Page 108 of The Wedding Menu

“Hmm—wait. Wait, Ames.”

“What is it?” I ask, reaching down for my dress and pulling it up.

When it gets stuck over my face, he pulls it back down. “You’re drunk. You know I don’t like to have sex when—”

“It’s fine, Frank. I’m your fiancée.” I lean down, kissing him again, but his hands press on my chest until I’m lifted off him.

“Still, I don’t think—”

“We haven’t had sex in months,” I say, slapping my thigh in frustration as I sit back on his legs. “Months, Frank.”

“That’s not true. We—we did it when…”

His eyes wander left and right as he thinks, and I’d like to tell him that if he struggles to remember how long ago it was, it was probably too long, but instead I say, “Seven months ago.”

He sighs. “Okay, look, I’m sorry. And I swear I’ll do better, but I’ve been away most of the time, Ames.”

I nod, a lump forming in my throat. I know the drill. He’s away, and when he’s here, he’s tired, stressed, busy. “The time to do better is over,” I whisper. “We’re getting married in a week, Frank. How can we do it when we’re not even in a relationship anymore?”

He rubs his eyes, blinking again and again. “Do we need to discuss this at”—he presses on the screen of his phone—“two thirty in the morning?”

“Are you still attracted to me?” I ask.

When he drops back onto the pillow with a groan, I stifle onemyself. It’s like I’m going crazy. Am I the only one seeing all of this? All these signs of something being deeply wrong between us? Because Frank acts like it’s all in my head. Like he’s trying his best to keep up with my crazy mood shifts and unrealistic expectations. Does he not see how everything’s different now?

“Jesus, Ames. Yes, I am.”

“Then let’s have sex,” I insist.

“Tomorrow, okay?”

“No, no,” I whine, a mountain of anxiety taking over my chest. I’m getting married in a week to a man who won’t touch me. Who won’t speak to me. Who doesn’t love me. And I’ve given up the best man in the world—my best friend—for him. “Now. Please, Frank.” I cling to his shirt, pleadingly staring into his eyes. “Fuck me.”

His jaw tightens, and with a swift motion he pushes me to one side and stands. “Jesus Christ, Ames. Quit acting like a desperate drunk.”

My limbs turn to stone as I land on the other side of the bed and I watch him turn the light on.

“You know I don’t like it when you say shit like that. You’re my fiancée. My wife, soon enough. Not a fucking whore.” He fits into a pair of jeans he grabs from the side table, then fetches a shirt from the dresser, huffing and puffing his annoyance. “Two thirty in the morning, Ames. And I have a work call in five hours.”

“I don’t care about your work!” I shout as I step off the bed and follow him. “All I’m asking is fifteen minutes of your time, Frank. It’s been seven months—seven!”

“Look at you!” he shouts back once we reach the corridor. He turns to me, the spiteful look in his eyes stabbing me like a knife. “Look at the way you’re behaving! It’s the middle of the night, and I’mnothaving this argument with you right now. Not when you’re drunk and acting like a damn psycho.”

He stalks to the door. Burning with hot rage, I continue to pursue him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not!”

“Fucking watch me,” he barks.

“If you do, don’t bother coming back,” I say in a hushed breath.

I amdone.

If Frank’s done, I’m done too.

He reaches the door, then stops and turns to me with a pained expression. He looks like he’s about to say something apologetic, but then he just snarls, “Fuck this shit,” and opens the door and slams it behind him.

---