Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
SCOTTIE
“Why is this exactly what I pictured in my head?” I say to Wilder as he puts the Jeep in park.
I stare out the window at the sight before me: a combination of vintage cabins, dirt paths framed by rocks, and tall oak trees that stretch up toward the sky, providing a canopy of shade with their pointed, lobed leaves.
It’s as if the movie The Parent Trap has come to life and sucked me into a vortex.
The main building is a log A-frame with a flagpole right outside the office, the camp logo of a simple H freely flying in the air. A lake runs along the backside of the camp, stacked with canoes and rowboats ready to be tossed into the water. Toward the middle, there’s a large firepit with Adirondack chairs circling around it and piles of logs stacked high, ready to be burned. Off to the right, back into the woods, are the quaint log cabins where I’m assuming the camp attendees stay. Cutely, they are all adorned with porches and seating areas in the front, each with a decent width between.
This is it.
Camp Haven.
“I was reading up on Camp Haven before coming here,” Wilder says. “Apparently Sanders’s grandparents started it as a sports camp for children, a place to escape to during the summer. But over the years, it lost its luster, and only recently has Sanders revived it into a marriage camp. He does quite a few retreats every year.”
“Yeah, and at fifteen thousand a pop, he’s probably sitting pretty.” I chuckle.
“Probably, but seems peaceful,” Wilder says as he opens his door.
“For now,” I mutter as I get out of the car as well. Despite the picturesque scene in front of me, I know for a fact that I don’t want to be here. The drive up wasn’t terrible. There were long moments of silence when we didn’t say anything; he just drove and I stared out the window, soaking up all the greenery I miss at times while living in the city. And when we did talk, it wasn’t really anything of substance. Things like have you ever hit a deer while driving? This was asked because we saw several carcasses on the side of the road while making our way up to the Catskills. For the record, neither of us have experienced such a horrific event.
But yeah, it was just…awkward, and now that we’re here, I feel even more awkward because it’s game time now.
This is it.
No going back.
Wilder is my pretend husband, I’m his pretend wife, and we’re here to fix our marriage.
A squeaky screen door opens and then slams shut against the wood of the doorframe, startling me. I look up to find Sanders standing just outside the main building with a large smile on his face, waving his hand. “You’re here. How was the drive?”
“Beautiful,” Wilder says as he walks up to Sanders and offers him a handshake.
One thing I’ve observed about Wilder is that he’s a social guy. Outgoing. He’s not shaking Sanders’s hand because he’s playing a part; he’s shaking his hand because that’s the kind of guy he seems to be. I need to remember that if he starts shaking the hands of the Brads and Chad.
“What about our passenger princess?” Sanders says as he smiles at me.
This man has zero fashion sense. On camp day one, he’s wearing a pair of swim trunks accompanied by a bright blue bowling shirt. His hair hasn’t seen a comb in what I’m assuming is a week, and caressing his feet are a sturdy pair of ankle rain boots.
I mean, I guess it must be nice though, not having to think about putting an outfit together. He probably just sticks his hand in his dresser and pulls out the first pair of bottoms and shirt he sees with not a care in the world if they work together.
He’s a stark contrast to Ellison, who’s always so put together.
“It was a very nice drive,” I say.
Together, we move to the back of the car, where Wilder starts pulling out our bags and setting them on the ground.
“Run into any weather?” Sanders asks me.
Putting on a gentle smile, I nod. “Ran into a sprinkling of rain, but other than that, just a nice drive upstate. Always nice to get out of the city on occasion.”
“That’s what I say,” Sanders says, and then from his pocket, he pulls out a white golf ball and says, “Think fast.” He tosses the ball at me, and somehow out of sheer panic and surprise, I’m able to catch it.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“That is what they call a golf ball,” he says. “Don’t you write about those?”
Very funny, Sanders —said with absolutely no sarcasm.
Trying to hold back from nailing him in the head with said golf ball, I say, “Why, yes, but I was just wondering why you were handing me one.”
