My phone dings. I set aside my homework for the welcomed distraction.

Amanda: So I heard you're into archery! My boyfriend has a shooting range at his house. Hang out is tonight at 7, if you wanna join us? Dakota will be there. ;)

The logical side of my brain tells me that if I am truly wanting to set any more-than-platonic feelings aside, I should not go. But the part of my brain that consists only of my heart sends the response.

Me: Sure!

Amanda: Okay. I'll send you the address.

It is the part of my brain that consists only of my heart that moves my feet to the car at a quarter to seven, and the same part that seeks him out the moment I arrive.

The house is a three story brick mansion built on acres and acres of green grass, enclosed in a black metallic fence twice the height of the man standing at the gate, holding it open for me to drive through. Bales of hay are scattered throughout the land, some with round, multicolored sheets attached. Targets.

The third floor of the house is made mostly of glass. I marvel at the random tower of elegance planted right in the heart of nowhere, and that is when I see him, staring down from above, through the glass and through to my soul. Although I know he could not possibly see me to single me out within my car, I like to pretend he notices somehow, as I notice him everywhere -- his name in commercials, on billboards, a shout in passing at the store.

Just beside the house is a much smaller red barn where a man walks gingerly toward the front, leading an unwilling horse into its doors.

Amanda finds me the moment I park. Gripped tightly in her left hand is a yellow bow. In her right is a quiver filled with gold arrows. "Head to the garage now and you'll have plenty to choose from."

She was right. Lining the inner walls are rows of bows, varying in color and size. In the corners are those large trash cans, sixty gallon, each containing an array of arrows. The purple bow closest to the ceiling strikes my fancy.

"That one up there?" Dakota.

"Yes, the purple compound." I attempt to hide the fact that I was startled. I do, but at the expense of my thoughts flocking to the fact that he spoke to me, and now my cheeks feel as though it is being licked by the flames of the bonfire we were promised.

Dakota nods. "Nice choice." His bow is a compound, too, of a murky swamp color. "Ever done a tournament?"

"One, in high school."

"I thought you were homeschooled." He stares with furrowed brows and pouting lips, as if I have lied to him.

"Yes, within my homeschool group. We competed in a statewide tournament."

"And?"

"Lost. But it was enjoyable regardless."

The Dakota smile graces my vision with its presence. Genuine. The teeth-exposed, smile-lines, crinkle-cornered-eyes kind of genuine. "That's what counts."

"Let's go. We're starting." Amanda's boyfriend, Thomas, ushers us outside.

Seven bales of hay, all several yards apart from the one beside it, sit in a line, each with a face of ten rings. Thomas calls on Dakota, who is evidently expectant and prepared. Without any instruction, his fingers create a triangle shape. His arms stretch out in front of his face. Slowly, he closes the gap. The triangle finds his right eye.

"Some of you are new to archery, so I'll need you to do the same."

I figure that Thomas refrains from explaining his reasoning to avoid any possible assumptions. The goal is to discover which eye is dominant. Although I am right-handed, my left eye is dominant, which means that I shoot best turned to the left and drawing back the string with my left hand. It's created the phenomenon of my left arm being notably stronger than my right.

I know the hand trick routine like the back of my own. I allow my mind to wander and my eyes to tag along, all the way to his arms, the way they tensed when outstretched and further exposed a history of hard work. They rest now at his sides. The simple sight of the veins -- pronounced, and the hollow areas -- deep, awakens goosebumps of appreciation. I rub my own arms, attempting to smooth them out before they have a chance to be noticed.

The majority of participants turn out to be right-eye dominants. Some, like I did, already knew their preferred eye.

"We have thirteen people and only seven targets, so I'll ask that y'all find someone to share with."

I find an orange caution cone and set my arrows inside the hole at the top. The side of the cone reads: 50 Feet. Since it's been a while, it will be a challenge, but a welcomed one. Part of me wonders if the safer option of thirty feet will aid better in achieving both literal and figurative bullseyes. I see the innermost ring as Impress Dakota. I aim for it.

I jump. Metal hitting metal pulls me out of the trance. Dakota's green arrows join mine in the cone.

"You'll do great. Promise." Dakota's eyes find my hands.

I grip my bow even tighter, which backfires -- it only serves to make my hands shake more vigorously. How did he notice? "I'm rusty." It is less the rustiness and more the performance anxiety that creates these earthquakes in my palms.

"The bullseye is having fun, is it not? As long as you enjoy it, you'll do wonderfully."

