Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
SCOTTIE
I did not sleep well; I kept worrying about keeping to my side of the bed. I wish I’d worn socks; I was freezing. And while I heard Wilder quietly sleeping, all I could think about was how many of the cabins’ inhabitants were getting it on.
My guess was all of them besides us.
No wonder the Brads and Chad like to revisit the camp often. It’s like a kinky sex club in the woods. And here I thought it was going to be about bonding and therapy and trying to patch up my broken, nonexistent relationship.
Sure, I’m judging the camp based off one day and a cabin full of paraphernalia. We’ll see what today brings, but if I had known, I would have cancelled and come up with a different solution, because this makes me embarrassingly uncomfortable.
And what makes it even more uncomfortable is that it seems to me that Wilder is loving every second of this.
With the video, he didn’t even scoff. I think if I said we were going to watch it, he’d have been all about it. He laughs about the fleshy poker in the shower. I’ve seen him perusing the overpriced lovemaking minibar. I even caught him staring at the nipple picture, as if he was trying to come up with a backstory for it.
Which leads me to believe that he’s very confident in his sexuality—something I wish I was.
I found out quickly with Matt that I was not comfortable in my own skin.
And I know it wasn’t his responsibility to boost my ego, but I wish he would’ve at least once looked at me like he wanted to devour me. I wish he had given me a touch of confidence in the bedroom when I took my clothes off with just one hungry look or nod of approval.
But there was nothing.
He was more interested in his own pleasure than mine.
And once he found completion, that was about it. It got to the point where I wasn’t really trying anymore. I was just doing what I needed to do, and then I could get on with my night. I know it was one of the reasons why we disconnected. I tried talking to him about it once, even suggested trying something new, like toys, and he scoffed at the idea. I felt so humiliated, as if it was wrong to ask for more sexually. It drove home this insecurity that my sexual needs simply don’t matter and at the core of it all, I just wasn’t good enough. And that’s a hard perception to shut down.
So being immersed in a situation where sensuality and sexuality—which I have no experience with—are at the forefront of conversation makes my skin itch, especially since my fake husband seems to be very well versed in the matter.
“Ready?” Wilder says, knocking me out of my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I say as I down the rest of my orange juice and then dab my mouth with my napkin. Breakfast was delivered right on time, an assortment of pastries, coffee, tea, and yogurt parfaits. For a summer camp, it was pretty fancy. I was expecting pancakes and a vat of scrambled eggs to be cooked on a flat-top grill, only to be divvied out by the scoopful. But our tray was beautifully decorated with cloth napkins and a daisy in a vase and set in cotillion style.
Fancy.
“That apple Danish was really good,” he says as he opens the door to our cabin for us, the humid summer air already penetrating my skin.
“Yeah, I liked the cheese one. Kind of hope that’s something we get every day.”
“Hey, I was thinking the same thing.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Look at us being friends.”
“Friends? I think that’s pushing it.”
“We shared a bed last night, Scottie. I think that makes us at least friends.”
“No, I think that makes you lucky.”
He gasps. “Holy shit, did you just make a joke?” He tugs on his ear. “Did I hear that right?”
“Can you not, please?” I try to hold back my smirk.
“I’m sorry, you just caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting you to come out like that, acting all funny after a long night of you clinging to the edge of your bed, trying to stay as far away from me as possible.”
“I was not clinging to the side.”
“Scottie”—he gives me a look that says he knows better—“if you had levitation capabilities, I’m pretty sure you would have levitated next to the bed instead.”
“Well, excuse me for wanting to give you space.”
“You could have slept in my armpit, and I wouldn’t have cared,” he says.
“Oh, is that right? Well, I guess I’ll consider that for tonight.”
He chuckles. “Glad to hear it. Just don’t move a lot. I’m ticklish.”
As we approach the cabin, I say, “Okay, time to focus. Remember where we are at in our relationship at the moment.”
“Dramatically trying to find our way back to each other,” he answers.
“I don’t know why you used the term ‘dramatically,’ but yes, we’re not happy with each other. This is our low point, and from here, we climb.”
“Right.” He rubs his hands together. “This is what I’ve been waiting for.”
