"Yeah."
That didn't sound very confident. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Yes. Absolutely."
"There's no hurry." It's a big decision. We can't just plow forward because it seems like the thing to do. "Do you want to stop and think about it?"
"I don't need to. It's not that big a deal, Mitch."
"It is to me," I press. "Are you sure?"
"Honestly—and please don't take this the wrong way; you know I love you—I just don't care. We have a lot of other things to worry about, and it's not like it actually changes anything."
"It changes everything!"
"Not really. Think about the big picture, you know? Just pick a pair. They're all black, they all fit, and they'll all look great because you, my friend, would look gorgeous in a potato sack."
"Not helpful. Which pair do I pick? And why are they all so boring?"
"You know where they have interesting shoes? Paris."
"We are not going to Paris just for shoes." I can't blame her for wanting to, though.
"Seriously, hear me out. They also have the best tailors, florists, food, cakes, and venues."
"Ooooh, can you imagine booking a ballroom? Or a garden?"
"You could reserve Le Petit Palais. Jeremy and I thought about it back in the day. But you'd have to wait six to ten months after calling in advance."
Never mind, then. "Too long. And, sadly, too far away. I want people to actually show up."
"Oh, I'd definitely show up if it were in Paris."
"You're obligated to."
"Not if I die waiting first. Hurry up and pick your shoes. We have to approve the printer's proof for the invitation by five, and then we need to look into reserving hotel rooms for your guests. So much to do, so little time. It's not too late to postpone it, you know. We could really use a few more months."
We've already had three, and we have three more. We'll be fine. As long as I can find better shoes. I'm sure Candice will help if I beg her. I give up on both pairs and let Kirstie drag me away to the print shop.
It smells like a paperback. The young woman at the desk recognizes us and waves me over excitedly. "Here it is!" She hands me a letter, stamped and addressed for full effect, but not postmarked.
It quivers a little in my hands. "Open it!" Kirstie exclaims. She hasn't seen the design yet. I turn the envelope over and examine it from all sides. I slip a nail into the flap of the envelope and tear it open along the seam. Slowly, I pull the card out. It's beautiful. The paper is heavy and embossed, with swooping foil-pressed letters. Maybe I'm crazy, but it seems like it even smells nice.
"Richard and Connie Hoying," I read, "with Nel and Michael Grassi, request the honor of your presence at the wedding of Scott Richard Hoying and Mitchell Coby Michael Grassi."
It hits me all over again. I'm getting married. It feels normal most of the time as I run around making preparations, getting everything ready, and trying to keep writing music. Most of the time it's just there in the back of my mind, but then it hits me. We're getting married. This is happening.
It hits me again when we mail the invitations, and again when we receive the first RSVP, and again when I'm working out, and again when I hear Scott over the speakers at the mall. He starts singing along at full volume because he's a complete dork, and I sing with him because he's my dork. And now they're watching. He loves it. He loves that they're hearing me sing. And now there's a crowd. We're going to be stuck here signing autographs for an hour. Pop legend Scott Hoying, whom hundreds of thousands of people would pay an arm and a leg to see, is singing with me, is marrying me, is spending the rest of his life with me.
It hits me again when we give our bartender strict instructions not to serve the taller groom any alcohol under any circumstances. The man I asked to spend his life with me is far from perfect. This could fail. I don't think it will, but nobody does when they marry, and things change. It's going to be harder for the two of us than for just anyone, and just because it feels like we love each other more doesn't mean I can take it easy.
It hits me when we finish setting up the pavilions by the lake. Ebony's parents recommended this park, and it's beautiful. We'll have the ceremony under an old, old oak tree, then go to a wider clearing for the reception. It'll be a little on the warm side tomorrow, with a light breeze and no rain. I can definitely live without the rain.
It hits me when I see him waiting at the end of the aisle. Kevin, Tara, and a couple other string musicians are playing Canon in D, and I'm trying to keep pace, but Scott is like a magnet, and I'm running by the time I reach the front.
It hits me as I recite my vows. In sickness and in health, until death do us part. As I repeat the words, his eyes are already repeating them back to me. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to think about the way he hugged me when I first arrived in L.A. for the Sing-Off. I'm not going to think about how much we've gone through or how close we came to never seeing this moment. I'm not going to think about the way his hand trembled as I slipped on his ring, how he almost refused. He was scared at first. He wanted to say no, to protect me. I went full out on the puppy-dog eyes, though, leaving him no option but to accept.
There's no hesitation anymore. He feels stronger and more sure of himself. I've seen it growing steadily in his posture, energy, and attitude for a long time now. The very back row hears him say, "I do."
