Buzz
"How do I look?" Court asks Manuel as we waltz up to him at the front desk of the inn.
Manuel, who Court and I used to get a kick out of teasing as kids, is now in his late fifties.
"Fine," he says in that distinctive French-Canadian accent of his, not bothering to look up from the computer screen.
"Is that all you're going to say to me on my wedding day?" Court teases with a grin, and I grin, too, loving this goofy and unserious side of him.
Manuel sighs. "Oui."
I chuckle. He's surly and blunt in a quintessentially French way, which makes himso much funto annoy. All the staff here get in on it, too. Especially Lola. Shelovesfiring him up. And when he steps into her domain and starts bossing her around? Let's just say, the guy's had to wash food off his face on more than one occasion.
"What about Buzz? How does he look?" Court persists. He's going to keep going until he gets a proper reaction.
Manuel sighs. "Fine."
"Really?" I join in. "Come on, Manuel, surely after all these years, you can come up with more than one syllable."
"Good. Bye. There. Now, go. Bote of you. I'm working." He shoos us away like we're flies at a cookout.
Court and I break out in childish chuckles, like we're kids all over again, and make way as guests arrive at the front desk.
Growing up, we used to constantly bug the shit out of the guy, asking him which country—Canada or French Canada—was bigger, doing piss-poor imitations of his accent, or just being the boisterous, messy kids we were. Deep down, I suspect he secretlyloves us, and his whole snooty, better-than-thou demeanor is mostly just an act.
"Okay, seriously," Court says to me. "How do I look?"
"You look great," I reply because he seriously does.
We've talked about what to wear for the ceremony a few times since he came back to town after Thanksgiving, and we both agreed to keep it simple. We're getting married at the local courthouse after all. There's no guest list. No reception. And definitely no honeymoon. Just us and two witnesses.
So we skipped the suits.
I opted for a thick, cream cable-knit sweater with dark jeans, while Court went for tailored black dress pants, a crisp white button-down, and a navy peacoat.
But my favorite accessory would have to be his smile. He's returned from Boston well-fed, well-slept, and in a good mood. I love it.
"I have to say, I'm a little surprised," I tell him. "Thought you might be nervous or something."
He tilts his head, cocking an eyebrow. "Why would I be nervous? I'm marrying the best guy in the world today."
He may have said it casually, but the weight of his words makes my heart do a stupid thumping thing.
"Well… I…"
I don't know how to react, so I drop my gaze to the mustard-ocher carpet.
"Buzz." Warm fingers hook under my chin, gently guiding my gaze back up until I reach a pair of golden-green eyes. "Areyounervous?"
"No. I'm not. I'm just… This is big. We're getting married. For real."
"Well…not for real, for real."
"Tell that to the State of Maine."
"If you're having second thoughts?—"
I loosen my shoulders. "I'm not."
