But yeah, it was just…awkward, and now that we’re here, I feel even more awkward because it’s game time now.

This is it.

No going back.

Wilder is my pretend husband, I’m his pretend wife, and we’re here to fix our marriage.

A squeaky screen door opens and then slams shut against the wood of the doorframe, startling me. I look up to find Sanders standing just outside the main building with a large smile on his face, waving his hand. “You’re here. How was the drive?”

“Beautiful,” Wilder says as he walks up to Sanders and offers him a handshake.

One thing I’ve observed about Wilder is that he’s a social guy. Outgoing. He’s not shaking Sanders’s hand because he’s playing a part; he’s shaking his hand because that’s the kind of guy he seems to be. I need to remember that if he starts shaking the hands of the Brads and Chad.

“What about our passenger princess?” Sanders says as he smiles at me.

This man has zero fashion sense. On camp day one, he’s wearing a pair of swim trunks accompanied by a bright blue bowling shirt. His hair hasn’t seen a comb in what I’m assuming is a week, and caressing his feet are a sturdy pair of ankle rain boots.

I mean, I guess it must be nice though, not having to think about putting an outfit together. He probably just sticks his hand in his dresser and pulls out the first pair of bottoms and shirt he sees with not a care in the world if they work together.

He’s a stark contrast to Ellison, who’s always so put together.

“It was a very nice drive,” I say.

Together, we move to the back of the car, where Wilder starts pulling out our bags and setting them on the ground.

“Run into any weather?” Sanders asks me.

Putting on a gentle smile, I nod. “Ran into a sprinkling of rain, but other than that, just a nice drive upstate. Always nice to get out of the city on occasion.”

“That’s what I say,” Sanders says, and then from his pocket, he pulls out a white golf ball and says, “Think fast.” He tosses the ball at me, and somehow out of sheer panic and surprise, I’m able to catch it.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“That is what they call a golf ball,” he says. “Don’t you write about those?”

Very funny, Sanders—said with absolutely no sarcasm.

Trying to hold back from nailing him in the head with said golf ball, I say, “Why, yes, but I was just wondering why you were handing me one.”