Dewey Belong Together

by Smartypants Romance

  I heard a gentle knock on my door and looked up to see Max standing there, a large glass of orange juice in her hand. "I didn't know what to bring you, but considering you drank about a gallon of juice this morning, I figured it was a safe bet."

  "Thanks," I replied, meaning it. My anger toward her was dissipating, and I reached out as she crossed the room and placed the glass in my hands. She noticed my stash of meds but looked away without asking me anything. "Just give me an hour, okay? I need a bit of rest, and these meds need to get into my system."

  She nodded and beamed at me, a beautiful smile which made me instantly grin back. I had a feeling we were going to be okay, Max and me. After all, what was another dustup between us?

  An hour later on the dot, I heard a faint knocking on my door and Max's voice. "Wrath? You awake?"

  "I'm up, I'm up," I grumbled. I’m not the most gracious person when being woken. "You might as well come in. I'm decent."

  The door opened and she bounded in, reminiscent of a rabbit. “I hope you are ready for a day of meat, mead, and medieval revelry. It’s Medieval Day in the woods behind my house!”

  Ah, so that was why I’d brought along an entire foam suit of armor and had to find the world’s largest duffel for this trip. The welcome email she’d sent out had given wardrobe suggestions but had been mum on what exactly we’d be doing in each outfit.

  She bounced from one foot to the other. “If you brought a preferred medieval cosplay, this is the time to get it out. Otherwise, I’ve got you covered. It’s a good thing you’re tall.”

  I scoffed. I had created this costume specifically for this weekend because I wanted to impress Max. I wasn’t particularly vain, but I knew when I was adorned in the gold painted foam armor, my black hair trailing down the red cloak behind me, I was pretty damn smokin’.

  “Thanks, but I do have my own. I laid it out when I first got here so it wouldn’t get crinkled in my bag and stored it under the bed. I need some time to put it on, of course.”

  “Yeah, of course. I’ll be getting my own costume on, so I’ll meet you back in the living room when you’re done.”

  I shut the gaming room door behind her and put on a light pair of pants and a shirt, then the costume, carefully tightening the armor straps. I was by no means an expert cosplay maker, but Norman was—he killed it at Dragon Con every year—so he had essentially guided me through this whole process. Okay, he may have made most of it, but I wanted to learn, and I think together we created a kick-ass suit of armor befitting a knight.

  I wondered what Max would wear. I pictured her in a long, flowy pink dress with one of those head cones with a gauzy train that women wore in old movies and let out a laugh. Not likely. Though the image was appealing. Maybe she’d take a departure from her in-game character and do something stereotypically feminine like that. After all, she had worn a dress and done up her hair to go to Genie’s, so it’s not like she was allergic to the idea. I wondered who would face me in the living room: a fair maiden or a bloodthirsty warrior? I attached my cape and undid my hair, giving it a few shakes to lose the shape from the hair tie. Time to find out.

  I strode through the house and in the main room was greeted with the sight of a battle-hardened warrior in a suit of distressed silver. Two impressive looking swords were strapped to her back, and her hair was done up in a tight bun.

  “Maximus,” I said, bowing before her.

  “Sir Wrath,” she replied, bowing back.

  “Sorry, should I have addressed you as sir?” I asked, wanting to start out on the right foot. I was by no means an expert in live-action role-playing.

  “I am no knight, Sir Wrath. I take coin in trade for my services and am bound to no lord, law, or land.”

  I held back a grin for as long as possible, and when she saw me struggle, she broke into one too. This should be good.

  We traipsed through the backyard and then followed a loose trail through the woods until we entered a clearing containing a tall red tent suspended from a tree branch. The tent was open on one side and contained a rug, cushions, and three amused looking faces: two ladies who were dressed in a manner that would not be out of place in my idea of a Renaissance Faire, and a guy dressed as Luke Skywalker, for which he got a pass because, awesome. There was a table on either side of the tent, one laden with food, the other with what looked like costumes and props. A barbeque was set up for grilling, and there was a cooler which undoubtedly contained more food for said grill.