“It’s for our first activity of the day. We like to jump right into things. We’ll have a proper welcome a little bit later, but we find it’s a good icebreaker for all the couples to start with an activity. Leave your bags here, Wilder. Our staff will bring them to your cabin. For now, you two need to follow me.”
Okay, so we’re just doing this, huh? No easing in? No tour? Just right into an activity. God, I don’t think I’m mentally prepared just yet.
Wilder comes up next to me, and then together, we follow behind Sanders, who brings us around the main building and to a much bigger building that I didn’t even notice behind the A-frame. Half of it is inside, the other half outside seating covered by a portico.
The covered area is decorated with couches, wingback chairs, coffee tables, ornate rugs, gold-framed pictures… It almost reminds me of Central Perk from Friends , coffee bar and all.
“There they are,” Chad says as he lifts his hand with a wave. “Nice that you could make it.”
He says it in a gentle tone, but I know it’s a barb at us for being what looks to be the last couple to show up. Not a way to start things off, Chad.
Next to him sits his wife, who is intensely coloring a golf ball with Sharpies. I want to say her name is Danielle. That or Diana. I’m having a mental block. I’ve seen her quite a few times in the office. I remember her specifically because she likes to sit on Chad’s lap and make out with him in the middle of the day, in the middle of the office. Massively inappropriate, but apparently since we are a marriage-positive workspace, make-out sessions are approved.
“Hello,” Wilder says with a friendly wave. “I’m Wilder. Really excited about being here.”
Wilder, what did we just talk about in the car? We’re not making friends with these people.
Then he loops his arm around me and says, “You all know my wife, Pips.”
Pips.
Why do I hate that name so much?
“Pips? I might have to use that in the office,” Chad says with a smirk.
Oh no, you don’t.
“I’d rather you not,” I say. “That’s Wilder’s special name for me.”
“We can chitchat later,” Sanders says, standing in front of us and blocking off the view from the rest of the crowd. “First things first, please take out your phones.”
Wilder and I exchange glances but then pull our phones out and hold them in our palms.
“Great. Now turn them off,” Sanders says. “This is an electronics-free area.”
“But what if we need to make a call?” I ask.
“Did you not send the information to your loved ones?” Sanders asks, a pinch to his brow.
What information?
“Uh, I did,” Wilder says. “I think I forgot to tell Scottie.”
“Ah, well, Scottie, send a quick text to your loved ones about where you are for the next eight days in case they need to get in contact with you. We have a pay phone that is available for emergency calls, but it’s monitored, so you’re not allowed to spend an exorbitant amount of time in there.”
A pay phone? Did we just road-trip back to the nineties?
“Okay,” I say, feeling like I’m losing a limb. I type out a text to everyone and then remember what Wilder said to me in the car. “Does Mika know how to get in contact with you?”
Wilder nods. “I talked to him this morning about it. He has all the information he needs if he has to get in touch with me. Thanks,” he says softly.
Feeling better about that, I send out a quick text, and then both of us turn our phones off, only to hand them to Sanders, who pockets them.
“Wonderful.” He clasps his hands together. “You will get these when we’re done with camp. Now, head on over to your coloring station by the far end of the dining area. You’ll have about twenty minutes to color your golf ball. We want to see you color it in a way that represents the love you share for each other.”
Okay…
“Sure thing,” Wilder says like a doof as he places his hand on my back, and then together, we head over to two wingback chairs that are placed side by side with a small coffee table in front of them. We are far enough away from the other couples that I feel comfortable whispering to him with no one lending an ear to listen in.
“Color our love? How does one do that?” I ask.
“Well, there are many possibilities,” he replies while he takes the ball from me. “For instance, we could interpret the assignment as a love timeline displayed in color.”
Interpret the assignment? Why do I feel like he’s way more into this than me?
“We can use a color for each line, telling a story of how we’ve moved about over the last few years, ranging from hot to cold. Love to anger.”
Huh, that’s actually a pretty good idea.
“Right, I forgot that you’re an art major.”
“Or we can use symbols, but that might be more labor intensive as we attempt to find symbols that could represent a marriage despite not knowing much about our marriage. A story timeline using color symbolization could really tell the story Sanders is looking for. But if you’re into the symbols, we can do those too.”
