Till Summer Do Us Part(36)

“That’s the fun of improv,” he says. “It’s all fly by the seat of your pants.”

“Yeah, well, less pantsing please and more plotting.”

When we reach the dining hall, Wilder opens the door for me and leads me in with his hand on my lower back. The spacious hall is set up with individual tables, each decorated with a fake, flickering candle in the middle and a rosebud in a milk glass vase. The tables are draped in red-and-white checkered tablecloths, and the lights are dimmed to create an intimate experience.

“Why did I think we’d be sitting at picnic tables with the rest of the couples?” he whispers.

“Because that’s what summer camp is.”

“Right,” he says.

“Scottie, how is your eye?” Sanders says, coming out of nowhere. He’s now changed into a pair of black basketball shorts, a white button-up shirt with a bow tie, and a suit jacket but with the sleeves cut off.

Nothing but class, class, class.

“Um, a little sore, but it’s doing okay.”

“Ooo,” he says, examining me. “That black eye is coming in good.”

I lightly dab my fingers around the affected area, trying not to show how pleased I am about the black eye. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

“Well, we’ll be sure to keep you safe moving forward, no more tying up…at least on our end.” He wiggles his brows, and I feel my insides turn.

When we signed up for this, I wasn’t aware there was going to be such a large emphasis on sex. Nor did I think there was going to be a minibar of lovemaking. The entire situation is granting me a new perspective on all my coworkers.

Sanders leads us through the dining hall, and as I pass each and every one of them, my mind drifts to different scenarios.

Does Chad tie up his wife? Or use toys on her? He seemed really adamant about winning the basket.

What about Duncan? He’s such a klutz, I couldn’t imagine him being able to locate any of his husband’s erogenous zones.

And Finky, he’s so involved with his fantasy sports teams that I’m not sure he’s even aware what sex is.

Not to mention Brad. He’s such a weasel, there’s no way he’s hitting up the minibar, thinking, What can we do tonight? Or heaven forbid…gulp…drop the soap.

I can’t imagine any of them engaging in this kind of camp. Then again, here they are, willing and ready to keep the spark alive in their relationships.

Wonder what that’s like—to have two equal parties invested in a relationship.

God, I sound like such a bitter divorcée.

“Here we are,” Sanders says, gesturing to a table. “We have you sitting right up front.”

I pull out of my reverie and find our table smack-dab in the front of the stage. A table so centered, so singled out, that it almost seems like it’s going to be dinner and a show.

“This will be your permanent table for the remainder of the camp. We like to create a sense of comfort by offering our attendees routine. The menu is on the table, my staff will be by shortly to collect your order, and then we’ll get started with the welcome.”

“Great,” Wilder says in that cheery voice of his. “Thank you.”

Sanders nods and then takes off.

I’m about to take a seat when, to my surprise, Wilder pulls out my chair for me.

“What are you doing?” I whisper through clenched teeth. “This is a nice gesture. We don’t do nice gestures for each other.”

“Oh shit,” he whispers back. “Sorry, uh, just habit.”

Not wanting to make a scene, I take a seat, but I let his words settle in. Pulling out a chair for someone is habit for him? Pulling out a woman’s chair? Well, that’s a really nice habit to have.

It’s sweet.

Thoughtful.

Not necessary but thoughtful, something you don’t see too often anymore.

Once he sits down, he picks up his cloth napkin and spreads it on his lap. Talking softly, he says, “I mean, I don’t think it’s that big a deal that I pulled out your chair. We might not be getting along, but I don’t have to be an asshole and not pull out my wife’s chair for her.”

“True,” I say and then pick up my menu. “For a twenty-seven-year-old though, that habit surprises me.”

“Are twenty-seven-year-olds supposed to be assholes?” he asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know, but with my experience, I’d say they’re more self-absorbed than anything.”

“Your experience, huh?” he asks. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really,” I say, taking in the three Italian options for dinner. Chicken parmesan, eggplant parmesan, and lasagna. “But seriously, when did you start pulling out chairs, opening doors, things like that?”

“Ever since I was young,” he answers and sets his menu down. “My mom was adamant about me and Mika being gentlemen. We took turns opening doors for her and pulling out her chair. She said she didn’t want to be the reason her sons didn’t treat their partners well later in life.”

“You have a good mom.”

“I do,” he says softly.

I know a little bit about Wilder’s family situation to know what that look on his face means.

Mika and Wilder’s mom is an absolute rock. She worked as a paralegal, took care of the boys, made sure to get them to all their events, and took care of their dad, who was in a terrible car accident when they were teenagers. It left him a quadriplegic, which led to some darker moments in the family. And then when Mika was in college, their dad passed away. It was tough on all of them, including their mom.