I went to archery last friday.

Almost everyone was out of town, working on the Quad War site. There was only me, Gareth, Bart, Tat, the Ex, and the girl the Ex is sleeping with.

That's not fair. Her name is Kiera. She really is a lovely person, and I try hard not to treat her any differently than I would otherwise.

Unfortunately, because there were so few people there, the Ex came and sat with Gareth and I while we ate our dinner (Gareth was nice enough to swing by my work and pick me up, after Susan had a space out and realized she'd double booked herself with me, and the Quad War site).

I absorbed myself in my book as I ate, but I heard every word that dropped from his lips.

I did not want to.

I strung my bow, and got my arrows, stepped up to the line at the twenty-yard target.

The Ex steps up next to me. I know he knows I avoid him. There is a certain tension about him when he is in my vicinity, and *I* certainly feel tension. That tightly coiled caution that controls every move, in order to carefully not acknowledge his existence.

Anyway, he steps up to the line.

I pretend the yellow circle is his face.

We both shoot at the same target, one after another, me starting.

Six arrows. Two in the yellow, one in the red, one in the black, and two wild.

Not bad for my first round; I rarely hit the yellow at first go.

But...I have to go up and retrieve my arrows. The Ex is a very good shot, and our arrows are entirely tangled in one another. They're so tightly packed, that at the Ex's last shot, there is a cracking noise as it hit another one.

I could have walked away. I could have asked Gareth to fetch my arrows for me, and he would have, gladly, because he knows how I feel about Paul.

In fact, before we entered, I asked him if he saw Paul trying to talk to me, to save me. I did not count on him shooting next to me, not when there was so much space along the line.

But I didn't walk away. I am frightened of a lot of things, but I also have a fairly iron will. I refuse to let fear rule my life.

So I walk up to the target calmly, an easy two meters away from him as he goes up as well.

He makes some lame comment about how I shouldn't shoot so well.

I mutter something in reply.

At the target, a quick inspection of the arrows shows that two of his and one of mine are stuck in the same hole. Quite literally. They are pressed up against each other so tightly I'm surprised none of them broke.

I can't help it. I throw back my head and laugh.

My shooting was only slightly worse than Paul's.

I pull my arrows carefully, never touching him, and look them over. I am pleased to discover that what ever that cracking noise was, it wasn't any of my arrows (which, I might point out, are of Gareth's making, and are SO much nicer than the ones Paul made me, even if the Paul ones are neon yellow, pink, and black; the Gareth arrows just fly that much better).

Walking back to the line, he looks over at me.

"You're shooting very well," he says, which I know is hard for him to say. He always wants to correct my stance, and give me advice, and I hate it. I just like shooting things; I don't care much if I'm doing it right. It's the solid 'thunk' of metal point embedding into soft target that I like.

I slide my gaze sideways. "Not bad for someone who hasn't shot in six weeks." I pause and add, cheekily, "You're shooting terribly."

"Yeah," he says, taking me seriously. "I know. I haven't shot in, like, four months."

"Bull," I say sweetly, "shit."

The only other time I talked to Paul that night is when, as I was getting my bow to step up to the line, he walks past me and pokes me with the broken nock of one of his arrows.

"You shouldn't shoot so well!"

"Hey," I said in my defense, "I didn't shoot the arrow that made the cracking noise!"

He mumbled something in reply, but I'd already stepped to the line.

I shot a fair bit at the forty and the thirty. I shattered an arrow at the thirty, and lost a tip as well (though that I just got fixed on site; getting retipped is only fifty cents!).

The forty yard target I have problems with because it's Very Far Away. I know where I have to aim to hit the target, but I can't see it land, so I never know if I've hit anything good until I walk all the way over there.

The thirty yard is the worst, though. You'd think I'd just halve the compensation (my arrow jumps and swings left a bit, so I always have to compensate for that) and be fine, but it's trickier than that. I'll have to work on the thirty some more.

On the way home, Gareth asked if I was alright talking to Paul.

I told him, as I believe, that the anticipation of the event is frequently worse than the actual event.

For all that I was mostly okay talking to him, I am still unbelievably angry at him.

I wish I wasn't. I really wish I wasn't.

But I am.

But this, as all things, will pass.

I hope.

.

Rosie.

Before&After