41
Courtland
The inn is buzzing with life, every room is booked, and the restaurant hasn't had an empty table in days.
Lola and her team are flat out in the kitchen, I'm checking in our latest arrivals, and Manuel is growing increasingly frustrated as only half the string lights he's been hanging over the mantle for the last twenty minutes are blinking.
"You're here for the ink festival?"
I ask the lesbian couple I'm checking in at the front counter.
Rosie grins. Ink peeks out from her collar, and the tops of her hands are covered in an intricate, colorful design.
"What gave it away?"
I wink.
"What can I say? I'm psychic."
"Are there any gay bars in town?"
her wife, Tara, asks.
"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.
He hates the 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.
"I have an idea,"
I say after we drive the length of Main Street for the third time looking for one.
"I'll jump out and get some food, and we can take it back to the inn."
"Won't Lola have a heart attack if we bring back outside food?"
I smile because she totally would.
"She won't see us. Trust me."
"All right."
Buzz stops to let me out.
"Call me with the pickup location."
"Will do."
"Where are we going?"
Buzz asks once we get out of his car.
We're back at the inn, and I'm armed with a brown paper bag full of food from the diner, but we're not heading inside.
"Follow me."
Our boots crunch across the frozen ground.
"It's a surprise."
"Does it involve blow jobs?"
he asks, jogging to catch up to me.
I smirk, loving that's where his mind went.
It doesn't, but I don't want to say that.
"Possibly."
After a few minutes walking, we reach the clearing, and the old tree house comes into view.
"I am not blowing you in there. Your dick will be like a popsicle."
I chuckle.
"I wasn't seriously planning on a blow job, doofus. We can eat and talk."
"Outside? But it's freezing."
"That's why I bought this,"
I say, lifting the Mr. Heater Little Buddy I picked up from the hardware store.
"You're crazy."
"Just add it to the list."
We climb into our old tiny tree house, and I power up the heater as Buzz takes out all the food. The heater makes a soft whooshing noise, but it's going to take a few minutes before it warms the frigid air.
We sit cross-legged facing each other, our knees connecting.
Buzz chooses the lobster roll and starts devouring it. It shouldn't be so sexy, but it is.
I'm happy Mom's bombshell announcement hasn't affected us. Guess it's a good thing we have some experience at compartmentalizing our crazy families away from our personal lives. But maybe we've done a little too good a job of it. Apart from Buzz asking how Mom is doing after my phone calls, we haven't talked about it.
At all.
I don't know whether he's spoken to his dad, or told Howie, and most importantly, I don't know how he's feeling.
That changes.
Right now.