“Uh, I think the color timeline thing would be best.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Okay, um, what colors do we need?” I ask as I glance down at all the colors available for us to use.
He lifts the can of Sharpies. “Well, we can start with black, which could represent the time right before we met, because our lives were dark and colorless.”
I mean, that tracks for the beginning of a beautiful love story.
“Then,” he says, getting more excited, “maybe yellow for happiness, because that’s when we met. Then glow it up from there, going from yellow to orange to green.”
“Why green? Why not red?”
“Because red I think screams anger and hurt.”
“Oh, I assumed red because we were…you know…red-hot.”
He raises his brow. “Red-hot, huh? You saying we have a steamy sex life?”
I feel my cheeks heat. “Well, you did say you found me attractive, so I just assumed. And also, you mentioned it the other day during our therapy session.”
He nods. “Well, you assumed right, but that’s why I think green would be best for that period in our marriage, because green represents wealth, and that doesn’t need to be wealth in a money sense but a surplus of wealth in the mental capacity. Wealth in love. Wealth in marriage. Wealth in joy and happiness.”
Okay, did he take a crash course on marriage counseling before he came here? He’s so profound, something I did not expect in the least.
“Yeah, I guess I can understand that.”
“Then I think we switch back to yellow and start mixing up yellow, orange, red, and green until we get to brown, which is where we are now.”
“Huh,” I say, thinking about it. “That’s actually a really good representation.”
“Thank you,” he says and then hands me back the ball. “Do you want to do the honors? I can hand you the markers.”
“Sure, that works,” I reply.
Getting to work, he hands me a black marker, and I start coloring in a circle at the very top.
“So who was that guy who said hi to you when we got here? Is that Chad?”
“It is,” I answer, focusing on making the ball look nice. “How could you tell?”
“He has weasel written all over him.”
“Right? See, I told you.”
“You did. I’ll be sure to avoid friendship with him at all costs.”
“Such a good husband.”
“Hey, according to the rules, we’re not saying nice things like that to each other just yet. Remember, we’re in a cold phase right now. We’re not frozen, just in our cold era.”
“Right, sorry.” I straighten out my lips, attempting not to smile, but it’s hard.
When I catch him glancing at me, he says, “Stop. You’re not supposed to be smiling.”
“I’m sorry.” I let out a low chuckle. “This is all just so…stupid.”
“Yes, but remember, you’re the one who got us into this, so don’t be the one who screws it up. You can’t blow up our spot.”
“Please, if anyone is going to screw it up, it’s you.”
“Want to bet?”
“Sure,” I say. “First one to misstep has to hand over five of their Nerds Clusters.”
“Only five?” he asks. “Scared you might mess it up?”
“No, scared you might mess it up several times. This is so you don’t lose them all.”
“We’ll see about that.” Then he reaches out his hand and says, “Deal.”
I take it and give it a shake.
Game on.
Easy win ahead for me.
Which is good, because I’ll need all the candy I can get to see me through the next eight days.
“This is stupid,” I say as I stand with my back to Wilder’s chest. Our ankles and our hands are tied to each other, plastering us together and making it nearly impossible to move. “If we fall, we have to roll, or else I’m taking the earth right to my nose.”
“We’re not going to fall,” Wilder says, his lips so close to my ear that his breath tickles me, sending a shiver all the way up my spine and causing goose bumps to spread over my skin. “We just need to communicate when we move. See, like them.” He nods toward Finky and his wife, Lindsey, who are moving through the mini golf course with ease.
There are five holes to play, and said holes are pretty simple, flat, nothing too dramatic when it comes to slope and obstacles. We were told before we started that the best score wins a prize at the end. No one knows what the prize is, but you can bet with a camp full of embroidered vest–loving freaks, they’re gunning for it. And yes, because I don’t want to feel like the loser of the bunch, we’re going for it as well.
“It looks like he’s whispering in her ear as they move along.” Then he points to Duncan and his husband. “Let’s not be like them.”
