Wilder pauses and turns toward me. “Is it weird that your suggestion just made my nipples hard?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.” He nods, making me laugh. He points at me and says, “Hey, no laughing. We’re supposed to not like each other at the moment.”

“That’s not that hard to fake,” I say. “Given that you didn’t roll when we started falling.” I lift a brow at him.

“I apologized. I asked you how I can help. I have offered you all the things, like meds, an ice pack, and a drink. What else do you want from me?” he replies in a teasing tone.

“To live with the regret that you nearly cracked your fake wife’s head open on a rock.”

“Listen, I gave you an amazing gift. Without me, you might never have experienced your first-ever black eye. And now that I’m saying that out loud, it doesn’t sound great.”

“Not really, but I know what you mean. So what you’re saying is that I should feel honored to be in your presence.”

“Exactly,” he says as we walk down the path toward the food hall. “Anything I need to be aware of when we get in there?”

“Not really,” I say.

“What if people ask us if we liked our prize for the mini golf? What do you want me to say?”

“Um, I don’t know. What would a couple who is on the rocks right now say to that?”

“Hmm, maybe that we found it interesting.”

“Interesting…that could work. Doesn’t give commitment either way whether we like it.”

“Yeah, a solid answer that keeps our private life private.”

“Very diplomatic of you.”

“See.” He bumps his shoulder with mine. “I’m not that bad.”

“I never said you were bad, just…a loose cannon. I don’t know what you’re going to say or do.”

“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.”