“Not really,” Ted says.
“Sure looks like it.”
“What Ted means is we’re throwing around some beanbags while we put back some beers. Not keeping score. Nothing competitive,” Rick says.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I laugh.
I should be in the library writing the book that’s due in a matter of weeks, but this opportunity strikes me as more important. A not-so-friendly game against one of the most fake macho guys I know. Rick, with his show muscles, trying to overcompensate for his five-foot-seven stubby frame. This is a perfect outlet for my pent-up frustrations.
“What about a speed round, first to five wins?” I offer.
Rick looks at Ted, who shrugs.
“You two go for it. I’ll grab more beers,” Ted says.
It feels good to chuck these beanbags across the lawn and feel the countdown to five bearing down on me. It helps to direct and focus my anger, rather than letting it spill all over. I nail two throws in succession. Rick’s toss is short and slow, exactly like him.
I’m laughing at my own joke when I toss my third bag. It misses the platform completely. The next one lands on the box but stops before falling in the hole. I channel my energy into my last shot. This beanbag hits the one lying flat on the platform, and both slide in.
“Yes,” I say with a fist pump. Ted cracks open a can and hands me the beer.
“Thanks, man,” I say.
I take a sip and place the can at my feet. I’m up two and refuse to get anxious. I stay steady and calm. Until Rick lands another.
Since all my beanbags are in the hole, I have to walk across the lawn to retrieve them. As I hustle back to my tossing spot, Rick’s wife, Eden, steps out through the French doors at the back of the house.
“Babe, do you know where my green dress is? I can’t find it,” Eden asks.
“It’s hanging in the closet, zipped in my garment bag.” Rick tosses a beanbag that plops through the hole.
“Okay, thanks,” Eden says.
“No, baby, stay,” Rick calls out. “You’re my good-luck charm. I only need one more.”
“Me too,” I say. “I only need one more too.”
Eden doesn’t glance my way.
“Tiebreaker determines the winner here,” Ted says.
Rick takes his shot, but he rushes it and misses. Now he’s got to collect his bags and I have some breathing room. I manipulate one of the bags in my hand, massaging it before patting it into a nice flat flying unit.
“As riveting as this game is, I don’t have time to watch. I’ve gotta go shower,” Eden says.
“Love you, babe,” Rick responds.
I toss the beanbag, and from the moment I release, I sense it’s a winner. I trace its perfect arc as it comes down exactly in line with its target. Rick stops halfway to watch, his hands full of retrieved beanbags. My shot was perfectly aligned for the distance, but it falls slightly to the left of the hole.
“Don’t blame the wind,” Ted teases.
“You saw that, though, right? That gust came out of nowhere.”
“What are you manly men doing?” Aimee shouts from the balcony. She’s wrapped in a robe, drinking a glass of wine. Farah appears by her side.
“We’re mowing the lawn,” I say.
Aimee laughs too loudly at my joke. Her exuberance was something I once adored, and now it fills me with ugly irritation.
I ignore Aimee and let another beanbag fly, but I miss the mark by two feet. Finally, she showers me with the over-the-top affection I once craved and all it’s done is make me frustrated. I’m the only guy who gets laid and then afterward needs to take the edge off.
I squeeze the life out of my last two beanbags and watch Rick eyeing his target. He takes a practice underhanded swing, warming up his arm. We both release at the same time. Rick’s beanbag sails through the hole with an imaginary swish, while mine lands soundlessly in the grass.
“That’s the game,” Rick says, finishing his beer.
“It was a good one,” Ted says.
“Rematch,” Aimee says. “You’ll get him this time, hon. Best two out of three.”
“Nah, we’re good,” Rick says.
“What’s the matter? You scared, Rick?” Aimee taunts.
“Stop it, Aimee,” I say.
My tone was harsher than I’d anticipated, but I don’t apologize. Aimee disappears from the balcony, and I glance down at the crumpled up beanbag in my hand. Although the game is over, I swing my arm forward and release. I watch the beanbag fly through the air, and for a split second, I imagine tossing Aimee away too.
MARGOT
