Best Man

The dress is a Tar-jay, two years old, white with eyelet trim and a bit of a daring neckline, but very simple and sweet, too. I think I got it for twelve bucks on clearance, but it doesn’t matter. It’s his favorite. My hair is in my favorite messy bun, and my makeup is almost nil.

The locale is the musty-smelling county courthouse in downtown Boulder, right down the way from the DMV and the bail bonds office, where our officiant has just gotten done fining a guy for public drunkenness.

The details have cost us about thirty-four dollars, for the marriage license and an hour’s worth of parking at the lot behind the building.

Except for the judge, we’re alone.

It’s my fantasy wedding come true.

Because now, everything’s right.

He slips the ring on my finger, his hands trembling just as they had before, when I realized how much he loved me.

This time, I can’t wait for forever. This time, there’s no doubt. We will love, honor, and cherish each other, ’til death do us part.

When I’m asked if I take this man, I answer in a clear, loud voice. “I do.” He says the same, his eyes never leaving mine.

And then we are pronounced man and wife.

We’re fucking married!

He kisses me, and I hook my arm through his. He leads me outside, his chin up high, as proud a man as I’ve ever seen.

On this hot summer day, there isn’t a snowflake in sight, but there is a cart outside, selling pretzels. He buys me one, and we sit on the steps outside the courthouse, sharing it. Of course, he lets me have the bigger piece.

“So what shall we do now, Mrs. Foster?” he asks me when I finish, and I’m licking the salt off my fingers.

We didn’t make plans for a honeymoon. In fact, the plans to do this were hatched just a couple days ago. Together, we help each other embrace our spontaneous sides, and we have a lot of fun doing it. He’s not that bitter old grouch who skulks around, hating everyone in the world, anymore.

I grin at him. “I like that name a lot, but that’s not my real name, is it? Are you ever going to tell me who you really are, or do you prefer to remain an international man of mystery?”

“Some mystery.” His eyes gleam as he leans over and whispers in my ear, “Michael Abenante.”

It’s a secret only he and I know. I love that he holds other people at arm’s length, but lets me in, all the way. He lets me—and only me—touch him any way I please, and I think I’m going to use that to my full advantage tonight. And let him go as deep as he wants, into me.

I wrap my arms around him. “I think we should go home.”

His eyes gleam with mischief. “Yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm. As good as I feel now, I think I might actually be able to beat you at chess.”

“Oh, is that what’s on your mind?”

“That and…other things. Maybe. If you’re lucky.”

“I am very, very lucky,” he agrees. He pulls me close, nuzzles my neck, and whispers, “Maybe I’ll let you win.”

I giggle at the feeling of his breath on my ear, and people on the street smile at us, because we’re laughing like schoolkids and grinning from ear to ear.

Not that anything else really matters.

I love being Mrs. Foster. Dahlia Abenante. Miles’ wife. Whatever I’m called, it means I’m his and he’s mine. That’s all there is to it. I love this man with every part of my heart, in a way that I’ll probably never be able to express, in a thousand lifetimes.

And I know. I definitely just know.