I’m ready to experience life, as Wilder says. And if I’m honest, I can attribute a lot of that transformation to Wilder. He’s pushed me—even if unintentionally—and I’m a stronger person for it.

“As you can see, we have wet suits lined up along the shore,” Sanders says into the megaphone. “It is up to you whether you want to put them on or not. Wearing your bathing suit is just fine, but the lake is cold in the morning. So you make the choice. Once everyone’s ready, we’ll line up. First couple to complete the obstacle course wins. Time will be added to your overall score if you fall into the water, so try to avoid that as much as possible. There are questions at every station. Those questions will be answered carefully with a staff member, and you will only be allowed to proceed if you answer correctly. Time is of the essence, so be truthful with each other.”

I’m unsure what these questions might entail, but by the looks of the way the other couples are huddled up, I can only imagine what the prize is going to be. This is going to be a bloodbath.

Wilder turns to me, places his hands on my shoulders, and says, “We need to win this.”

“I’m sensing that.”

“Do you see everyone around us? They have their game faces on.”

“They do.”

“We need to have our game faces on.”

“I don’t know what a game face is. Tell me how to morph myself, and I will.”

He holds back a smile and says, “Are you finally ready to enjoy some improv with me?”

God, he must have been waiting for this moment. It’s all he’s been wanting to do, engage in his silly improv and loop me into it. Well, after the convo last night and my newfound goal of trying to let go, the time has come.

I wet my lips and nod. “I think I am.”

The smile he was holding back turns into a full-fledged smirk. He tugs on his lip ring and moves even closer, our foreheads nearly touching. “Good. Let me set the scene.” He nods behind him. “See those fucks over there?”

I glance over his shoulder at my coworkers and their significant others and then back at him. “I see them.”

“They’re enemy number two.”

“Who is enemy number one?” I ask.

“Us,” he says. “I am enemy number one, and to me, you are enemy number one.”

“Right, because we’re mad at each other.”

“Precisely. We need to seem chaotic but still work well together. We need to surprise everyone. They need to think we’re without a doubt going to lose, only to pull out the win and take home the condom basket.”

“Do you think it’s going to be another condom basket?”