“Hi, Clint,” I say, shaking his hand. “This is my partner, Ethan.” Ethan shakes Clint’s hand with visible hesitancy.
“Welcome to the Millard Fillmore,” Clint says.
Ethan snorts. I close my eyes, wishing he could for once not be a dickhead.
“You think our thirteenth president is a joke?” Clint scrutinizes Ethan, his voice defensive.
“The joke is naming a hotel after one of the most forgettable presidents in history,” Ethan replies, looking unfazed. Consciously, I know this should mortify me, but I’ve known Ethan long enough to become desensitized to his impressive rudeness.
Clint makes the wise decision to ignore Ethan and faces me instead. “You’re a lot younger than you sounded on the phone.”
I grit my teeth, really hoping this won’t come up with every single person we deal with. “Will that be a problem?”
“Not at all. It’s refreshing to find young people with this kind of commitment.” He gestures to the two of us. I nod, uncomprehending. Commitment to event planning? “I married my Annabelle right out of high school,” Clint continues.
Not following, I stay silent. Ethan’s expression, however, shifts viciously.
“Sanger and I are not getting married,” he says.
Oh no. The implications of Clint’s words crash into place in my mind. Married out of high school. This kind of commitment. In a rush of images that rival the car-crash footage they have on the online driver’s ed course, I imagine walking gracefully into my wedding to find Ethan waiting there, smirking, hoping he outdid me by writing more poetic vows. We wouldn’t be able to agree on a honeymoon location. He’d likely choose somewhere with history he’d insist he knew in more detail, while getting facts wrong left and right. It would be insufferable.
Not to mention the wedding night. We’d critique each other endlessly, rush to finish, fight over who got to do what. I shut off the picture before the very idea of sex is ruined for me for life.
While I’m corralling my thoughts to correct Clint’s very wrong impression, Clint preempts me, looking confused. “This isn’t a wedding you’re considering booking here?”
“You have weddings here?” Ethan asks doubtfully. He glances around the room like he’s unable to imagine a pair of humans on earth who would celebrate their union at the Millard Fillmore.
“All the time,” Clint replies genially.
Ethan turns to me, his horror changing to indignation. “You told him you were planning a wedding? For us?”
“Yes, Ethan. I told him we were getting married, because we’re just so in love. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you,” I deadpan. “Of course I didn’t say we were planning a wedding.”
Clint chimes in. “Come to think of it, you didn’t mention on the phone what type of event you were booking. When you introduced your partner, I put it together.”
“Well, you put it together incorrectly.” Ethan’s voice is beyond typical levels of exasperation. He sounds genuinely offended.
Clint’s eyes narrow. “You’d be surprised how many couples come in here trying to convince me their wedding is an intimate gathering, family celebration, or whatnot. Anything to avoid the extra wedding vendor fees.”
“It’s not a wedding,” I protest. “Honestly. It’s a high school reunion.”
This seems only to increase Clint’s suspicion. “You don’t look old enough to have a high school reunion.”
“But we look old enough to get married?” Ethan interjects.
“We’re planning the reunion on behalf of our school,” I say calmly, not wanting Ethan to scare off the one hotel in our price range. He’s done enough damage. “It’s not for us.”
Clint eyes me, seemingly unconvinced. Before he has the chance to question my explanation, Ethan jumps in, helpfully for once. “Could we just have the walkthrough?”
Clint nods. “Follow me.” He leads us into the ballroom, where the seniors’ dating event continues. I examine the room from an economical, logistical perspective, imagining the bar on one end, the name tag table on the other. “Our great room can fit two hundred and twenty guests,” Clint continues, “with plenty of room for a DJ or live band, banquet dinner . . .” He throws us a meaningful look. “Sweetheart table.”
Ethan closes his eyes, clearly wishing for death.
“The hotel kitchen can cater, or you can use your own caterers,” Clint goes on. “We won’t even charge a cake-cutting fee.”
I force my voice level. “Reunions don’t typically involve cake cutting.”
Clint shrugs noncommittally. With a small swell of hope, I notice Ethan looks like he might really be considering the venue. He walks into the center of the room, facing the far wall. “Is there room for a photo booth here?” he asks.
I startle. “Wait, what? We’re not doing a photo booth.” I realize a second later he’s gotten the idea from the Willingham coordinator and abruptly decided it’s worth pursuing. It’s just like the stickers on his computer, like everything he does, like the collection of whims he calls himself.
“We are, actually,” he replies simply.
“We don’t have the money for a photo booth.” I’m giving him the fakest cheery warning voice, the one your parents use when they’re reminding each other of a fight not to pick in front of the guests.
Ethan pretends to consider. It is 100 percent certain he knows exactly what fight he’s picking. “If we host the reunion here we’ll have enough money.” The reasonableness in his voice is as pretend as my own.
“Money we’ll use on other, necessary things.” I feel my resolve not to alarm Clint fraying, the composure in my voice wobbling precariously. Ethan’s done everything he could to ruin this meeting short of lighting the hotel on fire, while I’ve kept it together in hopes of checking the venue item off our list without blowing our budget. I don’t know how much more I can handle while maintaining my composure. There’s something about Ethan that makes me work twice as hard to be mature.
Having evidently had enough of this conversation, Ethan turns to Clint. “Do you have the room for a photo booth or not?”
“Don’t answer,” I instruct Clint, glaring at Ethan. “It’s irrelevant. It’s a ridiculous question.”
When Clint doesn’t reply, I pull my eyes from Ethan and find Clint regarding us with concern. “You know, like I said, we have couples come through here often. It’s not difficult to tell which relationships have real foundation. Watching the pair of you . . .” He pauses, then continues gravely. “You two may want to consider counseling.”