Till Summer Do Us Part

by Meghan Quinn

There is a marriage cult, and I’m on the outside, looking in. Heaven forbid they ever find out I’m divorced. I can’t imagine the clutching of their embroidered vests, the horror that would wash over their freshly shaven faces. Scottie Price, the single one, sequestered in her office, not to go near in case she’s contaminated with the “divorcées,” a rare condition that could spread if one comes in close contact.

And there it is, my grave, the one I’ve been digging this entire time, just waiting for me to rest in it.

“Uh yeah, let me, uh, let me just text him.” I hold my phone, straight up so she can’t see my screen, and I tap away on it, pretending to text, all the while in my head saying, Beep, boop, bop, texting my husband, beep beep, bop, my nonexistent husband.

set the scene for me. Are we talking about a grounded act? I’m assuming it will be in the sauce.” Her nose scrunches up. “What the hell are you talking about?” “Different types of improv.” “Oh my God, this is not… This is not a classroom skit. This is real life.” “So in the sauce. Got it.”

“Think he’s going to pass around a hockey stick that must be held in order to talk? Because I’d be down with that.” Seems like Wilder would be down for anything.

“Interesting,” Sanders says. “I’m glad you’re comfortable talking about that.” Uh, we’re not actually. We are not comfortable at all. I would like to have him ask the question again. I’m prepared with answers. Thanks.

“Would you say you’re adventurous in bed?” That would be a no. “Very,” Wilder answers. “We’ve done it all. Name the position, check. Name the angle, done it. Name the body part, licked it.” Dear God in heaven.

“You know, it’s all still fuzzy to me,” I say, circling my hand over my head. “Not me.” Wilder shakes his head. “I remember it like it was yesterday.” He stares off into the distance as he lies out of his ass, telling a story that I’m sure will end up incriminating me.

I seriously think I might faint, because the wheels have fallen off. “Anyway, that night, she became the Serial Zipper.” Serial Zipper? How on earth did he come up with that nickname that quickly? “A name that I don’t like,” I say. “Because it was an accident.” “We had to get the zipper surgically removed,” Wilder says.

“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.”

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.”

“Yeah, well, all those food blogs you read are useless, because your chicken tastes like cardboard.” “That’s a family recipe!” I yell, unsure of where that came from.

Some pettiness and built-up animosity cloud their vision on how to work on their marriage. I’m here to tell you, this is never over. Ever. Even if you think it is, you’re not even close to being over.”

“I’m not crazy.” “Yes, you are. That’s the only explanation I can fathom for why you’re carrying on this farce. You…you come dressed like you just left a My Chemical Romance concert, you have total disregard for anything you said in there, you talked about penis skin and then held my hand on the way out. It’s not real, Wilder. We are not real.” She gestures between us. “I understand that.” “Do you though?” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Because you just paid for eight days in marriage camp at reception.”

“Something we tend to forget when married, that we’re tied together in all aspects. What one partner might do affects the other. Whether good or bad. One move tugs on the other and vice versa. That’s why when we’re making our way through life, we need to be aware that our every move is tied to our loved one. We need to be conscious of that.”

The consensus I hear about a troubled marriage is that it ends in divorce. There isn’t enough light shed on couples actually working through their troubles and rifts. This situation might be weird with the moose antlers and lit-up golf cart, but at least there’s a healthy commitment to connecting with your spouse.

Whispering, she says, “Do you think it’s a camera? Maybe they have this place miked up. I don’t think mics can pick up a lower register in the voice.” She starts talking in a deep, husky tone. “We need to come up with our own language to bypass the spying.”

She picks up a Kama Sutra book that is on her nightstand and starts tapping it against the wall. “Oh…oh, Wilder,” she says in a girly voice. “You big, big man. Look at that…at that slayer of yours. Enormous.” She continues to tap the wall, replicating the sound of a steady headboard hitting the wall. “You’re so…full of girth and ready to explode.” A cringe takes over my expression. “Jesus Christ, is that how you talk while having sex?”

“And oh wow, yeah, shimmy again for me.” I point at her. “I don’t shimmy during sex. Only when I’m singing ‘Luck Be a Lady.’”

