“To the newlyweds!” our friends scream back from their positions scattered across the fourteenth hole.
“To my wife!” Hollis bellows, abandoning his putter—but not the designated golfer hat—to jog over and dip Liv into a kiss that makes Gabe whistle.
“To my husband!” Liv shouts when she surfaces, flushed and laughing.
I catch CJ’s eye and mouth “disgusting” and she grins back at me. CJ and I were the attendants at their small family-and-friends wedding last Saturday at Verdant. The restaurant closed early for the event, and most of Hollis’s former co-workers stuck around to help with the meal afterward, which means they all got front-row seats to Holly ugly-crying through his vows and CJ getting tipsy on champagne and telling anyone who’d listen that she “always knew those two were perfect for each other.”
“It’s your shot,” Sebastian calls to me, gesturing at the green with his nine iron. Our Golfmas shirts this year are all bright red and say “Mr. and Mrs. Claus” across the front. Liv, of course, created the accompanying artwork of her and my brother as the titular North Pole dwellers, “except these Clauses are hot,” as Hollis put it.
My brother slaps the designated golfer hat onto my head, where it lists to one side thanks to the weight of the tacky ornaments we’ve glued, sewn, and stapled to it over the years.
I’m lining up my putt when CJ walks behind me, grabs my ass, and murmurs, “Nice form.”
My shot goes wide, and she giggles. “Okay, nice ass; decent form.”
Birdy’s up next, so she snatches the hat off my head, pulls it on, and calls to her boyfriend, “Twenty bucks says I sink this one.”
“You’re on,” Seb says.
She does, in fact, sink it, and Sebastian hands over the cash with a kiss to her temple. “Highway robbery.”
“Oh!” CJ leaps to her feet. “That reminds me.”
She summons the attention of the group and, with a great deal of ceremony, unbuttons her jeans to reveal the tiny lettering on her left hip.
“Does that say…” Darby squints.
“It says Wyatt!” Liv yells. “I love it!”
CJ nudges me. “Your turn.”
With a sigh, I turn and undo my own pants, showing the small CJ tattooed on my right hip.
Birdy unleashes a victory screech. “I believe I am owed one hundred dollars from each of you non-believers!” When the group starts to protest, she cuts it off. “Before you start, I will remind you that there was no time limit on this bet.”
After a flurry of begrudging cash exchanges and Venmo transactions, she leans over to whisper, “You two’ll get your thirty percent cut by tomorrow.”
Not that we need the winnings. As the consultant who took down a corrupt CEO, CJ’s more in demand than ever, which lets her be more selective in the clients she takes on. This means focusing on local work whenever she can. Apparently, having someone to come home to makes her less interested in three-week audits in Buffalo. She still travels occasionally—a three-day gig in Chicago last month, a week in Indianapolis coming up—but she’s home more nights than not. This means I get to fall asleep next to her, wake up with her stealing my pillow, and listen to her narrate her way through making breakfast like she’s hosting a cooking show.
I, meanwhile, was promoted to VP of Client Services, which means I finally get to run my division the way it should’ve been run all along. Plus, I oversee the cleaned-up Retirement Products group, which no longer includes Reese, who took a job in Cleveland shortly after the new year. Working under a CEO who actually values ethics over profit margins makes it feel less like work and more like the job I always wanted, and Gerry Lowenstein still checks in quarterly for updates, referrals, and general catch up. Every time she does, I’m reminded that taking down your felonious boss can be a nice career boost.
Gabe wanders over to snag a piece of fruitcake from the tray next to his wife. “Wait,” he says. “Why’s CJ’s tattoo on her left hip, but Wy’s is on the right?”
We all stare at him, waiting for him to get it.
We have to wait for a while.
“Dude,” Hollis whispers from one side of his mouth. “Missionary.”
CJ buries her flaming face in her hands as Gabe releases the world’s longest, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh” and the rest of the group screams in laughter.
“Please,” my woman moans. “Somebody change the subject.”
“Umm.” I grope for a new topic, any topic. “Gerry and Radha invited us to meet them for drinks next month at the NAGDCA conference in Phoenix.”
“NAGDCA?” Darby asks, reaching for another chicken leg.
“National Association of Government Defined Contribution Administrators.”
