Page 1 of The Wedding Menu

LES HORS D’OEUVRE

It Starts with a Wedding

— ONE YEAR AGO—

A petal falls off the daisy at the center of the table, bright and yellow as the sun even among the many colorful flowers in the bouquet. Leaning forward, I grab it and rub my finger on the velvety surface. With the loud bass beats pulsing through my body, my bones rattle, my heart matching the daunting pace—though that could be the work of one too many margaritas.

Setting my drink down, I take in the crowd of people in cocktail dresses and tuxedos chatting around me. We’ve danced since dinner, and my social battery is drained. I’m done for the day, and grateful that my table is empty.

Martha hasn’t been around for hours, so she must be somewhere with her fiancé, Trevor. And because I refuse to be the target of the unaccompanied gentlemen at this wedding, I’ve kept my awkward moves to a minimum and my drinking to a maximum.

Someone sits beside me, and I expect it to be Trevor or Martha. As the closest friends of the bride and groom, we share the table next to the one reserved for parents and siblings of the newlyweds. Instead, it’s one ofthem. The single guys. The ones who scoutthe room with ever so much interest. Most people stick to their dates or their friends, but not them.

Sleek, smooth jaguars, prowling and stalking their prey.

Helooks innocuous enough, but I’m not interested in testing my theory, so I offer him an apologetic smile. “Engaged.”

As he tilts his head, his deep steel-blue eyes lighten up with amusement. “Congratulations, but I’m just looking for a seat. A woman stole mine, and she looks like she might need it more than me.”

He points to the right, to Barbara’s grandma. I see what he means, since Mrs. Wilkow uses a wheeled walker and offers everyone butterscotch candy.

“Oh, sorry,” I say to the stranger, a hot prickle of embarrassment spreading across my cheeks. “Didn’t mean to be presumptuous. Just a long day.”

“We’ll sit in silence, then.” He leans back and smiles down at his drink, barely masking the width of his grin. He looks like a high schooler who’s been sent to detention and can’t take it seriously.

“Friend of the groom?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine, long lashes framing his ocean-blue irises. “I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

I didn’t, but it’d be awkward to sit here in silence. We might as well entertain each other. “I’m Amelie,” I say as I give him a tiny wave.

“Ian.”

“The bride and I work together.”

Lowering his gaze, he unbuttons the sleeves of his white shirt and rolls them over his forearms like heknowswhat he’s doing. “Isn’t it weird?” he asks as he uncovers thick wrists covered in black tattoos. My eyes follow the hypnotic movement, every othernoise fading away for a moment as I force my gaze back to his face. “How, when you meet people at weddings, the icebreaker is: what the hell you’re doing there. Does it establish a certain hierarchy? Like, if you’re a friend and I’m their contractor, does it mean you’re better than me?”

A light chuckle bubbles out of me, and with a shrug I say, “It’s what me, you, and every other person in this room have in common. We know either the bride or the groom, and we’re here to celebrate them.”

The ice cubes in the honey-brown liquid in his glass click as he brings it to his lips. “I’ve never met the newlyweds. I’m sure they deserve to be celebrated, but”—he looks around—“I don’t even know what Bianca looks like.”

“Barbara.”

With a snap of his fingers, he nods. “Right. Barbara.”

My eyebrows shoot up. He doesn’t even know thenameof the bride? “Whyareyou here?”

“Our dads are friends.” He points at an older man chatting with Barbara’s dad and wearing yet another dark tuxedo. He stands with his back to us, only his salt-and-pepper hair visible above shoulders as wide as his son’s. “He dragged me along.”

I nod, noticing the annoyed undertone in his voice. He’s definitely not happy to be here, and I’m reminded of Barbara’s freakout a few months back when she found out her dad had invited a lot of his acquaintances, turning her wedding into a “networking event.” “Well, at least the food was great,” I offer.

“Oh, yes. Worth the long-ass ceremony.”

Chuckling, I hold my glass up. “The margaritas too. Life-changing.”

“Yeah, looks like you loved those.” He gestures to the several empty long-stemmed glasses surrounding my plate, then asks,“What has you in such a foul mood? You’re not up for socializing; you’re drinking your sorrows away…”

My gaze lingers on his high cheekbones for a while before I avert my eyes, my fingers grazing along the white linen covering the table. He’ll regret this question if I answer it. He’s at a wedding seemingly against his will, and he’s sitting here because someone else took his spot. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

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