Page 47 of Robbin’ the Rich

It was kind of fun.

Nate and I had claimed a high-top table while we waited for our lane assignment. A pitcher of beer sat between us alongside a basket of loaded fries.

“Adult enrichment,” Nate declared while pulling a fry followed by a long string of cheese.

“Nothing says personal growth like recreational weapons.”

“I’m broadening my horizons.”

“You nearly stapled your thumb to a wall last week.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

I laughed and reached for another fry.

The last few days had settled into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Teaching. Texting Robin. Thinking about Robin. Trying not to think about Robin. Failing immediately. The usual.

Unfortunately, Nate knew me entirely too well.

“You’re smiling again.”

I pointed a fry at him. “You need hobbies.”

“You are my hobby.”

“Disturbing.”

A server dropped off another basket of food just as our lane opened.

A few minutes later, we stood behind the throwing line while an employee explained safety rules that amounted to please don't kill anybody.

Nate picked up his first axe.

“You ready?”

“No.”

“Perfect.”

His first throw landed slightly off center.

I stared.

“Okay. What the hell?”

Nate grinned. Years of guitar apparently translated alarmingly well into weaponized lumberjack activities.

Meanwhile my first throw bounced off the target entirely. The axe hit the floor with a loud clatter. The employee winced. Nate laughed so hard he nearly dropped his second axe.

“That's embarrassing,” he said.

“I hate you.”

“You are supposed to make it stay in the bullseye.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

By the fourth round, Nate had developed an annoyingly impressive rhythm while I remained a threat primarily to nearby flooring.