We reach the cabin, and I stop him. “What are you talking about? Do not go off script.”
“There is no script,” he counters.
“I mean, stick to what we know. Don’t start rambling on about things that you just decide to make up.”
“But that’s what improv is all about.”
I grip his shoulders and look him in the eyes. “Stay focused, Wilder. Please, for the love of God, stay focused.”
“I’m focused, dear.”
“Promise me.” I point at him.
“Promise,” he says with a smirk just as the cabin door opens and I spot Sanders.
Showtime.
Smiling, I turn toward him and say, “Morning.”
Standing in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a Jets shirt, he says, “Morning. Everything okay?”
“Yes,” I answer in a cheery voice, probably overplaying it a bit too much. “Just checking to make sure I don’t have anything in my teeth. Breakfast was delicious, by the way.” I turn to Wilder. “Everything, uh, good?” I flash him my teeth.
He squats down, playing the part, and takes a gander. But then to my horror, he tilts my head back farther, peels my lip up, and really gives them a good examination.
When he’s done, he sets me up straight and then says, “Clean, babe.”
I straighten out my shirt and try to telepathically warn him that such nonsense is not necessary.
“Well, if we’re all set, shall we?” Sanders gestures to the inside of the cabin.
In a cheery, nonplussed voice, Wilder says, “I think we shall.” And then we walk up toward the door, and as we pass Sanders, Wilder offers him a fist bump. “That Danish was fire.”
“What flavor did you have?”
“Apple,” Wilder answers.
“Wait until tomorrow when they bring out the cherry. Your life will be changed.”
Wilder rubs his stomach. “I look forward to it.”
Ignoring them, I make my way inside the cabin and then take a look around to get familiar with my surroundings. All I can say is…wow.
I’m stunned.
After seeing Sanders’s office in New York and the basketball presentation last night, I half expected to bear witness to an agglomeration of sports memorabilia with a roomful of trophies, basketball hoops as seats, and bleachers as a couch.
But this cabin…it’s…it’s normal.
There’s a comfortable-looking couch off to the left, a wingback chair to the right with an oak coffee table in between. A blue area rug breaks up all the wood and coincides with the blue checkered curtains that hang over the window. A small fridge is near the door, and a balcony in the back offers a view of the lake.
Very, very normal.
It almost makes me feel uneasy.
“Welcome to the office.”
“This is your office?” Wilder asks, taking it in as well. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Well, it’s not as fun to be in as my other one in the city, but I tend to not want to have distractions when we’re in this room. The conversations we share in here are more intimate, tougher. Couples need a space to be our honest selves, and I find with minimal decorating, we can have those honest conversations.”
“Makes sense,” Wilder says.
“Please, take a seat on the couch.”
Wilder and I both take a seat and get comfortable. Wilder drapes his arm over the back of the couch, while I cross one of my legs over the other. When we’re situated, Sanders sits himself in the chair across from us and then leans forward.
“How are you feeling so far?”
Well, here we go, a true and honest therapy session.
“Great,” I say with a smile. “Really great. It’s been a fun experience so far, and the cabin?—”
“Why are you lying?” Wilder asks, surprising me.
“Wh-what?” I ask, talking through my smile as I turn to face him. I attempt to speak through my eyes, saying, What the hell are you doing right now? Remember what we talked about?
“Why are you lying to him right now?” Wilder gestures toward Sanders. “Everything is not great.”
“I was just?—”
“No, enough with the lies,” Wilder says in a frustrated tone, jumping right into conflict. I’m…I’m not prepared. “We’re here to fix things, so let’s be honest with ourselves and with Sanders.”
“Thank you,” Sanders says while clapping. Oh brother. “I know that must have been hard on you, Wilder, but I appreciate the honesty.”
No, not this again.
Not this bromance in a therapy session all over again.
I don’t think I could take it.
“Well, if we’re going to do this, then we need to do it right,” Wilder says, a challenge in his eyes.
And I can see it, that spark, that intrigue. For him, this is fun. This is what he’s looking for in his life. And if that’s what he wants, then fine… I can play this game too. I don’t have to sit back and be embarrassed. If he wants to have a life experience, then by all means, Wilder, let’s play.