The sound fills the room, causing Scottie to stand upright in her matching pink pajama set. “Did you hear that?” She walks up to me and shows her arm. “Look, goose bumps. Someone is in here.”

in the creepiest voice I think I’ve ever heard, a voice that will haunt me in my dreams until the day I die, she says, “Come out, come out wherever you are. We’re ready to play with you.” “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I shout and then shake her off me. “Jesus Christ, Scottie, it’s probably just a smoke detector needing a new battery.” She lets that process for a second and then stands taller. “Huh, you know, I never thought about that.” “No, instead, you go right to trying to beat someone with a ten-pound dildo.”

“Wow.” She shakes her head. “Is there not any decency in this world? Whatever happened to helping couples find love again? Now it’s all about product consumption. And the couples are falling for it. Just fools.”

“Yeah, real fools. Pretty sure they’re not the ones wielding a dildo out of fear that a beeping snake might attack them when they open their nightstand.”

“Just checking to make sure I don’t have anything in my teeth. Breakfast was delicious, by the way.” I turn to Wilder. “Everything, uh, good?” I flash him my teeth. He squats down, playing the part, and takes a gander. But then to my horror, he tilts my head back farther, peels my lip up, and really gives them a good examination. When he’s done, he sets me up straight and then says, “Clean, babe.”

You can’t do one thing when asked.” “Oh really?” he says, stepping up. “So when you asked me to pick you up pads with wings, did I not deliver?” My face falls flat. “You came back with pads…and buffalo wings.” “That’s what you said, pads with wings.”

“Bologna.” His nostrils flare. His chest heaves. And in a very maniacal voice, his eyes boring holes into me, he says, “You son of a bitch.” “I think we should all take a moment to remember the breathing exercises we learned a few seconds ago,” Sanders says. But Wilder holds his hand out to him. “You stay out of this.” Then he gets close to me and whispers, “Say it again. I dare you.” Wetting my lips, I lean even closer and whisper, “Bologna.” “You…strumpet.”

“Bologna, bologna, bologna.” “No!” he screeches, holding his hands to his ears. “Don’t you dare Beetlejuice me. Don’t you fucking dare.” He glances over his back, checking around the room. “Is it here? Is he here?” I point off to the window and yell, “There he is.” Wilder lets out an ear-splitting scream and then falls to the ground and shimmies under the coffee table. “You devil woman.”

“So I have to take interest in her love of cacti, but she can’t bother to learn the correct Pokémon names?” He sits up. “It’s Jigglypuff. For fuck’s sake, it’s Jigglypuff!” “No…one…cares.” “Everyone cares,” he shouts, his voice cracking.

“You should see it,” I say. “He stands there, tilting his head back, gargling and gargling and gargling, only to throw his head forward and spit the mouthwash all over the mirror. It’s absurd. Where’s the accuracy?” “I asked you to help me,” Wilder counters. “Since you’re so good at spitting, I thought I would get help from a professional…” “Is that a jab at me?” “What do you think? Wouldn’t hurt you to swallow once in a while.” “Swallow your mouthwash, and I’ll swallow you,” I say.

“We did. We didn’t balk once. And the way we fucking ended it, tying it back into the pierced nipples…you realize it takes comedians years to learn how to do that in their stand-up shows, to bring everything full circle to the initial joke. That’s a special talent, and we did it, on the fly, without even communicating with each other. Fuck.” He holds his arm out to me. “Look, goose bumps.”

“Yeah, well, that ‘joke’ seems to have tarnished your opinion about yourself, and that’s unacceptable.” He tips my chin up with his thumb. “You hear me? Unacceptable. Do not take other people’s flawed opinions about you and turn them into your own.

“Because I don’t want to help a dictator,” he yells back, only for the staff member to step aside and allow us to enter the next obstacle. Bingo. “You okay?” Wilder whispers as he moves in behind me. “I am.” “Promise?” “Promise,” I whisper back. “Good. You’re doing great, Pips.”

He’s determined to do well and was watching carefully, but he was gentle when he explained his game plan. He must know how much I loathe a mansplainer.

