Till Summer Do Us Part(31)

“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.”





Chapter Nine





WILDER

I can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve ever felt this guilty.

There was that time that I was mad at Mika back in middle school when his friends were over, and I grabbed his superhero underwear that he still wore and paraded it around like the asshole little brother that I was, telling his friends that Mika wore baby underwear.

But this…this beats it.

“There, that should do it,” the nurse says as she finishes putting a butterfly strip over Scottie’s swollen eyebrow.

I don’t know what came over me, but when we won the golf challenge, a challenge that a real couple should have been good at, I felt a sense of pride, energy, invigoration that I haven’t felt in a long time. I lost control, forgot that I was strapped to Scottie, and before I could calm myself down, we were tipping over and going straight to the ground.

I forgot about rolling.

I forgot about putting my hands out. And fuck, her cry when she hit the ground…

Once we were untied and I rolled her over, the blood already coming from her upper eye freaked me out. So. Much. Blood.

Horrified, I carried her in my arms to the nurse’s station, where they tended to her head.

Thankfully, it was not that big of a cut—just a small butterfly taping and she’s good.

“Do I have a black eye?” Scottie asks, looking up at me.

“Uh, I mean…a little.”

She nods and then whispers, “Cool.”

Cool?

And here I thought she was steaming with anger.

“Cool?” I ask her. “Are we going to have to check your head again?”

“No. I’m fine.”

The nurse cleans up while I say, “Can you explain to me why it’s cool to have a black eye?”

“I’ve always wanted one,” she says in a dreamlike state.

Okay, I do think we need to check her again. Because I’ve spent maybe a few hours of my life with this lady, and I can tell you right now that there is no way that the woman who wanted to murder me after our first therapy session would find a black eye at a company marriage retreat dreamy.

Continuing, she says, “I’ve been hit in the head many times, but never a black eye. Always such a letdown. I thought my eyes were incapable of blacking out. But looks like it only took a rock and a two-hundred-plus-pound man behind me, pushing me into said rock, to make it happen.”

“Uh, what do you mean you’ve been hit in the head many times?” I ask. “And who the fuck hit you?”

She looks up at me and tilts her head to the side. Cupping my cheek, she says, “Aww, look at you caring about me.”

“Who hit you, Scottie?” I say, a hard edge to my voice.

“No one.” She shakes her head. “But you know, like a ball or a can of beans, something like that.”

“Did you get hit in the head with a can of beans?”

“I’m not a very good catch.”

The nurse leans in and says, “She might be a bit off for a little while. I arranged a golf cart to take you to your cabin, and I believe Sanders is waiting out front. Would you like me to help you carry her out?”

“No, I can do it,” I say as I stand and then go to pick Scottie up, but she whacks me away.

“I can stand and walk myself. I can’t possibly be carried out of here. Humiliating. I need to look tough. Scare people with my bloody, black eye.”

“I think it would be best if I carry you,” I suggest.

“I think it would be best if you listen to my request,” she counters. And there’s determination in that swollen black eye, telling me she’s going to get her way no matter how hard I try.

So not wanting to get into another fight, I nod but then wrap my arm around her so she doesn’t wobble and walk her carefully out to the front, where Sanders is waiting in a decked-out golf cart. Christmas lights wrap around the poles and roof, fuzzy pink seat covers jacket all the seats, and a pair of plush diamond rings hang from the rearview mirror.

And then there’s Sanders, in his same outfit from earlier, but this time, he’s added moose antlers to his head and a neck pillow around his neck.