“Is that dirt in his nose?”
I feel Wilder lean closer to get a better look. “Shit, it is,” he says. “Okay, if we end up falling, tuck and roll and I’ll take the hit. But for the record, I don’t plan on falling. I’m sturdy as an ox. All we need to do is take our time, concentrate, and work together. This isn’t a race. This is about communication.”
“Understood.” I lightly nod. “But given our situation, don’t you think we should bicker a little? You know, to show everyone that we’re here for a reason? But then surprise them when we end up pulling out the win? Like classic chaos on the outside, but when push comes to shove, we excel at everything we do.”
“Yeah, I like that.” He pauses for a moment and then says, “Chaos I can do.” He clears his throat and speaks slightly louder so the couples around us can hear. “Can you not do that?”
Brad S and his wife, in front of us, glance in our direction from the sound of Wilder’s voice. A look of surprise and understanding falls over their expressions. Almost like they’re trying to say been there, done that.
Well then, I guess it’s time to put on a show.
Squaring my shoulders and wanting to match his energy, I say, “Do what? Tell you exactly what to do so we can win?” I derisively snort. “Remember, I’m the one who works for a putting company, not you.”
“Yeah, you edit content written by others,” he shoots back. “Strike me if I’m wrong, but you’re not out on the greens, teaching Tiger Woods how to zone in his putting. You have no idea what you’re doing when you have a stick in your hand. Trust me.”
Hey!
I glance back at him, murder in my eyes.
I know exactly what to do with a…ahem…stick in my hand.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He lifts his chin. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I make a mental note to talk to Wilder about insults that we can toss at each other while not going below the belt, if you know what I mean.
“Not what you were saying two weekends ago when you were panting and squealing from my…hands.”
“Squealing, really?” he asks with a gigantic eye roll that I’m pretty sure could have been spotted from space.
“Yeah, squealing. People thought a farm walked into the apartment building from the amount of hee-hawing coming from your lips.” I nearly let out my own impression of the donkey braying sound that’s on repeat in my head, but Sanders clears his throat in front of us, bringing our attention back to the golf course and the competition. “Sorry,” I whisper with an apologetic smile.
“Apologies,” Wilder replies, but then after a few seconds, he clears his throat, and in a very sarcastic voice, he says, “Wife, you’re so good at this. I can’t wait to see how you eat up all these men, just like you swallowed all those men in college.”
Jesus, Wilder.
He pokes me in the back, encouraging me to shoot back. So I turn to look at him and say, “Pretty sure you were the one eating in college.”
“You’ve never had a problem with my munching.”
Ugh, why does he have to be so quick?
“And you, uh, you’ve never had a problem with my, uh, swallowing,” I shoot back, proud of myself, but that pride quickly vanishes as Sanders walks right up to us this time, blocking us out from the rest of the couples.
“Hello,” he says, pressing his hands together.
“Hi,” Wilder and I say at the same time.
“Now, I understand there might be some growing tension between the two of you, and maybe you aren’t entirely comfortable with not only being here but being tied up together and put to task within a half hour of arriving. But please, for the sake of peace at the camp, save the snarky commentary for our lash-out sessions. While we’re together as a group, we need to keep the harmony.”
My cheeks flame with embarrassment, because I’m usually one to follow directions and listen to the rules.
“Sorry about that,” Wilder says and then lets out a heavy breath. “Tension is high.”
“Yes, sorry,” I say again. “Long, tense road trip, and now we’re tied up together without taking a breather. Not sure I can remember the last time we spent this much time together consecutively.”
Understanding crosses Sanders’s face, thankfully. “I get it, but please don’t disturb the peace of others.”
“Sure,” Wilder says. “Apologies again. We’ll do better.”
“Thank you.” Sanders nods and walks away.
When we’re left alone, I turn away from everyone and whisper, “Well, we made people believe we hate each other. Good job.”
“Yeah, I think people are thinking they might have issues in their marriage, but at least they’re not as bad off as us.”
“Precisely.”
“By the way, I didn’t do a lot of munching in college.”
