“Yes.” I bring her hand to my lips and kiss it.
“In this dress,” she says, looking down at it.
“Especially in this dress. You look so fricken beautiful.”
She laughs and presses her forehead against my shoulder. “My mother is going to kill me.”
“I promise I will give you the wedding of your dreams during the summer.”
“I’ve never dreamed of the big white wedding. I only ever dreamed of finding the right person, and I have.” She sighs, snuggling into me.
My heart breaks open with happiness hearing those words.
The plane is small, private, with the lights on, and the engine running. The pilot smirks when he sees us, me in a suit, her in a silver dress, both of us giddy and clearly out of our minds.
“DC?” he confirms.
“DC.”
“There and back tonight?” he asks, confirming our plans.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
We board the plane. It quickly takes off, and we watch as Manhattan shrinks beneath us, all those lights getting smaller, and I’m holding the hand of the woman who just said yes to marrying me at midnight in a hotel room.
“What if we regret this tomorrow?” she asks, her head on my shoulder, watching the clouds through the window.
“I won’t regret it.”
“How do you know? You’ve been wildly single for so long that maybe being tied down to one person …”
“I’m going to stop you there,” I tell her. “I know that I will not regret a moment of being single because I’ve regretted every day I didn’t tell you how I felt. I’ve regretted the weeks I spent not talking to you. I’ve regretted every second that you were not in my bed. The only things I don’t regret are the things I did because I loved you.” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “This is one of those things.”
“Justin Crawford, that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m on a roll tonight.” I laugh.
She gives me a look but smiles.
We arrivein DC before midnight, and it’s cold. The marriage bureau is closed because it’s the middle of the night, and we’re insane, but money and a phone call to the right person opens doors. A clerk meets us at the building, bleary-eyed and confused. She takes our IDs, processes the license, and asks us if we’re sure.
“We’re sure,” Collette says, and her voice doesn’t waver.
The officiant is a woman named Diane who smells like peppermint and looks like she’s done this a thousand times.She probably has.
“Any witnesses?” she asks. We look at each other, shit, we don’t have witnesses. We have a pilot sitting in a plane at Reagan National and a clerk who wants to go back to bed. “You don’t need one, just checking.”
Phew.
We stand in a government building in Washington DC at midnight, me in a navy suit with a silver tie. Her in a silver dress, with no flowers, no music, no guests, just us. She deserves better than this for her wedding, and I am going to make sure she gets it come summer.
Diane reads the vows, standard, simple, legal.
“Do you, Justin Michael Crawford, take Collette Marie St. Pierre to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” My voice cracks, and I don’t care.