10. October 29 –Savannah

"Where did you learn to do this?" I ask, glancing at Wilder as he sniffs the purple marker from the pack we borrowed from the little girl down the hall.

He looks up from the cardboard box he's making into a sandwich board advertisement-type costume. "I don't know what you did in first grade, but you must have attended a more advanced school."

His eyes meet mine, and my stomach drops. It's been doing that more since the picnic yesterday, and it's the little things that make it happen. A look. Him being considerate when he poured me a cup of coffee and handed me the flavored creamer this morning. I'm enjoying the little things about relationships, and I never knew I was missing out. Sure, I thought it would be nice to have someone to go out with and hold hands with me, but the little things at home are surprising to me in how they change my mood throughout the day. The little things give me the urge to hurry home to him when I'm done with work.

Wilder stands the costume up for me to see, caps the marker, and throws it back into the disorganized plastic bin. "What do you think?"

I eye the hodge podge of purple marker coloring and printed jelly jar pictures from the internet that we glued on the front. He pulls the cardboard box over his shoulders, and I marvel that my job of tying the two boxes together with white twine is holding. I must still know how to tie a good knot.

"It looks acceptable. What do you think of mine?" I ask, flipping my cardboard box around to show him the glued peanut butter jars on my costume. He wrinkles his nose. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. It looks fine. I'm jealous because you didn't have to color yours."

"Peanut butter is the same color as an Amazon box. It's overkill."

"Are you about ready to put these on and go impress my coworkers?" he asks. He eyes me up and down, appraising the tight jeans with high-heeled boots. Licking his lips, his eyes move to my arms where I'm wearing a brown cashmere sweater the color of something made with peanuts. The look in his eyes says he doesn't care how well my sweater matches the color of peanut butter. He follows the curve of my waist down to my hips and flexes his hands like he wants to reach out and touch me.

I dig the keys out of my purse and gesture to the door. "I better drive. I'm not sure we can negotiate these costumes on the bike."

The bar is smokey even though there's a city smoking ban on indoor places. I wave my hands in front of my face, fanning the smoke away from my nose and lamenting that I'll have to wash my hair again. I sip the beer in my hands and smile politely at the conversation between other wives and girlfriends at the table. Looking across the room, Wilder smiles from the dartboard where he's certain to win about fifty bucks.

He holds up his beer, giving me a mock salute. "How do you know Wilder?" one of the wives asks, pulling me from Wilder's gaze.

I turn to face her. They're all so nice, and I'm enjoying the conversation with them. All are under thirty except for the shop owner's wife, who is exceptionally cool for a woman of fifty. The other women were friendly and immediately asked me to sit with them as the men play darts. It's nice to be out of the house with women besides Melissa, and I should really try to make more friends.

I'm just not sure if I'll see these women after cuffing season. Is it worth it to exchange phone numbers and social media information with them?

"We met at a speed dating event," I answer honestly. I don't mention it was only for cuffing season or that my mother asked me to date someone so she could pay me for it.

The woman next to me, Elle, looks back at the boys and smiles through her vampire costume makeup. "Total babe that one. You're lucky," she says, looking over the rim of her beer. "I did speed dating once." She shudders and looks off in the distance like she's remembering a tour in Vietnam. "Dreadful experience. I'd rather get a genital rash than go back."

"You could get a genital rash if you go back," Wilder's boss's wife, Tara, says.

We burst into laughter, and another woman looks me up and down. "You look like you could use some shots."

"I don't know. I don't really do shots. I usually just stick with beer or wine." I wave my hands in a poopooing motion. "I"ll sit these out."

"You ever have a pickle shot?" Elle asks.

"I've had pickles. Is there a shot involved?" Is there no end to the social stuff the cool kids know but I don't?

Tara throws up her hand as the other women clap and hoot. "Pickle shots!" she yells to the waitress. "And keep them coming."

I watch the bartender pour something from a pre-made container into shot glasses positioned on a tray and add a slice of dill pickle on the rims. When the first batch is ready, she hands it over the bar to our waitress and starts on the next batch.

