Page 27 of The Wedding Menu

Annoyingly amused, his warm voice whispers, “Vague and nondescript.”

“Well, anyway,” I say, more than ready to change the topic. “I was planning to scream at Martha right now.”

“Right. What else doesshewant?”

With a long exhale, I sit back down on the couch, dragging a blanket over my lap. “My custom-made dress.”

“You don’t mean your…weddingdress, do you?” Ian is silent for a moment, then he clears his throat and asks, “Doesn’t ‘custom-made’ literally mean it’s made for you?”

“We wear similar sizes. She could get it altered.” I lean back against the cushion. “But I love this dress. It’s a mix of all my favorite details from my favorite dresses of all time. Intricate floral lace appliqués, four thousand beads and sequins, illusion plunge corset, and a soft skirt with a double slit.”

“Wow.”

“I commissioned it months ago, long before the engagement, when I walked by the shop and saw that they’d hired a designer and were taking custom orders. I’ve dreamed of it since then, and I’m not giving it up. I don’t care how many fights it causes.”

“Good for you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing full well that I say this now, but Martha won’t make it easy not to crush under her pressure.

“Amelie, it’s your dress. Four thousand… threads, was it? Anyway, it’s yours. No matter how much of a bully this Martha is.”

I take my head in my hand and close my eyes. God, what a positive impression my little group and I must be leaving on this person. “She’s not a bully,” I breathe out. “She’s… she’s like a sister to me.”

“Well, some families are toxic, Amelie, and your sister sounds like a bit of a bitch.”

My lips pinch. Of course he’d think that: it’s the only thing he’s seen of her through my eyes. What saddens me is that sometimes I think that too. “There’s more to her than that,” I say, more to myself than to Ian.

“Really? Like what?”

“Like… like she’s strong. And she cares about things—she’s always fighting other people’s battles.” My mind fills with memories of the marches and protests she dragged me to when we were growing up, and a smile pulls up one corner of my mouth. “And she’s affectionate. All hugs and kisses and gifts. You know the big mall in the city center in Mayfield?” When he says he does, I smile. “Every time she happens to go there, she grabs me a box of candy from this shop I really like. Just because.”

“What else?”

Settling with my elbow on the armrest, I inhale deeply. “She’s quick to forgive. We’ve never had a fight last more than a couple of hours. And she’s smart, passionate, fun.”

“Damn,” he says. “Now I kind of wish she was single.”

With a chuckle, I insist, “I just didn’t expect she’d ask so much of me. But she deserves this and more. I owe Martha a lot.”

“I don’t know, Amelie,” he says. In the background, there’s the squeak of a mattress, and I picture him getting out of bed. “Unless she gave you her kidney, asking for your wedding dress is bold.”

“Ian, I should let you go to sleep.”

There’s a click, then the sound of a door opening. “No. What you should do is tell me what exactly you owe this person that would justify not having smacked her in the face. And I’ll get some chocolate milk.”

Chocolate milk? I set the thought aside and insist that we hang up. “It’s late. Really, I should—”

He yawns dramatically.

Rolling my eyes at the way I just catapulted into this man’s night with my drama, I say, “Okay, fine.” I pull my knees to my chest under the checkered blanket. “So… my mom lives abroad. When she left, and for a long time after, we weren’t on good terms.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She divorced my dad when I was nine years old, and by the time I was ten, she’d left the country without any plans of coming back. My dad isn’t an easy person to be around, and they brought out the worst in each other. But he also wasn’t willing to let her take me away, so…”

“She left you behind.”

“Yes,” I confirm. “I grew up with my dad and talked to my mom on the phone regularly. Then for a long time I didn’t talk to her at all. Now we’re in a good place. A better place.”

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