“Thanks. We found out earlier this week. We’re going to tell the family tonight. It came sooner than we expected…” She sends Griff a scolding glance.
He sets Jamie aside with a ruffle of his hair, then saunters over to his wife and palms her belly. “I’m not sorry. I missed everything with Jamie. Seems like Gray arrived in a blink. Besides”—he kisses her forehead—“I love making babies with you.”
She swats his arm, but she’s trying to suppress a grin. “TMI. We have guests.”
They have what I want. Funny how just this morning I was convinced that I’d put away all thoughts of marriage and babies and happily ever after. The truth isn’t that I didn’t want them anymore; I just didn’t want them with Ellie.
I have a weird feeling things could be completely different with Amanda.
“I’m pretty sure they know where babies come from,” Griff says in a stage whisper.
“You’re incorrigible.” She rolls her eyes, but I see her lurking smile before she turns back to us. “Can I get you two anything?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “If we’re going to get in some good practice rounds, we need to head out.”
“We’re here until six-thirty, so—”
“We’ll be back way before then,” Amanda promises, then hands Griff Oliver’s diaper bag and jots down her number. “Call me if you need anything.”
“You got it,” Griff assures as he encourages Jamie—who’s a big boy of not quite four—to play nicely with Oliver.
Then Amanda hugs her son before we hop back into the Mustang and head out to the nearest shooting range. “I’m going to rent you a collection of handguns to see what you like best.”
“The smaller the better.”
“Not necessarily,” I tell her as I surge through a green light. “If someone breaks into your house with the intent to kill you, you need to put him down. Some small guns will only piss off an intruder. Smaller guns also have more kickback, meaning as soon as you pull the trigger they’re harder to control, so the bullet won’t necessarily go where you think it will.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize…”
“I’m going to start you with a couple of nine millimeter semiautomatics and thirty-eight revolvers. The latter is easier to use, but slower to load. It’s a trade-off.”
“What do you have?”
“A Glock. Great guns, but not optimal for someone with a child. No safety. So we’ll look at some others that make more sense for you and your use around home.”
“All right.”
We arrive a few minutes later, and I rent her a small collection of weapons, buy her some ear protection, grab a few paper targets, then carry everything into the indoor range. At our station, I show her how to load and unload each. I demonstrate how to make sure each gun is empty of ammo and how to store both the firearm and the bullets. Then I make her put everything into practice, loading the weapon and completing all the steps to ready it for fire. When I’m satisfied she’s got the basics, I attach the target, then send it out into our lane with the press of a button. Not too far. She doesn’t need to be a sharpshooter, and none of the guns I’ve selected are built for that. She just needs to practice putting someone down in a relatively close-combat situation, in case nothing else stands between her and death.
Finally, I show her how to hold the weapon and how to stand, adjusting her shoulders down and ensuring her fingers aren’t anywhere near the trigger until she’s ready to fire. But touching her inflames me. I’m all around her, feeling her softness, smelling that hint of flowers on her that drives me half-crazy, and watching her seriousness. She wants to learn, and I’m getting the clue that when Amanda focuses she can be relentless.
“Good. There’s your target out there.” I point. “Breathe normal and remember that, in real life, you’ll be panicked. Your adrenaline will be rushing. It will be hard as fuck to focus. Remembering to breathe may be the one thing that steadies you in a crisis. It may mean the difference between life and death.”