“Nor did I do a lot of swallowing,” I reply, feeling so ridiculous saying that.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m not good at it,” he adds. “Not about quantity, it’s about quality.”
“Same, Wilder. Same.”
“Deep breath,” Wilder says into my ear as we line up our last hole. “We got this.”
It’s been a pretty intense game. We’ve scored two holes in one and two pars while arguing the entire time. There has been staring from the others. Whispering. And even the occasional wince when I’ve accidentally elbowed Wilder in the ribs. And through all that, we are miraculously tied with Chad and his wife.
You can imagine their displeasure.
But despite all that, we have a solid chance at winning if we can get this hole in one. The course is basic, has smooth greens and very few obstacles, and just needs precise accuracy and communication with your partner to get a hole in one. Seems easy, but it’s not. Especially when you’re tied to each other.
“You lead,” I say.
“I know what I’m doing,” Wilder snaps, startling me. “You don’t have to lady-nag all the time.”
A collective gasp sounds throughout the women of the group. And when I glance up to catch the reactions of our fellow golfers, I can see just how uncomfortable everyone is.
Well, we wanted to sell how much our marriage is failing. I guess we’re doing a great job at it.
To really add the final nail to the coffin, I say, “Maybe if you were actually intelligent enough to read simple putting lines by yourself, I wouldn’t have to nag you.”
“Just get in position,” he says, moving me easily around.
Satisfied with our squabble, I allow him to line us both up, and then together, we bring our club back, and with our arms stiff, we swing through, propelling the ball forward. It sails up the small hill in the middle of the course, then down, and straight toward the hole. I hold my breath as it bypasses the hole. Wilder squeezes me, both of us on edge as the ball hits the stone behind the hole, giving it a good bounce, and we watch as the ball, as if in slow motion, inches closer and closer to the hole until…
Plunk.
It falls in.
“Fuck yeah!” Wilder yells and throws his hands in the air, taking my hands with him. God, he’s tall. “And that’s how it’s done.”
Chad tosses his club to the side and grunts in frustration, which naturally causes his wife to chastise him for the outburst.
Other couples offer their congratulations, even though they don’t want to, because losing to the Bickersons is flat-out embarrassing. Let’s call a spade a spade: no one wants to lose to the dysfunctional couple, yet here we are, taking the W.
While everyone begrudgingly tells us good job, Sanders, with his arm around Ellison, studies us.
“We did it,” Wilder says, now dancing behind me, causing me to move around as well.
“Hey, don’t do that,” I say as I feel myself start to lose my balance.
“Why aren’t you excited? We beat the Brads and Chad,” he shouts, using my nickname for my coworkers that I’ve never said out loud. “And didn’t I tell you? I said, listen to me, and we will win. Maybe you should listen to me more often.”
“Maybe you should stop moving around so much so we don’t tip over.”
“Is that all you’re really worried about?” He huffs behind me and then gestures his hand out, making my hand move as well. “You can never celebrate the small things.”
“Hey, whoa, I’m going to fall,” I say. “Stop moving.”
“Always have to complain. Always have to be angry about something,” he says, gesturing again.
“Wilder, seriously, stop,”
“Stop what?” he asks, leaning forward.
His weight presses into my back.
My legs shake beneath me.
And because I’m already off-balance from his erratic cheering, I can’t take on the minimal amount of pressure from him, and before I can adjust our feet, I start to tip forward.
And because I tip forward, he tips forward.
And before I know what’s happening, the ground seems to be moving closer and closer…
And closer…
Roll.
“Roll,” I screech.
“Fuck, what?” Wilder says as we head straight to the ground…face-first.
“For the love of God, roll.” It’s the last thing I shout right as I attempt to overthrow the giant man behind me, but there’s no use, as the pounds of muscle on him are too heavy. Watch out, ground. We’re coming in hot.
I brace for impact, closing my eyes and holding my breath just as I plow face-first into the ground, my eye connecting with what I can only assume is a rock, sending a jolt of sharp pain through my skull.
And from there, everything goes black as I hear Wilder mumble, “Oh…roll.”