“He’s right.” I lean back on the couch and relax my body, shaking my limbs out. “I’m sorry. I was trying to put on a good face, but he’s very, very right. I’m lying. Nothing is great about being here, other than the cheese Danish I had this morning.”
“And why is it not great?” Sanders asks, not a ball in sight, no hockey stick to be seen. And apart from the pajama pants, this feels like we’re seeing the true therapist, which seems odd. Don’t you think you’d want to show this side of yourself on the first therapy appointment? Or is that just me?
Then again, nothing about his practice is conventional, so not surprised that he’s switching tactics.
“Well, you know, we’re in a rough patch right now, and staying in the cabin that we’re staying in is just a reminder of everything we’re not…participating in.”
Sanders nods knowingly. “I see. You’re in the red square cabin, correct?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“That’s the one you chose.”
Um, what?
“Chose?” I ask.
“Yes,” Sanders says, looking confused. “It was the one chosen in your application.”
Wilder filled out the application.
“Are there different cabins?” I ask.
“Oh yes, they’re all themed to the couples’ preferences. On the application, when asked about your sex life, you marked ‘thriving’ and ‘adventurous,’ so the staff thought it was appropriate to put you in the red square cabin.”
I shoot a look at Wilder, who has a guilty expression. Smiling, I say, “Um, Sanders. Would I be able to have one moment alone with my husband?”
He looks between us and says, “Normally, I’d say whatever you need to say to each other should be said in front of me, but I can see that maybe something needs to be discussed here without a witness, and because of the fragility of your marriage, I think I’m going to give you a quick five.” He walks out on the balcony and shuts the sliding glass door.
I turn to Wilder, and in a scary whisper, I say, “You said our sex life was thriving and adventurous?”
He starts chuckling, his smile stretching across his cheeks. “Holy shit, is that why they put us in that bedroom?”
“Uh, duh, you idiot! The reason handcuffs kept rattling against the bedpost last night was because of you.”
“You know, that’s really funny actually. Makes me wonder what the other cabins are like.”
“Probably normal. They probably don’t have a giant flesh dildo attached to the tile of their shower.” I press my hand to my forehead. “Oh God, what my coworkers must think of me. They must have noticed we were in that cabin and said?—”
“Scottie must have such an active sex life.”
“Noooo,” I drag out. “They probably thought I was a sex fiend and that’s why our marriage wasn’t working, because I wanted to be surrounded by plastic, jiggly prosthetics rather than the jiggly shaft in my husband’s pants.”
He chuckles some more. “I mean, that looks worse for me than you.”
“This is not funny, Wilder. This is exactly what I’m talking about. We need to keep it tight. We can’t just be flailing about, thinking there are no consequences to what we say and do.”
“In my defense, when I filled out the application, I wasn’t aware that there were themed cabins. This just happens to be a unique coincidence. And I did mention in that first meeting with Sanders that we were pretty kinky.”
“Yeah, a unique one I want nothing to do with.” I catch Sanders turning toward the door and offering me a thumbs-up, looking to see if we’re ready. I hold out a finger, asking for one more minute. “Remember what we talked about, okay? Be cool. This is no time to go off the rails with your improv. I saw that look in your eye.”
“What look?” he asks.
“The one that said ‘we’re about to have fun with this.’”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a look I have,” he counters.
“Oh, you do. I saw it. Clear as day.”
“I think you’re making things up in your head.”
“I am not,” I shoot back.
“You are.”
“Wilder.” I sit taller, growing frustrated with him. “I am?—”
“I see that you’re arguing,” Sanders says, coming into the room. “And I know you asked for privacy, but I think that it’s important I’m a part of these conversations. So”—he takes a seat in his chair—“please, tell me what you’re arguing about.”
I glance over at Wilder, panic filling me, but of course, he apparently has no sense of anxiety, because he crosses one leg over the other and casually says, “She hates our cabin, and she’s mad at me for filling out the application incorrectly.”
Okay, well, that’s a truthful answer.
“I see,” Sanders says and then reaches into his seat cushion and pulls out a baseball.
