43
Courtland
It's the day of the festival, and I am zenning the shit out of this morning.
First thing I did when I woke up was a guided ten-minute meditation about not letting external circumstances affect you.
I substituted my usual coffee for a green tea, which yes, still has caffeine in it, but it feels like the calmer option.
I even lit a candle in my room as I got dressed, not in the hopes of burning the house down and thereby getting out of going to the festival where I'm going to have to endure hanging out with Zane all day, but because I truly do want to make an effort with the guy.
Like an annoying mosquito in the summer, he hasn't pissed off. He still does his 'fun stuff' with Buzz every couple of weeks, and my other close friends seem to like him as well. If he really is here to stay, I probably should make a proper effort with him. Maybe we just got off on the wrong foot…several times.
"You ready?"
Buzz asks, standing at my bedroom door.
I swivel around and smile. He looks freaking adorable. Not because he's wearing anything extraordinary—just a lined denim jacket with his favorite purple hoodie layered underneath, heavy-duty khakis, and lace-up work boots—it's just him.
I'm falling even more in love with him the longer I'm here. Guess daily blow jobs and a trauma-inducing family situation are bound to bring two people closer, but it's more than that. It's all the years I've suppressed my true feelings for him bubbling to the surface.
Even though what we're doing isn't a real marriage, in my head, I'm allowing myself to pretend it is. That we do really live together, that we are sharing our lives forever. Might not be psychologically healthy, but I'll deal with the aftermath of that in about three-and-a-half months.
For now, I'm happy living in the fantasy world I'm creating.
"I am,"
I say, taking one last look at myself in the mirror. I went for simple yet stylish. A fine-knit turtleneck layered under a charcoal wool overcoat, slim-fit navy slacks, and black leather Chelsea boots.
"Oh, before we head out."
I make my way over to him, taking out a small box from my security pocket.
"It's not super romantic or anything, but here, happy Valentine's Day."
His eyes widen.
"I asked you last week if we were getting each other anything, and you went on a ten-minute rant linking Valentine's Day to everything that's wrong with late-stage capitalism."
I grin because I'm really proud of that rant. Even though it's only February, it's a contender to make it into my top five end-of-year rant countdown.
"Like I said, it's nothing romantic."
He takes the box from me, all pouty like, but I know he secretly loves it. Buzz is a total sap for this type of stuff.
Like, if you've ever asked yourself, Who actually watches Lifetime or the Hallmark channels? Buzz is your answer. He lives for all that lovey-dovey stuff.
He opens the box and lets out the most endearing little gasp.
"You shouldn't have,"
he says, peeling back the sleek cardboard lid and taking the Apple Watch out of the box.
He damaged his watch at work last week and wasn’t happy when the repair bill came in. It was an old model, so I figured he was due for an upgrade anyway.
"Look on the underside,"
I say, wishing I had my phone on me so I could record his face when he sees it.
"No fucking way!"
His eyes light up, and before I know it, he's pulling me into a crushing bear hug. When he lets go, he brings the watch up to his face.
"CM + BL 4ever,"
he says, running his eyes over the tiny inscription.
"I remember how bummed you were when you couldn't find our initials at the tree house, so hopefully this might make up for it."
"This is amazing, thank you,"
he says, wrapping the leather band around his wrist.
"My pleasure."
I'd do anything to make him happy.
Even make a real effort with what's-his-face.
Forty-five minutes later, the four of us—Buzz, me, Scooter, and Cyrus—are wandering around the ink festival.
The packed hall hums with the sounds of tattoo machines, and there's a heavy smell of ink and antiseptic as we move through a maze of artists and onlookers. Every once in a while, we stop at a station and watch the artists as they work.
The irony is none of us have tattoos, but the Villain Ink'd Festival has become so iconic it's always fun to wander around. It's even better to be doing it with my closest friends.
"So, how are things going with that new cast member? The one who's like a younger, hotter, even meaner version of you on the show?"
"Not great. I just found out he's my replacement,"
Scooter grumbles.
"Wait. Are you being serious?" I check.
"Yep. Here's some fun behind-the-scenes reality TV goss for ya. Every show needs a villain. I've been playing the role of mean vet for years now, and apparently the audience is tuning out. That's why they brought Carter in this season. The show gets one year of in-fighting from us with the newer guy proving victorious and the older guy getting the boot."
"Oh, man. That sucks, Scooter,"
Buzz says, threading his arm through mine.
My body heats at the contact, and I draw him in even closer.
"It happens all the time. I just didn't realize being thirty-one made me officially old. But apparently it does."
"In reality TV land,"
Buzz points out.
"Which is not the same thing as the real world."
Scooter goes on, listing a number of grievances he was having with the show before this latest drama, and as much as I want to listen to him and be there for him, I'm too wrapped up in my latest fantasy, walking arm in arm through the festival with my for-real husband because we're for real in love, to be paying attention.
I'll talk to him later to catch up on anything I miss.
Buzz asks Cyrus about hi.
