“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.”
