Page 12 of The Wedding Menu

“Martha is five minutes away, so cut the crap, Ames. How did you pass from ‘not interested’ to ‘I’m in’ in half a second?”

The ICCE. Wiping away a few crumbs from the table, I try to feign indifference. She’s known me for ten years, so I’m not sure she buys it. Plus, she’s sensitive. She always knows when there’s more than meets the eye.

“Oh my God. It’s that guy, isn’t it?”

I mentally curse myself. Martha and Barbara know little about Ian, but I’ve shared a few bits of information here and there. Mostly under coercion.

“What guy?” I ask placidly, avoiding her gaze as I dig around in my purse.

“What guy?” she mocks. “Thatguy. The ‘mystery texts’ guy? The guy you crushed hard over?”

Okay. No point in feigning ignorance. “Ian?” When she wiggles her eyebrows, I ask, “What about him?”

“He totally lives in Mayfield, doesn’t he?”

When I shrug, she laughs loudly, letting me off the hook only because the waitress is approaching with our order. But once she walks away, Barb’s pointed look forces me to answer. “I don’t know if he still does. We haven’t talked in forever.”

“But that’s the reason you said yes, right?” She gasps. “That’s why you don’t want me to fix you up with anyone. You still like him.”

I sigh. “Like him” seems a bit of an understatement, but that’s not the only reason I don’t want to be set up with anyone. Frank’s equally responsible for that.

“Do you know what this is about?” I ask as I point at the table. Though I’m eager to change the topic, I’m genuinely concerned about seeing Martha.

“She hasn’t said a word to me.” Barb shrugs. “I know that she’s been having issues with the wedding, though.”

The wave of nausea that hits me as I remember when she planned her wedding the first time, alongside me, is swept away as her voice reaches us. “Heeeeeeey!”

We both turn and spot Martha’s bright smile as she approaches in a flurry, presses loud kisses to our cheeks, then sits down. The collection of paper bags in her hands crinkles before she drops them on the floor, and there’s an awkward exchange of looks as we all fall silent.

“My God, I’m exhausted,” Martha eventually says, trying to break the tension with a forced smile as she pushes her long, dark blond hair over her shoulders.

Eyeing the name of her favorite boutiques on the sides of the colorful bags, I ask, “Shopping?”

“Yes. Just needed to forget about the wedding for a minute.”

“Is everything all right?” Barb asks.

With a groan, Martha gestures at the waitress. “Honestly, I’m so over it. A wedding isn’t meant to be planned twice.” She puckers her lips, her green eyes lacking the usual gleam. “This second time around, it’s been even more of a nightmare.”

Barbara gives me a look that I translate toMartha should stop complaining about having to cancel her wedding the first time around, since the reason for it was that Trevor’s mom passed away a few days before the ceremony, and, discreetly widening my eyes, I pat Martha’s arm. “Well, let me know if you need anything. Barb is a little occupied at the moment,” I say, directing a grin at her bump, “but I’m happy to help.”

My stomach boils with sludge as Martha responds with her pity smile. I’ve seen it plenty during the years—most recently, when things with Frank went south. I can guess what this one is about. “I figured, with what happened, you’d want to stay away from anything love, wedding, and couple related,” she says, tilting her head, her wavy hair gently swooshing over her white T-shirt.

Maybe it’s not pity but compassion.

“I can be miserable about the train wreck that is my life and still be happy for you,” I say.

“No, Ames, I know—”

“Let me know if I can do anything,” I insist, this time with a full smile.

Barb tactically uses the moment of silence to change the topic back to shopping, then work, and then the baby, but something’s noticeably stiff. Within one hour our cups are empty and silence is once again acting like a brick wall between us.

“So, the reason I asked you to meet…” Martha starts, her bottom lip disappearing under the upper one as her nose wrinkles. She wants something. “Ames, I know we’ve been having our problems, but…” She rolls a lock of her hair around her finger, as she does every time she’s nervous, the light streaming in through the window and casting it a golden color. “…I just… I really miss you. Thirty years of friendship, and now we haven’t hung out in months. Are you even coming to my wedding?”

I can’t deny that my life without her has been easier. Lighter, even. After all the drama, there are cracks in our friendship that may heal only with time. But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss what we were before, and besides, she’s right. We’ve been friends for our whole lives, and that counts for something.

“Of course,” I reassure her. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

---