Ahh, there we are.
He tosses it in his hand and says, “Why did you lie on the application?”
“Simple,” Wilder says flippantly. “I filled it out to inspire us, to remind us of the couple we used to be.”
How this man can just lie so casually is fascinating and scary at the same time. It makes me wonder why I’m trusting him to go through this journey with me.
Yet here I am, going along with it.
Sanders turns to me and says, “What does he mean by that?”
Christ.
Swallowing the saliva that has built up in my mouth, I say, “Uh, we used to be, uh, hot and heavy, in the bedroom.”
“I see,” Sanders says and then tilts his head to the side. “Does that make you uncomfortable, saying that?”
This entire situation makes me uncomfortable.
Everything about it.
From the camp.
To the lies.
To the fleshy sword in the shower.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m not proud of the fact that our love life isn’t what it used to be.”
“And what did it used to be?” Sanders asks.
I’m about to answer when Wilder steps in. “Wild. Out of control. Couldn’t get her off me even if I wanted to. Addicted to my penis.”
My cheeks flush, and I grind my teeth together, attempting to remain calm.
A simple “active” would have sufficed.
“Addicted to your penis seems a little much,” I say, clearing my throat to avoid showing how much I want to shove my foot in Wilder’s mouth.
“Says the girl who made a mold of my penis so she could have it when I was gone on work trips.”
My lips purse, and my jaw tenses.
He turns to Sanders and says, “She uses it when I’m gone. Used to send me pics of her using it.”
This motherfucker!
“Yeah, well, I got the idea from him, as he needed a mold of my breasts because he wanted to make a pillow to sleep on when he was away.”
Sanders looks over at Wilder, who raises his hand and says, “Guilty. She has great tits.”
God, does nothing faze him?
“Were you offended by the breast pillow?” Sanders asks me as he tosses the ball in his hand back and forth.
“I was offended when he pierced it,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “He’s been begging me to get my nipples pierced, and it’s just not for me, so when he pierced the breast pillow, it was like a slap to the face.”
Ha, take that, you fuck.
Wilder turns toward me and says in a reserved tone, “You said on our honeymoon that you’d get them pierced after I got my dick pierced for you.” He wets his lips. “So you can just use my dick piercing for your personal pleasure, but I can’t even get one goddamn nipple?”
The challenge in his eyes spurs something inside me, and before I can stop myself, I yell, “I told you my nipples are too small for it, yet you consistently make me feel bad over and over again about not piercing them.”
“The guy at the shop said he could do smaller barbells.” Wilder’s voice raises.
“At a higher expense,” I shout back.
Wilder’s face contorts into pure anger. “And I told you, I don’t care about the expense. There’s no price I wouldn’t pay for you to have that experience.”
Sanders holds up his hand. “Okay, we’re going to pause right here.” He lets out a deep breath. “I see there’s a lot of deep-seated animosity between the two of you, and that’s what today is about. Today’s about getting it all out there, not holding back anything that might be sitting on your chest. So I’d like you to get comfortable, because we’re about to get down to the nitty-gritty.”
I glance over at Wilder, facing off. Seems like he has no intention of keeping this tight and pulled together. So I slip my shoes off my feet, turn toward him completely, and sit cross-legged.
Let the games begin.
“It started when he stepped on Velcro,” I say.
“They were brand-new, expensive socks,” Wilder snaps. “The Velcro was going to tear them apart, and then what, I’m just going to flush fifteen dollars down the drain?”
“Maybe don’t buy the expensive socks,” I counter.
“Says the girl who has caveman feet. You know my feet are sensitive. You know if my socks touch me in a weird way, I can’t walk properly. That’s how I ended up with that lopsided gait.”
“You ended up with that lopsided gait because there was a rock in your shoe.”
“There was not a rock in my shoe. Stop saying that. You make me sound like a crazy man.”
“Because you are,” I shout. “You’re crazy. You ruined an entire day at the pumpkin farm because you stepped on Velcro. Velcro, Wilder! Who ruins a day over Velcro?”
“The people whose socks get destroyed from it!”
