Page 124 of The Wedding Menu

Their voices don’t reach me. They echo, like I’m wrapped in a plastic bubble, isolated. Instead, one thought torments me, over and over again.

I’m making a mistake.

I can keep pretending I don’t know, that everything is fine, but it won’t change the truth. Things went to shit a long time ago, and I’ve ignored all the signs.

I almost want to hit myself. Not wanting to let go at first made sense. It’s almost excusable. But how did I get here? How did I get to the day of my wedding, knowing it’ll end in divorce? There’s no way I can go through with this. I need help. I need something—someone. Anyone.

My phone beeps, the vibration making it rattle against the table.

It can’t be, can it?

My fingers tremble so much, I struggle to grab the phone, and when I check the notifications, I find the simplest and most complicated message I’ve ever received in my life.

PFP.

It’s Ian. I don’t have his number saved anymore, but the text dispels any doubts. Does he seriously want me to send him a picture? He must know it’s the day of my wedding. Is he reaching out to check whether I’m actually going through with it?

I’d say I can’t possibly be so cruel as to actually send a selfie back, but, knowing Ian, this might well be his way of getting over me. Nothing less sexy than a bride, after all.

I point the phone at the mirror, then snap a picture. This time around, I don’t force a smile on my face. I don’t pinch my cheeks or straighten my hair. It’s always been pointless, and it’d make even less sense today.

Holding the phone in one hand, I stare back into the mirror at my champagne-colored princess wedding dress. At the laced top, the draped gown. At my long veil and flawless makeup. It’s all wrong. Everything’s so wrong.

Maybe Ian will see my text in time. He always did. Maybe he’ll text back and tell me the solution to the mess I’m in. I’m supposed to get married in two hours, and I’m floundering.

I hate this dress, this stuffy villa. Even the menu isn’t what I want, but there was no discussion with my dad. Nothing’s right, and I’d be okay with it if I were sure about the man I chose to marry, but I’m not.

“Your phone.” Martha turns to the mirror, her eyes meeting mine.

“What?”

“Isn’t that your phone?” she repeats.

I look down at the screen just as my ears stop buzzing and hear the ringtone: Ian’s number blinking on the screen. He’s calling me. Ian is calling me.

A wave of adrenaline hits me as I turn to my friends. “I need to take this. Do you mind?”

“Who is it?” Martha asks.

My eyes meet Barb’s, whose brows rise questioningly.

“What’s going on?” Martha asks as she turns to Barb, me, then back to Barb. “Somebody speak, please.”

“I need to answer,” I insist. I had no plans of talking to him today, but now that he’s calling, it feels imperative that I do. Like my life depends on it, and it probably does.

Martha stands, motioning toward my phone. “It’s Ian, isn’t it? Friends, my ass. I knew it. I knew you two were up to no good.”

“Please go,” I say, and when she doesn’t budge, I try to walk around her. “Respect my wishes for once. Just this time, care about what someone else wants instead of yourself.”

She keeps stepping left and right to block my access to the door. “Frank is my fiancé’s best friend, Ames,” she hisses.

Placing a hand on my chest, I shout, “I amyourbest friend!”

She crosses her arms, her head shaking stiffly, and as the phone stops ringing, I sigh.

“Get out of my way.” Moving around her, I leave the room and walk through the corridor.

“Ames—Ames, stop!Whatare you doing?”

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