I shake my whole body up and down to indicate my agreement. “Deal.”
James blows the whistle, and everyone scatters on the field. I run to a far corner, careful not to stand too close to the perimeter of the game box. Before I can even get my bearings, a muscular guy with very hairy arms clips one of my legs with his own, a move that sends me tottering toward the edge of the field, until I lose my balance and fall over. My legs are dangling because they have no support, and I have no clue how to get up. I’m stuck. Dammit, Max was right: We should have presented a united front.
My teammate finds me writhing on the ground and can’t resist teasing me. “If I could reach my phone and take a photo of this, I would. I never imagined I’d see you like this. Never.”
That’s rich. He’s chuckling at my predicament, unaware that he looks almost as ridiculous as I do. “Need I remind you, Max, that you’re standing in a big plastic ball?”
He leans over and looks at me from the top of the contraption. “The operative word here is standing. Which isn’t what you’re doing right now. Just so you know, you look like a T. rex that’s been tipped over. I’d help but—”
Through the ball, I see Max run away, another player on his heels. He yells over his shoulder, “I’ll . . . be . . . back.”
I can’t help laughing as he tries to wobble across the field. How is this my life right now?
In the meantime, I twist back and forth, hoping to get enough momentum to propel me to an upright position. It doesn’t work. I’m doing a spot-on impression of what Humpty Dumpty would have looked like if he hadn’t cracked after the fall, and I cackle when I imagine what I must look like to everyone else.
With considerable effort, I manage to flip around so I can see the field, my gaze finding Max in the chaos of plastic balls bouncing on the grass. In a jaw-dropping move, he launches himself at Hairy Arms Guy, which forces my nemesis past the orange cones. “Yes!” I yell.
Max dodges and weaves his way back to me, panting like a furry dog who’s been out in the sun too long. “I . . . have . . . an . . . idea.”
“Well, I’m a captive audience, and I’m all ears.”
“Okay, if I sit behind you and we both bend our knees, we can try to use each other as leverage to stand. It won’t be pretty, but I think it’ll work.”
I squint up at him and shift around to avoid the sun’s blinding rays. “At this point, I’ll try anything.”
We do as he suggests, and after several tries—one try having been sabotaged by a woman unsuccessfully seeking retribution on behalf of Hairy Arms Guy—we manage to stand. My sense of triumph is disproportionate to my achievement, but after squirming on the ground for five minutes, I’m glad to be back in the game.
“See?” Max says. “We’re better as a team.”
Thinking back to our brainstorming session in the car, I’m starting to agree. And though sparring with Max is satisfying in small doses, horsing around with him like we are today is way more fun.
This time, Max bumps me to get my attention. “Okay, let’s walk nonchalantly over to that couple and then charge them. We’ll knock each and every one of them on their ass. And let’s scream when we go after ’em.”
I give him a blank look. “Why would we do that?”
“To intimidate them. You know, put them on the defensive. It’ll throw them off their game.” He leans over so I can see his face. “Plus, it’ll feel good.”
His emphasis on the word feel takes me somewhere he probably didn’t intend. I can think of dozens of ways to feel good, and all of them involve Max. Focus, Lina. Focus. “I’m not so sure yelling’s going to win anyone over.”
“Who cares about winning them over?” he says, his brows furrowed. “We’re trying to beat them. Besides, you’ll never see any of these people again. You have nothing to lose.”
Well, he’s right that I’m unlikely to see any of these people again, so why the hell not? Nothing about this day is panning out the way I expected it to anyway.
I look up and notice four players beyond the cones. That means there are only four couples we need to eliminate. I switch to beast mode. “Okay, Max. Let’s do this.”
Max and I stumble over to our targets, whistling as if we’re simply meandering across the field. When we’re within striking distance, he shouts, “One, two, three!” and then we’re slamming into everyone.
“You can’t defeat us,” Max yells.
I shout at our opponents, too. “This is our house, bitches. Ahhhhhhhh!”
Max freezes in place. “Too far, Lina. Too far.”
I grimace apologetically. “Sorry.”
Two minutes later, my voice is scratchy from all the yelling. Max was right—it does feel good to scream with abandon knowing no one’s going to look at you askance for doing it. Well, except when you call them bitches.
Now it’s down to us and a hippie couple wearing matching Birkenstocks. With socks.
“We got this,” Max says. “They’re probably high on weed anyway.”
I’m mortified that he’s made that comment out loud, but I’m laughing so hard my belly’s aching.
One of the women says, “Ha. You’re right about that, cupcake.”
Before we can get out of the way, both women drop to the ground and lean all the way forward, instantly transforming themselves into human bowling balls bouncing and rolling in our direction. When Max and I realize we’re the bowling pins, we look at each other in horror through the plastic separating us, but it’s too late to do anything about it.
We’re out.
Bad news: We won’t get the bragging rights we were aiming for.
Good news: I’m having the time of my life.
More bad news: I’m 100 percent positive it’s because I’m spending the day with Max.
* * *
“Kudos to Lina and Max on a well-played game,” James says. “Now that we’ve gotten any bad energy out of our systems, we’re moving on to our next exercise. It’s called I Wish You Would, I Wish You Wouldn’t, and it’s very simple. One person in each couple is going to share three things they wish their partner would do or would do more of. The other person will share three things they wish their partner wouldn’t do or would do less of. Partners, there’s no need to get defensive. Everyone gets a turn. But the important point is this: The person sharing needs to explain why those are your three things so that your partner can try to understand where you’re coming from. Additional rule: Your partner’s allowed to ask questions to gain that understanding. Make sense?”
We’re sitting in a circle of chairs in the inn’s living area, a room with heavy brocade drapes, cherrywood furniture pieces, and yellow walls that counteract the darkness of the space. Despite a bathroom and snack break, the group’s looking run-down and wary. I can’t tell if we’re noticeably less enthusiastic about this exercise than we were about bumper ball because we’re just tired or because we’re not looking forward to the subject matter. It’s about to get personal, and I don’t envy the couple that goes first.
Wanda claps once. “Okay, friends, who wants to start us off?”