Page 87 of Wedge

“Adrian…”

“I want to just do it. Courthouse, get the license, five minutes, sign the papers, done.” I’m surprising myself saying it, but the moment it’s out, I know I mean every word. “No planning, no big thing, I don’t need a party. I just want you to actually be my husband, official, so the next time some cliff diver looks at you like a snack, there’s a solid word for what he’s interrupting.”

Stephen stares at me, something breaking open behind his eyes, then he’s grinning, wide and helpless.

“Yeah?” he says. “License, signatures, done?”

"Zero ceremony. Just sign the fucking papers and be mine. Legally. Officially. Hell, Ben and Geoff self-solemnized, we could do that.”

“Bad word,” Jasmine says primly, not looking up from her coloring.

“Sorry, Jazz.” I don’t look away from Stephen. “Well?”

“Friday morning,” he says, voice rough. “Courthouse. I’ll wear something nice.”

“Wear whatever. I just want the paperwork.”

He laughs, leans over Jasmine’s head to kiss me, quick and easy, right there in the middle of Casa Bonita’s chaos, and Jasmine makes a gagging noise that neither of us pays any attention to.

The courthouse takes exactly the tiny amount of time I promised: a clerk with tired eyes, a nameplate that says DIANE, a stack of forms, flat fluorescent light, a flag in the corner, a radiator hissing under the window. Ben and Geoff stand witness with a fussy infant each strapped to their chests, TJ and Gavin crammed into the tiny room grinning the whole time, Caleb filming badly on his phone because his hands won’t stop shaking even though we are just signing papers.

It’s a blur, honestly, twelve minutes total, and then we’re married, actually married, a ring on both our hands and a piece of paper for the world outside the two of us.

Caleb insists on Babylon that night, no argument accepted, and by ten o’clock the bass is loud enough to feel in my teeth, and Stephen’s nursing a beer at the bar, looking deeply skeptical of the whole enterprise.

“I don’t dance,” he says for the third time.

“You don’t have to dance,” Caleb says, already pulling him off the stool by one arm, me grabbing the other. “You just have to move your body approximately in time with the music. Low bar.”

“That’s dancing, Caleb.”

“It’s a technicality.”

We drag him out to the floor anyway, and he stands there stiff and unsure for exactly one song before I press up against his back, hands finding his hips, guiding him without asking permission, grinding slow against him in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with rhythm and everything to do with want.

“Adrian.” His voice comes out strangled.

“You’re my husband,” I murmur against his ear, loud enough to be heard over the bass, quiet enough to be just for him. “I get to do this now. Officially.”

“You did this before we were married, too.”

“Semantics.” I turn in his arms, facing him now, and whatever hesitation he walked in with is gone completely. His hands settle firmly on my waist, pulling me in instead of holding me at arm’s length. “Dance with me, husband.”

He does, clumsy and completely mine, laughing against my temple when I spin him badly. Caleb whoops somewhere nearby. For one perfect night, this club feels like exactly where we’re supposed to be.

Caleb’s phone catches the attention of exactly the wrong person about twenty minutes later, when we swing back to the bar for water and Freddie spots the paused video still up on Caleb’s screen.

“Wait.” He leans across the bar, grabbing Caleb’s wrist to hold the phone still, staring at the courthouse clerk frozen mid-sentence. “Wait, wait, wait. Is that a wedding? Did you two get married and not tell me? I see you boys every single week.”

“It was twelve minutes, and a clerk named Diane,” Stephen says. “That was the whole point. Five witnesses.”

“Seven with the babies,” I laugh.

“That is not the point, Stephen! The point is, you got married and I am hearing about it from a phone video instead of you walking in here and announcing it like decent people.” Freddie’s already reaching under the bar, pulling out a bottle and lining up glasses with the authority of a man who will not be denied. “Tequila shots. On the house. We are celebrating whether or not you planned for it.”

“Freddie…”

“MARRIED!” he announces, loud enough that a few nearby heads turn, grinning wide and delighted as he pours. He squirts club soda into one. “MY BOYS ARE MARRIED! Somebody tell the DJ, this deserves a moment!”