Page 63 of The Wedding Menu

I try to hide just how deeply his comment stings behind a smile. “Well, one of us at this table also knows how to recognize fast food.” I narrow my glare on him and swallow the lump in my throat. “And the other one sells it.”

After wetting his lower lip and opening his mouth, I expect him to retort, but nothing comes out, and with a quick shake of his head, he grabs his drink and downs it. “I should go find Ella.” He stands, and the last words I hear are “Frank must be looking forward to blowing you off again.”

The Cheesier the Better

— FOURMONTHS ANDTWOWEEKS TOAMELIE’SWEDDING—

“Number 86, Croque Monsieur!” Dean shouts at the pass before walking back into the dining room with a filled tray.

Drying the sweat off my forehead, I stir the pot in front of me, then glance at my phone. The Marguerite hasn’t reacted yet, but I’m seriously hoping my latest move pissed some people off big-time.

With a pleased chuckle, I study the large, bubbling vats of meat, covered in a crust so dark that it’s almost black. Under it, beans swim in a rich, gelatinous broth with bits of tender duck leg, cured pork belly, pork shanks, and sausages.

“Are the cassoulets ready?” the waiter asks.

I nod, gesturing at him to take them, and as he walks away, Ishout that I’m taking five and step out of the kitchen. My shift is almost over, and I haven’t had a chance to take a single break. It’s ten; Ian must be falling asleep, but I never answered his last text.

Ian:

Did you find a band?

Amelie:

Not yet. Is yours interested in the gig?

The cool night air sends shivers down my spine. Shrinking inside my black coat, I look at the busboys taking a smoke break by the dumpsters. Is it too late to start smoking? Yes, it’s a terrible habit, but people say it’s relaxing. I could use some of that.

Martha paid me for the dress, which is currently with the designer, being altered, and Frank has been texting sparingly. I’m pretty sure I know whatthatmeans.

My phone beeps and, glad for the distraction Ian’s always ready to provide, I glance down at his text.

Ian:

For sure. But we only play death metal.

Amelie:

Too bad. I only listen to Christian funk.

He sends me a link, and after opening it I scroll through the page. It’s the website of a cover band, somewhat like the one I originally planned to hire for my wedding. Four members with a voice lead, a guitar, drums, and a bass. There’s a video, so I press “play” and listen to them playing a cover of “Crazy in Love.” I like them.

Ian:

The marriage virus is spreading and taking new victims every day.

I heard them play at a friend’s wedding last week, and they’re coming to your neck of the woods for yet another wedding next Saturday.

Amelie:

Do you know where?

I get a screenshot of a text conversation between Ian and Dan, who, based on the website, is the lead singer. They’re playing at a venue I’ve actually toured for my wedding, and Dan told him the newlyweds don’t mind me and my fiancé stopping by.

Ian:

Get Frank and go check them out.

Frank? God, for a second I forgot he’s coming to visit this weekend. But I swore I’d make a genuine effort, and I can’t think of anything better than dressing fancy and drinking champagne while we listen to some romantic music and see love blossom before our eyes.

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