“You should have seen her,” Wilder says as he walks back and forth in front of the sliding glass window, tossing Sanders’s baseball. “The look of utter satisfaction on her face as I rummaged and rummaged and rummaged, looking for the lid. Sitting there, on her high perch, looking down at me as if I was her Tupperware peasant, and the entire time, she knew there was no matching lid. Fucking knew the whole time.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I told him he needed to organize the drawers. He needed to learn a lesson.”
“You got rid of it on purpose.” He points at me. “Vindictive, that’s what you are.”
“Lazy.” I point back at him. “Utterly lazy. You can’t do one thing when asked.”
“Oh really?” he says, stepping up. “So when you asked me to pick you up pads with wings, did I not deliver?”
My face falls flat. “You came back with pads…and buffalo wings.”
“That’s what you said, pads with wings.” He turns to Sanders, whose eyes are bouncing back and forth between the two of us. “She said pads with wings! What the hell am I supposed to assume?”
“If you knew me, like you claim you do, you’d have known that I was talking about the type of pads that have wings attached to them.”
“How am I supposed to know that when you won’t even talk to me about your period? I don’t know what you’ve got going on down there. And it’s not from a lack of effort on my end. I’ve asked to help.”
“You’ve asked to insert my tampon,” I deadpan.
He throws his hands up in the air. “I was curious. It was for science!”
“Don’t you dare say it,” Wilder says, shaking his head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
I run my tongue over my teeth and very slowly and deliberately say, “Bologna.”
His nostrils flare.
His chest heaves.
And in a very maniacal voice, his eyes boring holes into me, he says, “You son of a bitch.”
“I think we should all take a moment to remember the breathing exercises we learned a few seconds ago,” Sanders says.
But Wilder holds his hand out to him. “You stay out of this.” Then he gets close to me and whispers, “Say it again. I dare you.”
Wetting my lips, I lean even closer and whisper, “Bologna.”
“You…strumpet.”
“Bologna, bologna, bologna.”
“No!” he screeches, holding his hands to his ears. “Don’t you dare Beetlejuice me. Don’t you fucking dare.” He glances over his back, checking around the room. “Is it here? Is he here?”
I point off to the window and yell, “There he is.”
Wilder lets out an ear-splitting scream and then falls to the ground and shimmies under the coffee table. “You devil woman.”
“Is that a hint of horseradish I’m detecting?” Wilder asks as we chow down on our lunch.
“A homemade sauce,” Sanders says with a nod.
“Really brings out the roast beef flavor, don’t you think, Pips?”
“Delightful.” I lift my bag of chips to Wilder. “Barbecue?”
“Yeah, thanks, babe.”
“Do you see what I’m dealing with?” I say as I walk around the room, a hockey stick up against my shoulder like a bayonet while Wilder lies across the couch, tossing the baseball up and down.
“So I have to take interest in her love of cacti, but she can’t bother to learn the correct Pokémon names?” He sits up. “It’s Jigglypuff. For fuck’s sake, it’s Jigglypuff!”
“No…one…cares.”
“Everyone cares,” he shouts, his voice cracking.
“You should see it,” I say. “He stands there, tilting his head back, gargling and gargling and gargling, only to throw his head forward and spit the mouthwash all over the mirror. It’s absurd. Where’s the accuracy?”
“I asked you to help me,” Wilder counters. “Since you’re so good at spitting, I thought I would get help from a professional…”
“Is that a jab at me?”
“What do you think? Wouldn’t hurt you to swallow once in a while.”
“Swallow your mouthwash, and I’ll swallow you,” I say.
“Gladly. I’ll gladly swallow my mouthwash if that means you’ll accept my seed.”
“Don’t call it that,” I yell. “You wonder why our sex life is the way that it is. You’re over there wielding your willy around, asking me to swallow your seed.”
“Wielding my pierced willy. Don’t forget that.”
“You…mother…fucker,” I say, standing. “You’re really going to bring it back to that?”
He stands as well. “Just get them pierced like you said you would. Just…get…them…pierced.”
I move in close, going nose to nose with him. “Over my dead body.”
Spinning away, he screams, “Outrageous,” and then falls to his knees and buries his head in his hands.