The smell of pickles and vodka hits me as soon as the waitress approaches the table. She gingerly places two shots in front of each of us and backs away. The dill scent is thick. I like pickles, but I don't know how I'll feel about the juice mixed with vodka.

"Want me to show you how it's done?" Wilder asks, wrapping his arms around me from behind and kissing the place where my shoulder meets my neck. Two of the women at the table squeak as they watch his lips meet my skin with wide eyes.

"I'm not sure I can handle this."

He picks up one of the shots and holds it in the center of the table. "Pick it up, Savannah."

I do as he asks and so do the other women. We clink our glasses, and Wilder and the other women throw their shots back. Wilder takes his in one gulp and chews the dill pickle piece as soon as he swallows the liquid. "Eat the pickle after. It may help."

All eyes are on me as I sniff the shot. Peer pressure makes me exhale so that I can't smell it. Eventually, I get the sour drink down my throat and frantically suck on the dill pickle slice as I cough and sputter.

Wilder pushes his face into my hair. "That's a good girl."

He walks away, going back to the dart board, but my panties are ruined. Is it the alcohol, or is it because he just called me a good girl with his body pressed next to me?

Another round of shots comes, and I drink the two offered to me and accept a beer Wilder sent over to the table. He winks when I drink it, the alcohol churning in my stomach. I don't party like this very often. At all, really.

The other women do more shots, and I marvel they're still standing. Wilder wins at darts, and the men stuff dollars and swipe their credit cards into the jukebox, playing Halloween songs. A group gets up to dance to "Thriller," complete with the moves from the old video from before I was born, but my vision starts to blur, and I sit down to keep the room from spinning.

"Want to dance?" Wilder asks when another song comes on.

"I can barely stand. I think you'll have to drive home. Pickle shots are not my friend."

He laughs and waves to the waitress for another beer. "I'll drive, snickerdoodle. You enjoy yourself. Something tells me you don't get ripped very often."

"I don't get anything very often."

Fuck, why did I say that? He's going to think I'm angling for dick. Maybe I am. The more pickle juice and vodka I get into me, the more I want to ride him.

"That's why I'm here," he whispers into my ear, his breath tickling my earlobe. "I'm at your beck and call for the next few months to make sure you get everything you need."

My stomach swirls, and it's not about the shots and beer.

"Come dance with me. One dance. I'll prop you up."

I nod, and he pulls me to the dance floor. My vision tunnels, and I only see him. My hair is everywhere, and sweat runs down my back, pooling at my waistband. He pulls me close and throws my arms around his neck. "Get closer, Savannah," he directs.

My mother always told me that you can tell what a man is like in bed by the way he moves on the dance floor. If that's true, Wilder is a sex god. He moves against me in perfect rhythm to the beat and gets me to move my feet and hips with his, matching his movement like we're mirror images. His chest and shoulders are firm under my hands, and I slide my hands down his body as he laughs against my cheek.

Wilder's coworkers are nice and pat him on the back as they dance past us, and Wilder stops to talk to people when they get ready to leave for the night. I can't remember the last time I've had this much fun, and I hold on to him as we move together across the bar floor. The other women give me thumbs up from the table, and I smile and wave back to them.

He does most of our dancing while propping me up, and I step on him more than once. He keeps me away from other couples on the dance floor, and the entire crowd holds their drinks up around me. If I didn't already smell like alcohol, I would now with all the beer sloshing around the room. It rains onto the floor, my hair, and people around us.

The song ends, but my body still sways against him, and he laughs and pulls me into him. "If you like dancing, I can take you more often. I actually like it. Probably not very manly of me."

I throw my head back and stare at the track lighting above me. The ceiling spins, and I follow it with my head, a grin on my face. He notices and laughs into my neck. "Let's get you home. I don't think you need anymore, and I think you need bed."

"Oh, yes. I definitely need bed," I coo, running my hands down to his chiseled ass and taking a handful of it.