Page 144 of The Wedding Menu

“You’re right. We don’t need the introduction. We know who you are.” He hums, his eyes scrolling through the lines of text. “?‘Her opening was pushed four times, costing her most of her bookings. According to various sources, her restaurant didn’t get approved for a liquor license, then was given an insufficient grade by health inspectors.’?”

I press my lips together tightly, the humiliation still making me feel like I’m being roasted on high flames.

“Curious, don’t you think?” he asks. “You’re not a newbie. I’m sure you’ve cleaned a kitchen a billion times before. You must have seen plenty of inspections too. Even weirder that you were denied a liquor license.”

God, I’m going to faint.

“?‘Amelie finally managed to open her restaurant a month after she originally intended to,’?” Ian keeps reading. “?‘More than a fewof us were surprised when the previous member of La Brasserie’s successful kitchen got bombed with negative reviews, bringing her Yelp score to 1.8.’?”

Once Ian sets the magazine down on his thigh, I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands on my lap as my eyes burn a hole in the floor. No point in trying to lie more, not until I know for a fact how much of this he’s put together.

“1.8, Amelie. I’m pretty sure Burgerman scores higher than that,” he says. When I say nothing, he resumes reading. “?‘The critics’ opinion didn’t go much better, with four different insufficient scores across the board.’?”

He throws me a dubious look, then continues reading. “?‘And proving herself unprepared for all that running a restaurant entails, her lack of marketing skills and inability to promote her new restaurant quickly sank her, resulting in an embarrassing ordeal for the pristine line of Preston chefs.’?”

He snaps the magazine closed, then sets his consuming gaze on me. “Then the article goes on to speak poorly of your personal life. Which, if you ask me, they deserve to be sued for. Being left at the altar hardly has anything to do with your skills as a chef. But anyway…” He takes his phone out of his pocket. “Guess what? My dad’s real close with the director ofYummagazine, so I called him. I asked who the critics were, and he could only remember two. Interesting fact?”

Let me guess. They’re friends of his father.

He nods as if he’s read my mind. “And you know what else? Danny—that’s my dad’s friend atYummagazine—said he remembered the article, because when they do these kinds of stories, they always gather comments from people who’ve eaten at the restaurants to back up their articles.” His face softens as he lightly smiles. “Congratulations, Amelie. Not one single person who theyreached out to had anything bad to say about you. They had the meal of their lives at Amelie’s Bistro.”

A sob shakes my shoulders, then another, and another, until I’m gasping for air and drowning in tears. My chest clenches painfully at every new memory crowding my mind. At the panic that rose inside me when the first reviews came, at the sleepless nights spent hoping it was all just a bad dream and not me crashing against a wall at full speed without the power to stop it.

The weight on the bed shifts, and Ian’s lips trail along the side of my head, one of his hands touching my cheek and the other one pressing me against him. He holds me there, in that same position, until I cry all my pain out, until my wails turn into soft whimpers, my face so bloated I can barely see and a persistent pain settling in my temples.

“If, when you say ‘nothing happened,’ you mean you didn’t kiss him, sleep with him, use my father as a rebound after Frank, I believe you,” Ian eventually says as he hands me a tissue. “But it’s time to tell me the truth, Amelie, because something definitely happened.”

Walk Away

— 365 DAYSAFTERBARBARA’SWEDDING—

I lock the door of Amelie’s Bistro and sigh. Glancing at the insignia, at the barren walls, the dirty floors, I almost want to cry. But I have no strength for that either.

William Roberts won.

I never thought I’d say that sentence out loud. Letting Roberts win is the very last thing I thought I’d ever allow myself to do, but I have no more ammunition, no more drive.

He turned my dream into a nightmare—into what has me sobbing into my pillow until I finally fall asleep.

I should have gone to my father, but I couldn’t stand the idea of disappointing him yet again. I couldn’t imagine how I’d ask, what he’d say, the judgmental expression on his face when I’d tell him about my failures.

So I didn’t. I let it all unfold before my eyes, at first wondering if it was really my fault. If the bad reviews and the logistical and bureaucratic mistakes were really my own shortcomings. Until it became plenty clear they were not.

What I don’t know is why. Why he’s done all of this. Was he afraid I’d be his competition? Was it because of my father? Maybethis was the reason he invited me to dinner. Or why he interrupted our date?

My foot hits a box at the entrance. I lean down and grab it, and once the For Rent sign is on the ground, I sit on the last chair left by the deck. The sea looks calm today, like an endless mirror of the sky. Funny, because in some ways it resembles the way I feel inside. Serene.

I’m done. I lost, and I accept it. Giving up feels liberating.

I rip the box open. I’m not supposed to receive mail here anymore, but I’m sure it’ll keep happening for a while. Fishing inside, I find a magazine. I pull it out a little, recognizing the name on top.Yummagazine. It’s a monthly magazine consisting mostly of fluff about restaurants and cuisine, but it often leans into gossip a little too much for my taste, so I never bother reading it.

It’s also not free, so I don’t see why I’m getting a copy.

I check the sender, but the field is empty, so with a sigh I pull the magazine out, and the first thing that catches my eye is the red sticky note on top. The black ink used on it feels darker than dark even before I read the words written with it.

“Nothing personal, Amelie. William Roberts.”

Behind it, on the cover ofYummagazine, there’s me. My picture. It’s the first one that shows up if you write my name and surname online. I’m wearing La Brasserie’s black chef’s coat and smiling with my arms crossed. Next to the huge picture, there are several bubbles encasing shots of my restaurant, and a blue, white, and red title that reads: “The French Disappointment.”

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