To really add the final nail to the coffin, I say, “Maybe if you were actually intelligent enough to read simple putting lines by yourself, I wouldn’t have to nag you.”

“Just get in position,” he says, moving me easily around.

Satisfied with our squabble, I allow him to line us both up, and then together, we bring our club back, and with our arms stiff, we swing through, propelling the ball forward. It sails up the small hill in the middle of the course, then down, and straight toward the hole. I hold my breath as it bypasses the hole. Wilder squeezes me, both of us on edge as the ball hits the stone behind the hole, giving it a good bounce, and we watch as the ball, as if in slow motion, inches closer and closer to the hole until…

Plunk.

It falls in.

“Fuck yeah!” Wilder yells and throws his hands in the air, taking my hands with him. God, he’s tall. “And that’s how it’s done.”

Chad tosses his club to the side and grunts in frustration, which naturally causes his wife to chastise him for the outburst.

Other couples offer their congratulations, even though they don’t want to, because losing to the Bickersons is flat-out embarrassing. Let’s call a spade a spade: no one wants to lose to the dysfunctional couple, yet here we are, taking the W.

While everyone begrudgingly tells us good job, Sanders, with his arm around Ellison, studies us.

“We did it,” Wilder says, now dancing behind me, causing me to move around as well.

“Hey, don’t do that,” I say as I feel myself start to lose my balance.

“Why aren’t you excited? We beat the Brads and Chad,” he shouts, using my nickname for my coworkers that I’ve never said out loud. “And didn’t I tell you? I said, listen to me, and we will win. Maybe you should listen to me more often.”

“Maybe you should stop moving around so much so we don’t tip over.”

“Is that all you’re really worried about?” He huffs behind me and then gestures his hand out, making my hand move as well. “You can never celebrate the small things.”

“Hey, whoa, I’m going to fall,” I say. “Stop moving.”

“Always have to complain. Always have to be angry about something,” he says, gesturing again.

“Wilder, seriously, stop,”

“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.