“Well,” Sanders says, his hands clasped in front of him, his hair pulled in all different directions. He clears his throat. “That was…productive.”
Wilder and I are sitting on opposite ends of the couch with our arms crossed, both breathing heavily.
“You know”—Sanders scratches the side of his head—“I think I’m going to need a second to process this. So why don’t you, uh, why don’t you two head back to your cabin and maybe just…relax for a moment?” He lets out a heavy breath. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you,” Wilder says while he stands. “We appreciate you listening to us.”
“Yes, that’s, uh, that’s my job.” Sanders blinks a few times and stares down at the floor. “Feel free to see yourselves out.”
With Wilder behind me, we head out of the cabin, shutting the door behind us. Without a word, we walk toward our cabin as anger thrums through me.
Once we reach the cabin, Wilder unlocks the door and opens it wide for me. The door shuts behind Wilder, and I spin on him.
“That was incredible,” he shouts, a huge smile on his face. “I’ve never felt more alive.”
Staring him down, I ask, “Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
“What?” he asks, looking genuinely surprised. “Lost my mind? Scottie, that was…that was unmatched. I’ve never in my life sparred like that. You just kept going with it, over and over again.”
“Because you were forcing me to act like a lunatic!” I shout. “Oh my God, Wilder. We broke him. We actually broke Sanders. I said to keep it tight.”
“We did. We didn’t balk once. And the way we fucking ended it, tying it back into the pierced nipples…you realize it takes comedians years to learn how to do that in their stand-up shows, to bring everything full circle to the initial joke. That’s a special talent, and we did it, on the fly, without even communicating with each other. Fuck.” He holds his arm out to me. “Look, goose bumps.”
Goose bumps?
He has goose bumps.
Is he really that dense?
“Wilder,” I snap. “That was not how it was supposed to go.”
“No, it went even better.” He takes his shoes off and then flops back on the bed, the shake of the mattress causing the handcuffs to clatter against the poles. “I’ve never felt so alive.”
“Are you really not going to acknowledge how badly you incriminated me back there? The basis of our marriage problems revolves around pierced nipples, Wilder. Pierced nipples!”
“A problem he’s probably never heard before.”
“Because it’s a problem that doesn’t break up a marriage,” I shout and start pacing. “God, I never should have gone through with this. I never should have thought this was a good idea. Now my boss’s husband thinks I’m a prude with small nipples and that my husband is a Velcro-hating, pierced sex fiend with a fetish.”
“I mean, the pierced thing is accurate.”
I pause my pacing and glance over at him, only to catch him wiggle his brows.
“Are you…are you really pierced?”
“You tell me.”
I shake my head. “We’re getting off topic. This was bad. This was really bad.”
“This was good, Pips,” he says and sits up. “I was really impressed with you. The number of things that you kept coming up with, things that bothered you… I was seriously frothing at the mouth, waiting for your next complaint. I loved it. You exceeded my expectations. It’s almost like you’ve done this before.”
That causes me to pause, because…I have done this before.
I’ve been through this.
I’ve experienced this anger.
The yelling.
The wedge placed in the middle of the marriage, constantly being hammered in with every little, pesky fight.
Did I just spend the entire day airing out my grievances from my previous marriage?
I try to think back to what I said, but it all feels like a distant memory now.
“Hey,” Wilder says, his voice growing concerned. “Everything okay?”
But I ignore him as I take a seat in the chair in the corner, slowly beginning to consider my time with Matt.
How he never did anything I asked him to do.
How he complained about buying my feminine products because he believed it was embarrassing.
He never attempted to show interest in what I thought was fascinating.
He never took the blame, never participated in our marriage, and never helped out around the house.
“God, Scottie. Everything is always about you. Nothing is ever good enough for you, no matter what I do, say, or think. I have no idea why I ever wanted to marry you.”
Everything I complained about during that session with Sanders, every little thing, pertained to Matt. God. Will I ever be free of the pain that man caused?
“Scottie?” Wilder asks, concern heavy in his voice.
“I…I need to go.”
Before he can stop me, I leave the cabin and go for a walk.