Page 7 of The Wedding Menu

He walks back to me, then holds out a yellow daisy. “For turning my night around.”

I chuckle, awkwardly accepting the flower and rolling the stem between my thumb and index finger. “Thank you.”

With a dazzling smile, he waves and walks away. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Amelie.”

Three hundred pictures later, I fetch my jacket, congratulate the newlyweds, and leave the venue, my yellow daisy in hand. The party isn’t over yet, and people are still dancing to the music of the DJ, but I’ve been here much longer than they have, and I’m so exhausted, I’m seeing double.

Stepping into the brisk night air, I find Barbara’s grandma looking down at the white steps of the venue, and with a smile I approach her. “Mrs. Wilkow?”

She turns to me, her eyes glossy and tired. When she says nothing, I say more loudly, “Do you need help to get down the stairs?”

“Oh. Yes, yes.” She holds on to my arm and, step by step, we walk. “It was a beautiful wedding, wasn’t it?”

“Gorgeous!” I shout. Damn right it was a beautiful wedding. Martha and I helped Barbara plan it right down to the tiniestdetail. Although the photographer was late and half the flowers were a little on the sick side, Barbara looked happy, and that’s the way you know a wedding has been successful.

“Did you have fun? Did that man behave like a gentleman?” she croaks.

I squint as I try to figure out what she’s talking about, when it hits me. Ian gave up his chair for her; she must have seen he came to sit next to me. “Very,” I reassure her with a soft pat on her hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You’ll make a great couple.” With another unsure step, she squeezes my hand hard enough that it might just need to be amputated. “My husband and I were one too. Everyone would turn around when we entered a room.”

I can’t help but frown. I’ve known this lady for as long as I’ve known Barb, and she’s always been sharp. Unfortunately, things have changed in the past year. “I have a boyfriend, Mrs. Wilkow. Remember? Frank. Dark hair, glasses?”

Her mouth widens, her lost eyes focusing after a few seconds. “Oh.” She brings both hands to her cheeks. “Did you reject that handsome man? Oh, it’s all my fault: I forgot.”

I place a hand on her shoulder, trying to ease her concern. I won’t stand by as this woman has a heart attack at her granddaughter’s wedding. “No, no. It wasn’t like that, Mrs. Wilkow. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Wasn’t it?” she asks, her eyes wandering to the people walking beside us. “He asked me to sit in his chair so he’d have an excuse to talk to you. He said you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.”

Who’s in Your Corner?

— TODAY—

With a sharp intake of air, I emerge from the water. I wasn’t under for that long, but the cold has me breathless, shivering as the strong waves push me closer to the rocks on the shore. My hand clutches around my necklace and, relieved it’s still there, I fight the tide. The jump seemed like a cathartic little gesture from the top, but, once below, I swam for a while to reach the surface. “What ash-sh-shitidea,” I murmur as my teeth clatter.

Throwing myself off the edge of a cliff and plummeting into the void for about fifty feet, not knowing what’s under?

That’s not cathartic; it’s potentially fatal. And no matter how hard life has been in the past year, I’m far from done.

My arms move frantically to keep me floating, my clothes weighing me down, and with the stupidly tall cape blocking out the sun, the water is almost pitch-black. Note to self: pitch-black waters are terrifying. Especially because my feet can’t reach the bottom by a lot. There really could be anything down here, couldn’t there? A shark. A whale. A kraken.

Shaking my head as if to propel myself from such thoughts, I slowly make my way toward the shore, which happens toalsobefarther than it looked like it was from the top of the cape. Of course, I was dry, warm, and not about to be eaten by a kraken back then.

Other note to self: the possibility of being eaten by a sea creature makes one severely reconsider distances.

It takes me many more minutes than it would if I wasn’t awkwardly flapping my arms and feet around and actually swimming, but I eventually escape the shadow cast by the cape. I’m quickly and brutally aware it doesn’t change much in terms of temperature or visibility through the water, but it’s something. My need to be surrounded by fellow humans has never been stronger, and at least now I can see the shore, where people are sunbathing or swimming. With more confident strides and warmer muscles, I reach shallow waters, where finally my feet touch the sand and I stand upright.

“Holy fuck,” I whisper in relief. I’m not sure if I’m technically out of kraken territory, but it definitely feels like it now that I know where the ground is.

I drag my feet forward, curious eyes meeting my gaze as I emerge fully clothed and wobble out of the water like someone fromThe Walking Dead’s cast.

I’m not sure the jump was worth it. I figured it’d be liberating. That I’d let myself go and leave all my problems behind. Maybe that my sorrows would drown and I’d come out a new person with a thicker, tougher skin.

But I feel exactly the same empty shell of myself.

“Darling, are you okay?”

I turn to the left, where an older woman is staring at me in my jeans and shoes. She’s holding a child’s hand, keeping him slightly behind her as her expression becomes one of concern. It’s imperative I go back for my bag and get home; I’m starting to scare the civilians. “I’m fine, thanks. Just took a swim.”

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