the windows down and the wind in my hair. We drive for about twenty minutes and end up in the next town along the coast. We pull up to an older-looking brick building with the words Irish Pub above the door.

“Is that the name of the restaurant or the description of the food?” I laugh.

“Told you it was a hole in the wall,” Wyatt responds.

We walk up the three steps into the Irish pub and it’s apparent that this place has definitely seen better days. There is a booth in the corner off to the left and a large bar on the right. The wood is old and faded, and the brass is tarnished. It smells like stale beer and fish battered and fried. I love it. We can hear a commotion around the corner, and the bartender tells us we can grab a seat in the back. I think Wyatt expects me to run out of the place, but I smile and charge toward the commotion, grabbing his hand and dragging him behind me.

In the back of the pub are a few more booths and high tables with stools. It’s even darker and dingier back here. There are two televisions mounted on the walls and they are playing some world dart competition. I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but the group of guys gathered around this area seem very excited as the score goes down for the Irish competitor. We grab one of the tables just as the server comes by.

“What can I get you, Love?” she asks me.