Page 25 of The Wedding Menu

“Yeah. Are you?” he asks with a confused smile.

“Yes.” I grin widely, my posture relaxing now that he’s less tense. “I’m one of the speakers.”

“You are?” His expression brightens with surprise, and when I nod, he replies, “Me too.”

My smile dies as my throat turns dry. “You’re a chef?” Everything I know about him points toFuck no. Hell, the man has the weirdest eating habits I’ve ever heard of. But the possibility terrifies me anyway. If heisa chef, then he either knows who I am or he’s about to find out. He’ll know what the past six months of my life have been like, and not from me. He’ll hear about the article, about my father, about Frank and—holy fuck, I’m going to be sick.

“Actually, I manage and co-own a restaurant here in Mayfield. Wait—you’re a chef.” He chuckles to himself. “Right. You’re a chef. It makes sense.”

And it makes sense he’s a restaurant manager. Much more than his being a chef, anyway. He said his dad is friends with Barb’s father, and Mr. Wilkow is a chef. My money is on Ian’s dad being a chef too. “So, hmm, what restaurant—”

“Amelie! Ian!”

A woman approaches us with a tentative grin, and when we smile back, she offers us her hand to shake. “Hi! Oh, it’s so nice to meet you both. Pamela Gilbert—I work for the ICCE. Was the trip all right?”

When I nod, Ian affably says, “My trip was short, actually. Are we late for dinner?”

“No, you’re not.” Pamela gives his shoulder a squeeze, then prompts us to follow her. “We’re still waiting on some members of the team.” We walk through the busy dining room as Ian and I throw curious looks at each other.

Even though I wish I could have told him about everything that happened myself, I don’t mind so much that he’ll hear all the gossip about me. Ian’s never judged me once, and I’m far too happy he’s next to me again to care about anything else. “Come. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

We walk to one of the last tables, where I see a few familiar faces beside Barb. Phil and Gianni, two chefs of That’s Amore, a nationally famous Italian restaurant, as well as Rosalia, a Mexican chef I’ve met only once before at a similar event. Pamela mentions the names of two more chefs, and after they all wave, the group continues chatting and eating.

Barb has saved us two spots, but once I sit down, I notice Ian took the chair on the opposite side of the table, the one that’sfarthest from me. My shoulders slump as my eyes meet his, and with a light smile he looks away.

I guess not all walls have turned to dust.

Pushing the sadness down, I exchange polite glances with the seven other people at the table, but the vibe is definitely weird. I’m certain they’ve read the article. They all know: they’re judging me, and on top of that, they’re all wearing dresses and blazers and pants. Not a single inappropriate T-shirt in sight.

I shrink into my chair, but when I glance back at Ian, I notice he’s also worriedly looking around. Because the people at the table are staring not only at me but at him too.

There’s no way they know, right? They can’t have any idea that Ian and I have met before—that we’re much closer than any other person at this table is to the next one. But then, what’s going on?

Pamela clears her voice, her head bobbing from him to me a couple of times. “Obviously, you know each other already. I’m aware your fathers don’t always get along, but…”

I tune the rest of it out. Our fathers? Who’shisfather?

He must be asking himself the very same question about me, because his eyes narrow, and just as I put the pieces together, he opens his mouth too. “IanRoberts?” I ask at the same moment as he exclaims, “AmeliePreston?”

Oh, this is definitely a meet-atrocious.

My Wedding Dress

— TWOWEEKSAFTERBARBARA’SWEDDING—

The door of the apartment closes behind me, and with a sigh I drop the keys on the entryway table, then slip out of my rain boots. Since Frank moved out, we haven’t had a single conversation. I’ve been telling myself it’s because of the move, but maybe he’s already started his… break from me, even though I haven’t agreed to it yet. I’ve done no wedding planning, either, while Martha continues to pick at the carcass of my dream, stealing all my favorite details. This week she took rice paper save-the-date cards and monogrammed cookies.

I take out my phone to send him a text as I collapse on the couch, but I find one from Martha, the bubble taking up most of my screen. I haven’t told her or Barb about my potential engagement, and if he wants to stay alive, Frank didn’t either. Cringing with fear anyway, my eyes scroll through the lines as I prop myself up.

Martha:

Hey, babe. Please don’t kill me, but I went to the bridal shop with Trev’s mom today and saw this dress that the designer was working on. We completely fell in love, but it turns out it’s the one she’s working on for you! Do you think since Frank hasn’t even proposed yet, I could buy it from you? Pleeeeeease? Love you love you love you.

I scoff, the text filling me with such anger, I don’t even know where to start. Tossing the phone on the couch, I get up and pace on the rug, my stomach twisting again and again at every step.

No. There’s no way in hell I’ll give her my dress. It’s the one thing I started planning even before Frank’s “proposal,” and it’s mine. I don’t care how many fits she throws, how upset everyone gets. My dress is mine—end of story.

God, I can’tbelieveshe’d do this.

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