“We had to get the zipper surgically removed,” Wilder says. “I was wheeled into the emergency room, wrapped up in the sleeping bag, praying to the penis gods that everything would stay intact. The surgery took two hours and a heavy dose of anesthesia, but I left with light scarring and some pride still intact.”

“Wow.” Sanders shakes his head. “And I’m assuming there was animosity from her zipping up your penis.”

“No.” Wilder shakes his head. “None.”

“Then how did your Montauk trip kick off your problems?” Sanders’s brows pull together in confusion.

Funny.

I have the same question.

“I’m glad you asked,” Wilder says. “Pips, tell him.” Wilder gestures toward Sanders.

I hate him.

I truly do.

I’ve never in my life hated a person this fast in my entire life, not Finky, Brad, Chad, or even Duncan. Took them at least a whole day. Wilder is setting an all-time record.

Wanting to settle the score, I say, “He gave me a present the day after. It was a shirt made for me that said Serial Zipper. I didn’t think it was funny. He did.” Then I shrug. “He can be an ass like that.”

There, threw the first punch. Maybe we can stop all this lovey-dovey bullshit and start actually fighting in front of this man so he believes there’s absolutely no hope for us.

“I was trying to make light of a tough situation.” Wilder thumbs toward me. “She’s always been uptight, can’t take a joke.”

“I can take a joke when it’s funny,” I say. “You think I wanted to zip my husband’s penis inside a sleeping bag?”

“You once wished I zipped my dick in my pants when I forgot to unload the dishwasher.”

Ohhh no, you don’t. You’re not throwing me under the bus.

Gearing up for a battle of wits, I turn toward him, gloves on, ready to fight.

“That’s because you never unload it. You think I like coming home after working a hard day to find that you didn’t do the one thing I asked you to do?”

“Says the girl who never cleans up her hair off the shower wall.”

“Or the guy who doesn’t know what it means to shave his face over the sink.”

He laughs. “Real rich, coming from the girl who doesn’t understand what a recycling bin is. If it’s paper, it gets recycled.”

“Don’t play the saint. You miss recycling things all the time.”

He gasps in shock and then narrows his eyes. “I never do, and you fucking know that. But speaking of missing things, how about all the times I’ve asked you to wait to watch our shows together, but instead you just watch them yourself while I’m at the gym?”

Motioning to him, I shout back, “You spend hours at the gym, and your muscles aren’t ever bigger.”