"There are no exclusively gay places, but you're safe wherever you go. Clovelly is a very accepting small town."
"If only the rest of the country were," Rosie grumbles.
"Hey. No politics this weekend," her wife chides her, then she looks at me and rolls her eyes dramatically. "The downside of being married to a policy adviser."
I smile good-naturedly. "I see. Well, here is your room key. If you need anything else, let me know. Enjoy the festival, and have a great, politics-free weekend."
They leave, and Manuel stomps over. "Blasted lights!"
"I don't understand why you're even putting them up. It's not Christmas. String lights don't have anything in common thematically with the ink festival."
"I wanted to add some extra cheer," he grumps.
"And how's that workin' out for ya?"
He glares at me for a solid minute. "Did ze Petersons arrive?"
"Not yet. They're still in Sanford waiting for roadside assistance to show up. I told them we can send someone to get them, but they'd rather stay with their car."
"I see. At least it’s not snowing, eh?"
"True. But it's still freezing cold."
"Well, it’s their decision."
"Have I stepped into the Twilight Zone or something?" Buzz asks, approaching the desk.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, my eyes roving over his snug, stonewashed-brown thermal Henley that clings to his chest a little too well, worn-in jeans that cling to his sculpted legs a little too well, and boots dusted in white.
He waves a finger between me and Manuel. "This. You guys. You're acting…professionally."
I tear my gaze away from his body to his face. "I know. Weird, isn't it?"
Manuel shoos me out from behind the desk and starts tapping away on the keyboard with all the importance of someone working at an air traffic control tower and not checking notes about the McAllens' pillow preferences. "Merci. You two can go now," he says without looking up.
"No worries, Manny."
His head jerks up, and his eyes get menacingly narrow.
Hehatesthe new nickname Lola came up with a few days ago. I hate it, too… Hate that I didn't come up with it years earlier.
"Go," he growls, and like the mature thirtysomethings we are, Buzz and I retreat in a fit of laughter.
"We still on for lunch?" Buzz asks.
"Of course." I glance toward the restaurant. It's packed in there. "Maybe we can grab something in town? Lola is swamped today."
"Sounds good."
We jump into Buzz's SUV for the short ride into town. It's been just over three weeks since Mom's bombshell. The only other person I've told apart from Buzz is Lola, and she was just as shocked about it as we were.
I haven't seen Mom again, but we have spoken a few times on the phone. I did my best to walk the line between worried son and worried doctor, and she seemed more receptive to my suggestions on what she should be doing. Eating better. Taking prenatal vitamins with folic acid and iron. Monitoring for complications.
Most of the limited contact we've had over the years has been via phone, so maybe she's more comfortable that way. She's also given me permission to speak with her doctor, so I can keep an eye on things that way as well, saving me from bombarding her with a million questions.
Buzz turns onto Main Street.
Snowbanks line the sidewalks, and much like the inn—and despite the frigid temperature—it's a flurry of activity. The tattoo festival has become a major drawcard. Locals and tourists hustle through the slush, the cafés are packed, the bakery has tattoo-themed cupcakes in the front window. There's not a single parking spot to be found.