Wilder turns to me, looks me dead in the eyes, and says, “Never. I might get frustrated with you, but I’d never cheat. Ever.” The sincerity in his voice, the conviction, hits me harder in the heart than I expected, and I attempt to not apply that answer to reality. “Same. I made vows to you, and I’d never do that.” “Thank you,” Wilder says, his voice almost…shaky.

it stuns me for a moment, because there’s a part of me that believes that wasn’t part of the act. That his answer had meaning behind it. Personal meaning.

Thankfully, Wilder steps in and says, “Even when she’s mad at me, she kisses me good night. Every night. I think it’s her way of saying that we might have a lot of animosity, but there’s still love there. She…she gives me hope, and that’s why I’m here.”

I wet my lips and look Wilder in the eyes. “He reminds me to not be so serious all the time, that there is more to life than just the day-to-day. That it’s okay to break routine. To let loose. To be the person that maybe I hold back from being.” And isn’t that the most honest thing I’ve said through this entire obstacle course?

Together, we lean over to look inside, and then at the same time, we both gasp. I’m the first to reach into the box as I pull out two big bags of Nerds Clusters. I raise them to the sky and say, “The angels have spoken!”

“Dear God in heaven,” she whispers as she pulls out another bag from the box. “We are rich!”

“Why do you like it when I claim you as mine?” “Because it makes me feel needed.” “Tell me more,” she says, sinking onto my lap, her hands falling to my chest. “I like knowing I can be of value to you. You’re so independent, so strong, that there are times where I feel like you might not need me.” She twists her lips to the side. “What I heard you say is that in order to feel love from me, you need to feel like you’re needed.”

I nod, feeling this conversation heavier in my heart than other sessions we’ve had with Sanders, because shit…I think what I just said was actually true. I like knowing I can be of value to someone, more than just a bank account. I like knowing that I can offer my humor, my touch, my mind…my soul. I like knowing that I’m helpful, that I can bring joy. That’s very much my love language.

“What I heard you say is that you want to know everything about me, the good and the bad. And I want to tell you, Pips. I really fucking do.” My mouth goes dry as those words hit me harder than I expected, because fuck, I’ve been shouldering so much ever since my father passed away. I’ve been holding my mom’s secrets close to my chest. I’ve been taking care of Mika, making sure he stays mentally healthy. I’ve been making sure that as a family unit, we don’t fall apart. And…and it’s tiring.

“That baked potato was fucking phenomenal,” Wilder says while patting his mouth with his napkin. Something I’ve noticed about Wilder is that he’s the glass-half-full kind of guy. Anything and everything has some sort of positive spin on it. He’s a millionaire at a marriage summer camp, claiming a baked potato—that I believe was slightly dry—was fucking phenomenal.

Making bracelets was a “sick” activity. Running an obstacle course this morning was the most fun he’s had in a while. It’s the simple things that are making him happy, and I find that fascinating. He has a thirst for life. The need to explore. To engage. To experience the journey beyond a screen. He wants to capture moments on this earth, and I find it so refreshing.

“The bacon was extra crispy too, and it turned into dust when I bit down on it. That’s what bacon should be. Dust in my mouth.”

“We have Nerds Clusters in the cabin. We could have had those.” He shakes his head as if he’s really thought about this. “Those are not an after-dinner treat. Those are in-between-scheduled-event treats. We must savor and hold on to those as much as we can.

“Yeah.” He drags his hand over his face. “I’m sorry if I lost it there. I just…I don’t like it when I see people get picked on, and I felt like that was what was happening. Those dicks ganged up on you, and I don’t fucking appreciate it.”

“I was pushing to protect you.” “No, you were protecting something else…maybe your pride.” “You think this has to do with pride?” He shakes his head. “There is one thing I can guarantee you, babe. My pride will never be a thing you need to worry about getting in the way. Never. I’m not a prideful man. I don’t walk around, puffing my chest, needing to be the top dog.”

“You might not realize you’re doing it, but every time you look at me, there’s side-eye.” And in a guttural voice, I say, “I fucking hate side-eye. Just look at me with regular eyes.”

“Scottie, the pole. Hand me the fucking pole.” “This is not the right pole.” “It is. Just hand it to me.” “It’s not going to work.” I breathe out a heavy breath, count to five, and then say, “Just…hand…me…the…pole.”