"business"
trip to Italy with his manager, and I manage to miss most of that, too. Not that there's much to miss. Cyrus says something about it being nice then does what he does best—deflects.
"What's going on with you two?"
But before either of us can answer, Zane appears out of nowhere.
"Hi, you guys! It's so good to see you!"
He greets everyone with a big hug.
And then he gets to me.
"Hey,"
he says, lurching back.
"Hi," I say.
"It's good to see you."
He scratches his arm.
"Yeah. You, too."
Well, this is going wonderfully.
Buzz, Cyrus, and Scooter are all keenly observing us. Buzz opens his mouth to say something to alleviate the awkwardness, but I beat him to it.
"Listen, Zane. I've got a friend. He's a tattoo artist, and he's got a booth here. Thought you might like to meet him." I grin.
"He specializes in basic white dude tattoos."
"Courtland,"
Buzz growls, stepping in, preparing to intervene should Zane take a swing at me.
"I'm kidding,"
I assure him, then I turn back to Zane.
"I am kidding. He's actually incredibly talented."
"Who is it?"
Scooter asks.
"Reef Emhoff," I reply.
"Ooh. He really is good,"
Buzz says.
"If I were to ever get a tattoo, he'd be the guy I'd go to."
"Have you got any?"
Zane asks him.
"No, he doesn't,"
I answer on his behalf, not wanting to get sidetracked. I'm trying to do a nice thing here. I need to stay focused so I can get it over and done with as quickly as possible.
"Like I said, the guy is super talented. He was two classes below us, and he's gone on to do some big things in his career."
"He won Best of Show at the World Tattoo Expo in New York last year,"
Cyrus chips in.
I smile at Zane.
"That's right. Not to mention he's inked some of the most famous people in the world, like Rihanna, Bad Bunny, and Angelina Jolie."
"Holy shit,"
Zane mutters.
"I spoke with him a few days ago and mentioned you were thinking of getting something on your arm. He's been totally booked at the festival since about two minutes after the tickets were made available online, but I asked if he might be able to fit you in."
His eyebrows shoot up. "No way."
"Yes way. He'll see you right after the festival finishes. He might not have time to do the whole arm dragon concept you had in mind, but he could do something smaller for you."
"Oh my god! That's incredible. Thank you, Courtland. I mean Court."
He moves like he's about to hug me, so I take a step back. One, because I'm not ready for that again, but mainly because two, I have more news.
"He is expensive,"
I warn him. “But he said he’ll hook you up with a friend rate."
"Holy fucking shit."
Zane barrels into me, my arms rigid by my side.
The hug I could do without, but I glance over and see the massive smile on Buzz's face, and it makes enduring it one thousand percent worthwhile.
That was a real nice thing you did,"
Scooter says, dunking his pretzel into the cheesy dip we're sharing.
The others have gone ahead to look at something Zane wanted to show them. Scooter and I decided to grab a snack instead.
"It's not a big deal. Buzz wants us to get along. It's the only reason I'm doing it."
Scooter grins wryly.
"No fucking duh. You'd do anything for him."
"Of course I would,"
I reply seriously even though I can hear the teasing in his voice.
"But do I need to start calling you Meatloaf?"
I turn to him mid-bite, confused.
"Excuse me?"
"He had that song, remember? ‘I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won't Do That.’ My father would play it all the time. Used to drive me nuts."
"Why are you bringing that up?"
"Because you would do anything for Buzz, but you won't do that. And by that, I'm referring to you telling him how you feel."
"Yeah, well, we've had a few other family issues to deal with."
Buzz and I told the guys about the latest turn of events with Mom and his dad before Zane showed up, swearing them to secrecy.
"I call bullshit,"
Scooter says, dipping his pretzel into the gooey cheese and taking a bite.
"You're using that as an excuse. It's kind of your thing."
"I don't have a thing."
He smirks at me.
"According to the Clovelly Facebook page, the good attendees of a recent life drawing class all seem to think you have a very big thing."
I chuckle.
"My dick is massive."
"And I couldn't be happier for you,"
Scooter says, ribbing me with a lopsided grin.
"But just make sure you're not being a massive dick. Doesn't Buzz deserve to know the truth?"
His words hit me hard.
He's absolutely right about everything. I have been latching onto any measly excuse I can—the arrival of Zane, the holidays, Mom's pregnancy news—to avoid sitting Buzz down and telling him the truth.
Why?
Because I'm scared.
I didn't know how six months at home would pan out, but deep down, I was worried I'd hate it. That I'd feel trapped. Or miss my life back in Boston too much. That I'd just want to get the hell out of here.
None of that has come to fruition.
Instead, it’s better than I ever imagined it could be. I love being back here. I love working at the inn. And most of all, I love spending time with Buzz.
I've avoided coming back so many years, avoided dealing with my feelings for him, but I can't run anymore. I have to face facts.
This place feels like home.
Buzz feels like home.
And that is giving me some big-time anxiety.