  “Sir Wrath, Knight of the Swamp Realm, please pay your respects to our visiting nobles: Lady Naomi Winters, Lady Finley Granger, and Sir Zeke Masters. The ladies and I are colleagues at the library. The gentleman is with Lady Finley.”

  I bowed low and with what I knew was the world’s worst English accent pushing through my Southern one said, “It is both an honor and a pleasure to make your acquaintance on this fine day. Ladies, you are a sight for sore eyes. If I were a poet or bard, I would compose odes in your honor.”

  Finley giggled and Naomi held out a handkerchief with a thistle iron-on that I knew from movies was actually a favor. Unsure of how to respond correctly, I stepped forward, bowed down low, and accepted it. “Lady Naomi of House Winters, I shall carry your favor into battle next to my heart. May it serve as motivation and protection in my trials to come.”

  “That was very kind of you, Lady Naomi,” Max broke in, stepping forward. “I am not as silver-tongued as Sir Wrath. Any favor I earn will have to be due to my deeds, not my charm.”

  “And what deeds shall we judge you on?” Finley asked, playing along.

  “First shall come the hunt for the wild stag. Next, the feast, followed by a feat of strength, concluding with a sword fighting competition.” Max finished with a flourish, smiling through fake blood that she had splattered in droplets over her face, probably to lend an air of authenticity to her mercenary character.

  I did, however, have one question.

  “Um, a hunt? What are we going hunting with? I might be from the South, but I don’t know how to shoot a gun.”

  My mom had flatly refused me having anything to do with my daddy’s hunting trips, and though it initially confused me as a child, I understood as I grew that she was protecting me. Those trips were big drunk fests, where he and his friends would gamble, screw women who weren’t their wives, and if I’d been there, they’d have beaten the tar out of me for amusement’s sake. My daddy called me a sissy for not wanting to learn how to shoot in our backyard, but that was also forbidden by my mom after one lesson where I got clapped over the ear every time I missed a beer can. I was seven.

  "We hunt with our wits, Sir Wrath, to uncover the hiding place of, and capture, our quarry. Presenting, the wild stag!" With that, Zeke stood up and plunked a crocheted bright orange hat with antlers on his head.

  The hilarity of hunting a neon-hat-wearing Luke Skywalker was not lost on me, but if Max could hold character, then so could I.

  "We made it that color in case there are any real hunters out there, though there shouldn't be. But you never know," Naomi offered by way of explanation.

  "And indeed, he makes a worthy specimen for testing our stalking and grappling skills. Whoever captures the hat shall be the victor. We will allow the stag a three minute head start. I suggest you run, Zeke," Max instructed.

  With a salute, Zeke took off at a run into the woods.

  "That will give us enough time to tie on your tabards," Finley said, standing up and approaching the prop table. There were two tabards, one red and one blue. A tabard is a piece of cloth that goes over your armor and declares your house or team. "Now you, Sir Wrath, simply must be red. It will match your cape and look fabulous with all that gold and your black hair. The blue will look great against Maximus's silver."

  Once the tabards were on, Max and I squared off.

  "You have the home field advantage, you know," I said, crossing my arms.

  "I have the advantage when it comes to wits too," she smugly replied.
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  Before I could reply to her burn, Naomi had raised a Viking-esque horn and blew, announcing the start of the hunt. I turned toward the forest and ran.

  Max and I sat back-to-back, panting, and dripping sweat. Laying on the ground beside us were the tattered remains of an orange hat, yarn poking in all kinds of unintended directions. Seated against a nearby tree was Zeke, who looked at us and slowly shook his head.

  "I know you warned me about your competitive streak, Maxine, but I have never witnessed anything quite like that in my lifetime, and I never hope to again. That poor hat!" Zeke exclaimed, running a hand through his sweaty hair.

  "Just be glad you were only tackled and de-hatted," I said. "Had you been a real stag, she might have thrown you to the ground and ripped your throat out with her teeth."

