Chapter Twenty Six
The courthouse was smaller than I expected. Gray stone. Worn steps. A flag out front that snapped in the December wind. Not romantic. Not glamorous. Perfect. "You're sure about this?" Adrian asked. We were standing outside, my hand in his, his mother somewhere behind us, my mother in a wheelchair beside us. Pickles was in a carrier at Ms. Vane's feet, wearing a tiny bow tie that he'd been trying to remove for the past twenty minutes. "I'm sure," I said. "We could still do the Plaza." "I don't want the Plaza." "We could fly to Paris." "I don't want Paris." "Vegas?" "Adrian." He stopped. Looked at me. "I want this," I said. "I want you. I want the people I love in a room that doesn't require a reservation six months in advance. I want to say 'I do' and mean it and then eat terrib
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