No, it is not. Not today, anyway. Instead of saying so, I nod. "Yeah, totally."

Thomas lists the different whistle signals and the proper response to each. Once satisfied with our understanding, he blows once. Time to begin.

I revel in the sound of countless arrows piercing the air, their high pitched breathy singing before they hit their targets with an alto's timbre. My first strikes the very center. I wish to see his face, to see if he noticed my luck but his back is to my own due to our differing dominant eyes. Even if I could see his face, I'm positive that all I would see is focus. No beats are skipped; arrow after arrow is sent off the string to our shared target.

Nothing but bullseyes come from his hands.

The final whistle is blown and all else becomes silent. Only for a moment, though, as eager archers rush to tally up their scores and retrieve their arrows a final time. Low numbers, mostly, and those that are intimidating fly around. The ones on the higher end of the spectrum are made further intimidating as I am forced to stare into the face of my measly two hundred points out of six rounds. I'm shocked to find that Dakota achieved the same. What happened to his fifty-point rounds?

"You did much better than I did. I saw that. Are you sure...?"

He nods. "I'm sure. I got two hundred." The way a single corner of his lips turns up and his eyes flicker from mine to the side confesses otherwise. "Anyway, great job. And you thought you were rusty."

I want to tell him I am better than two hundred, that I have been better, but his attempts to aid my comfortability are too precious to waste. "We did great. Four hundred total on our target. I'd say that's pretty decent."

"Indeed." His hand lifts with five fingers spread in request of mine. I high-five him.

Behind his own flames of red, another, larger flame begins to flicker. It grows to full-size in only a moment, and the heat reaches us just as quickly. To the bonfire, I follow his lead.

Marshmallows, chocolate bars, and graham crackers have been handed out already, but the table set up in the garage presents an abundance more. Dakota is about to claim a chair by the fire but straightens himself, places a hand on my wrist and says, "Have a seat. I'll get some."

He was watching my gaze.

"You heard him, Alana, he's got you."

Amanda's voice startles me.

I barely know what to make of her teasing. I fear that with his observant nature, he will turn around at any second and notice her poking at my affections, comparing his figure and face to the high temperature of the bonfire, betting s'mores won't compare to the soft, sweet kisses he gives.

"Amanda!" It comes out in a sharp whisper. Amanda takes her seat, feigning innocence with a smile and quizzical stare. It works to distract me. That and my curiosity-turned-fear -- has it been obvious from the start that I had a crush?

I ask her, only for the concern to be denied. It hasn't been obvious -- at least, she believes, not to anyone but herself. She claims to be gifted in these things, knowledgeable and quick to detect budding infatuations at the starting line.

"That was past tense. You said had. What happened?" She is good.

"I'm worried about Heather." I bite my lip, remembering that Dakota could appear behind us at any moment. He remains at the table, assisting a group of small children gather their s'mores supplies. "I don't care for the idea of being a second choice of any sort."

"I understand, but you don't need to worry about that. Heather isn't part of the picture anymore. You should go for it."

"I don't know."

"Go for it. Trust me." And the way she says it, with conviction and certainty, convinces me to.

"Sorry it took so long, I was held at water gun point."

"We noticed." Amanda sends a wink my way and, with haste, my cheeks respond. Dakota, thankfully, fails to see her signal; his eyes are fixated on mine.

"That was really kind, your staying and helping them so patiently," I say.

His head cocks to the side. His hands find his pockets. "Well, my grandfather taught me patience. That's for sure." The quiet, halfhearted laugh twists my stomach into a knot. The laugh, whether he realizes it or not, sends a message -- one he seems unwilling to share.

I try to forget it. I try replacing his laugh with the genuine, joyful laughter around the fire now, with the crackling of the flames. I try to erase the bitter taste of worry with the sweetness of the s'mores he helps me make. But nothing removes the implications of his statement from my mind. All the while, he seems to have already forgotten. His carefree persona is all he exposes.

I study his face, the orange glow from the fire illuminating his expression. A content state of nothing -- no negative emotion or thought -- is all I see. Maybe he is all right, and I'm simply misinterpreting, doing what I was born to do: overthink.

A cold rush of air passes through, forcing gravity to surrender the fallen leaves it had claimed. The wind prods and pokes at the fire, causing it to swell with each gust, urging it to be more than what it was before, to reach within itself and show us more.

That is when I remember that there is always more than one cares to expose.