  "Oh, like you were so innocent, faking out a congratulatory handshake so you could get close to the booty! I didn't destroy that hat myself," Max groused.

  "So who's the winner?" Zeke asked.

  "Me," we both replied at once.

  "You?" Max shouted. "I chased down and captured the quarry, I got the hat. All you did was help destroy it after the fact by pretending to be chivalrous and congratulating me. I think it's clear you're down by one round. Now we can sit here and argue like a bunch of lamewads or go back to the camp for the feast."

  "She's making some good points, Wrath. Sorry, man," Zeke said, wincing as he stood up.

  "You okay?" Max asked, her voice full of concern.

  "Yeah, I twisted my ankle a little going down. I'll ice it at the camp, and it will be fine, but I think I'm out for the games. It'll just be you two, unless the ladies want to join in."

  Max snatched the destroyed hat by what once were the antlers and rose victoriously, walking over to offer an arm to Zeke. Not to be outdone—I was a knight, after all—I got up and grabbed his other arm, and the three of us hobbled back to camp.

  Chapter 12

  Jonathan

  “A knight never besmirches another’s honor.”

  ― Wrath

  As our trio wove our way through the forest, we could smell the delicious aroma of grilling meat. Saliva filled my mouth, and I realized how hungry I was, having worked up an appetite chasing Zeke and Max all over the damn mountain. I saw a flash of red up ahead and knew it was the tent, so I called out to the Finley and Naomi. “Almost there!”

  “About time too,” Zeke said good-naturedly. I liked this guy. He had a good sense of fun and didn’t seem phased by much, unless it was a crime against a hat, apparently.

  “Anyone know what’s on the grill?” I asked, the smell getting closer and more appetizing with every step I took.

  “Wild boar,” Max said, still helping me support Zeke.

  She was breathing hard but holding her own. I was proud of her, not only for organizing all this—and with “real” friends too—but for how well she kicked butt in the hunt. If anyone looked at us, they would probably say I was fit and in shape and Maxine wasn’t. But they hadn’t seen how darn fast she could run, or how determined she could be.

  “No, really Max, what are we having?” I laughed, thinking it cute that she was being super serious about the medieval theme.

  “Wild boar,” she repeated. “When I told my book club about today, Cletus insisted that we needed to lend authenticity to the event with some of his sausage. He hunts the boars and then prepares the sausages himself. They’re delicious.”

  “It was nice of the girls—er, ladies—to get it going while we were off terrorizing Zeke,” I commented, now fully engulfed by the scent.

  We came down a small hill and were back at the tent, Naomi and Finley having been working like mad while we were away. The blanket was spread outside of the tent, with cushions strewn about. Various drinks were popping up out of a cooler filled with ice, and on the food table was a fruit platter, another plate piled with cheeses, and plates, forks, and knives. On the grill, manned by Finley, were the promised boar sausages, along with veggie kabobs.

  “Hail, the conquering heroes!” Finley said when she saw us.

  Zeke made his way over to her, pulled her into his arms, and said just loudly enough for us all to hear, “Don’t ever leave me alone with the two of them again.”

  Max threw her head back and laughed a deep, full belly laugh that made her look radiant, all white teeth and a sheen of sweat on her forehead, her cheeks flushed.

  “And who was victorious on the hunt?” Naomi asked, looking us over, her eyes pausing on the remains of the hat in Max’s hands. “Ah, Maxine. I mean, Maximus. Well, I should have known from the start you were the horse to bet on.”

  “You have earned my favor, Maximus,” Finley said as she shut the grill off. She reached up her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief which she presented with fanfare to Max. “Now, before this food gets cold, everyone grab a plate. And I think our sacrificial stag should go first,” she said, and we all murmured and hummed in agreement.

  We filled our plates and sat on the ground or on a cushion and ate and drank. Max and I told tall tales from the game to the others. And you know what? That was the best damn sausage I’d ever eaten. Cletus rose in my estimation. I could respect a man who knew how to handle his meat.

