Page 133 of The Wedding Menu

His dad chuckles, throwing amused glances at me. Somehow, I know he’s not laughing about the awkward position he’s put his son in. He’s probably remembering that night, four months ago.

Is it now when he’ll say something? When he’ll ruin this thing between his son and me? Is this the moment in which he’ll deliver the final hit that’ll leave me in a bloody mess on the floor?

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Forgive me.” He turns to my father, who’s watching from the sidelines. “We’re here for the concluding seminar.”

“And if I’d known you’d show up, I would have never accepted,” my dad manages through gritted teeth.

“Enough with this, will you, Hammond?” William’s cold eyes focus on mine. “Especially now that we’re all family.”

“Holy—Dad! We’re just—” With his shoulders straight, he says, “Do you fucking mind?”

“Sorry, sorry.”

Ian’s eyes narrow, then a quick puff of air comes out of his lips. He throws a glance at me and, noticing my “anything but happy” expression, looks away.

Involuntarily, I take a step backward.Family, this demon said. I can’t be family. I can’t be around him at all. I’ll do anything in my power to be with Ian, but I don’t think I can accept this man. That I can pretend nothing ever happened.

“Oh, so rude of me.” William walks toward me, and my whole world crystallizes as I await the fall of the hammer that will smash it to pieces. He holds out his hand and with a smile says, “Wonderful to meet you, Amelie.”

Wonderful to Meet You

— TWOMONTHSAFTERAMELIE’SWEDDING—

The spring sun shines bright in the sky, warming up my cheeks and forcing me to squint as I walk to my bike. With my helmet on, I ride through the city center, the wind a pleasant distraction from today’s heat. They say summer will be brutally warm this year.

The air smells like salt and the sea, and the window-lined single-story construction site that’s become familiar in the last two months takes up the view. The wide doors are open, and men in tank tops walk in and out as they move heavy appliances.

And right at the top, though it’s still covered in a thick tarp, sits the logo of Amelie’s Bistro. My restaurant.

“Good afternoon,” I say as I hop off my bike and enter the empty space. I’ve ordered tables and chairs, but they won’t be here until next week. On top of that, I have to finish up my new menu and get it printed, and—well, a million other things.

“You got some mail,” one of the workers says in response as he points at the newly installed counter.

“My first mail delivery?” I bite my lips, a flicker of excitement coursing through me. I grab the thin pile and frown at the first three papers: takeout menus from nearby restaurants. The lastone is a letter, though, sent from the International Cooking and Culture Expo. Interest piqued, I quickly rip the paper open and grab the invitation inside. Apparently, they want me to be one of their speakers at this year’s conference in September.

After mentally confirming that it doesn’t conflict with Martha’s wedding, I smile. Maybe they heard about Amelie’s Bistro. Either way, it’s an honor. And they say I can bring a sous, so Barb could come too. She’ll be about six months pregnant by then.

I look around, a smile spreading across my face.

Today’s a good day.

Some workers are painting the walls with the baby-powder white I chose, while others are moving out the old equipment from the kitchen, when my phone beeps. At this point I’ve stopped jumping every time it does, but the hope that it’s Ian still slithers its way into my brain.

It’s much more likely Barb checking in on me. She’s been doing that a lot, and she’s been the only one who has, seeing as Martha blames me and Ian for Frank leaving me at the altar.

With a sigh, I take the phone out, my heart pausing when I see a Twitter notification. Since I quit my job at La Brasserie, my dad has taken over the feud, but the public interest has steadily decreased. Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t spend more than a fair share of time picturing what I would have answered to the Marguerite’s tweets if it were still my job.

I press on the bubble and, staring at their latest tweet, my jaw falls open.

Shit. They know: whoever this is, they figured out there’s been a change in the chain of command at La Brasserie. They know it’s not me answering their tweets anymore, and I must really be starved for affection, because it warms my heart that there’s someone out there whonoticed. Who, in the most fucked-up way ever, cares.

Wishing once again that I could answer, I open my chat with Ian, the screen exclusively filled with my own bubbles no matter how much I scroll. Every day I hope the message I send is the one that’ll be checkmarked. The first one he actually receives.

After thinking for a few seconds, I tap:

Amelie:

I’d take you to the movies, but they won’t let me bring my own snack.

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