Page 38 of The Wedding Menu

Dropping my head against the leather cushion, I groan and angrily tap on my phone.

Amelie:

PFP.

Ian:

Of what?

Amelie:

Your hairline. I want to see if it’s receding.

He sends me a picture, and I tap on it. It’s a ridiculous shot from the top, his blue irises looking up as he sticks his tongue out. His hair is exactly where it’s supposed to be, thick and a shade darker than wheat, and he’s wearing a white sweater and jeans. I’m pretty sure he’s at a restaurant, maybe a bar, and he’s not alone, because from the weird angle I can see the bottom half of another man’s body.

Stupid Ian. He’s obviously doing something, yet he always finds time to answer.

It’sreallyannoying.

Amelie:

You’re out with someone. You should have told me.

Ian:

Why? Did we agree on an only-at-home texting policy?

Amelie:

It’s rude to spend lunch with your nose buried in your phone.

Ian:

It’s just my dad, and I’m a great multitasker.

Of course he is. And he must be rich and successful, with sweat that tastes like cotton candy and farts that can cure cholera.

Wait. I think I got it.

Amelie:

The problem must be south, then.

Ian:

Are you asking if I’m well-endowed?

Amelie:

As if a man ever answered “No” to that question.

Ian:

PFP?

I burst out laughing. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. Unsolicited dick pics: I hear some guys do that.

Amelie:

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