  “Now,” Zeke began, in a serious voice, “you each stand in opposite corners and hold the watermelon over your head for as long as you possibly can.”

  “This is our feat of strength?” I asked Max, trying not to laugh.

  “Shush,” she said. “Do not question the ways of Sir Skywalker. Grab the melon and hoist it up, okay? It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

  Feeling ridiculous, I waited for the blast of the Viking horn and then picked up my melon, holding it high above my head. And held it, and held it, and held it. All was going well—I could see the strain on Max’s face—when I felt something, some kind of pressure on my leg. And then I saw Max’s eyes go wide. The sensation moved up my leg, now accompanied by little chippy noises. Oh God.

  “What is that?” I screeched and stood stock-still, not wanting whatever it was to chomp through my foam and decide the family jewels were worth checking out.

  “It’s a squirrel!” said Naomi. “How cute.”

  “How cute? How full of rabies! Oh God, it’s climbing higher, isn’t it? This thing is going to be at my face in a minute, I know it.” I closed my eyes and tried to remember to breathe.

  “Hold still, Wrath,” came Max’s voice from about ten feet away. “It doesn’t look like it has a murderous face.”

  “Oh, thank you, Madam Squirrel Whisperer!” I shot back, the melon over my head wavering. The pressure moved again and again, higher still.

  “For the … Naomi, pass me that staff from the prop table.”

  Now armed, Finley made her way over to me and extended the staff. She poked at the squirrel, and instead of jumping down, the thing scurried straight up onto my shoulder, hiding behind some of my long hair.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” she said as my eyes went as wide as dinner plates. I may have shrieked, and the melon went flying, tumbling down the hill beside us where it landed with an explosive plop. I reached up with my thankfully gloved hands and swatted at the squirrel while simultaneously trying to extract my hair from the animal’s grasp. After making several passes at the astonishingly large animal, it finally gave up the game and ran back down my chest and leg, leaving me bent over and panting hard, my hands on my knees.

  “Yo, Max,” I said. “I think you can put down your melon now. Mine appears to have been killed by a woodland creature.”

  She victoriously waved the melon around like a professional wrestler holding aloft a belt they’d just won. “And that’s two to nothing heading into the sword fight! Sir Wrath, would you like to concede defeat now and save yourself the humiliation of the sword or would you like to continue for honor’s sake alone?”

  “I’d like to continue so I can kick your ass straight up,” I said, still panting. “You got lucky with that squirrel.”<
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  I’d be lying if I said the squirrel hadn’t made me panicky. I needed to breathe and get something to drink, and I would be fine. And then Max would be going down. See, what Max didn’t know was that I trained in kendo—Japanese sword fighting—and I knew what I was doing with a sword in my hand. So I’d lost grabbing a hat and my melon had gotten smashed to smithereens. I was going to get Max where it hurt—her battle skills.

  “Let’s take ten minutes and recuperate,” Max suggested, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it to me before taking one for herself. “Naomi, Finley, would either of you be interested in joining the sword fight?”

  Finley chuckled. “And get in the way of your epic rivalry? No way. This is too entertaining to watch.”

  Naomi nodded in agreement and smiled. “Sorry, Maximus. This is all you and Sir Wrath.”

  We squared off at the prop table, looking over various Nerf and foam weapons, me pretending that I was considering what to choose when I knew the katana was my weapon of choice. I was going to go full-on Kill Bill on Max, and she’d never see it coming. After a few moments I decisively grabbed the foam katana and gave it a few thrusts through the air. Not bad. I could do this. Max picked up a foam claymore—otherwise known as a Scottish great sword—and we met in the clearing where the feat of strength had taken place. Naomi dropped a favor, and when the handkerchief hit the ground, it was on like Donkey Kong.

  We paced around each other, like a pair of great cats moving in for a throw down. I could practically hear “Eye of the Tiger”—oh wait, that’s because Zeke was playing it from his cellphone, holding it up into the air on what had to be max volume.