Page 72 of The Wedding Menu

“You must be fucking kidding me,” Ella says from the left side of the room. She probably has a good shot of what’s poking at me, and so does Barb. My standing in front of Ian is the only reason the rest of the room doesn’t.

“Th-thank you for coming,” I stammer with a stiff smile as people gather their things. I can hardly focus with Ian’s firm, thick erection pressed up against me. “We’ll have another seminar about”—Ella flies out of the room—“about the main sauces in French cuisine. We’ll do less yelling in that one. Probably.”

Slowly, the crowd disperses, and when the last person leaves, Barb walks out, too, throwing a suggestive smile my way. Only when we’re completely alone do I turn to Ian, who sits on the edge of the desk with his arms crossed over his chest and an annoyed expression. He glances at me, then focuses his gaze on the floor.

I get it. This must have been pretty humiliating for him and his baguette.

“Amelie, I—can’t.Wecan’t.”

I bite my lip, uncomfortably shifting position. I didn’t kiss him to change his mind, but the fact that he won’t manages to break my heart all over again. Even after our kiss—our out-of-this-world, extraordinary kiss, which hemost certainlyenjoyed—he’s done.

“I’m sorry. You had so much time, Amelie. I know you were engaged, that I was way over the line, but fuck, I tried so hard to show you that I was the right choice. Thatwewere. I put you first, even before myself, because you kept putting yourself second. And you…”

“I broke your heart,” I whisper.

“Yeah, you did.”

I nod, still unable to look at anything but the floor. “Sorry I kissed you. I just figured it was my shot.”

“You shouldn’t apologize. I definitely kissed you back.”

Yeah, he definitely did.

“But for our own well-being, I think it might be best if we split the seminars,” he says with a stern look that reminds me of his father. “We clearly can’t get along professionally, and when we do get along… we might do it a little too well.”

God, it’s like he’s breaking up with me.

I nod, but the sadness that’s overwhelmed me hunches my shoulders, the force of gravity pulling me farther down as if the floor is calling my name. When silence settles, I still don’t have it in me to look at him, so I grab my bag and leave the room.

Leaving Ian behind again.

Rip Out the Weeds

— FOURMONTHS TOAMELIE’SWEDDING—

“Amelie, did you see all the reposts?”

“Retweets.”

“They accused us of discrimination. Look! Look!” My dad holds his phone out. “Quel bordel.”

With a sigh, I grab it and scroll through the answers.

Monica said, “What about throuples? @LaBrasserie should consider there isn’t just one type of family,” while someone whose nickname is Lucasiisthebest wrote, “@LaBrasserie Can I come with my boyfriend? How do I prove he’s not just a friend? #LGBT #QueerRights.” My eyes skim over the third tweet that shows up, from Penny, that reads, “My husband is sober. Are we still welcome in your establishment, @LaBrasserie?”

Jesus Christ. How did this become about LGBT rights and alcoholism? Offering a free glass of champagne to couples was just a cute idea to celebrate the holiday, and it seemed like a good idea last February, when I came up with it. How did they even find it? I swear, whoever is behind these tweets at the Marguerite is the devil.

“We’re going to have to delete the tweet and apologize,” my dad says, his voice coming out more breathy than normal as he shoves his glasses somewhere on his crowded desk. “We can say we’ll offer a glass of champagne to all guests next February fourteenth and hopefully everyone will forget about this.”

“Absolutely not.” Shaking my head firmly, I cross my arms over my T-shirt. “We’ve done nothing wrong, and saying that would be like admitting Roberts and thedamnMarguerite are right.”

His mouth, initially open, closes. Nothing changes his mind like mentioning William Roberts getting the upper hand.

“Fine. What do you suggest we do?” he asks, the harsh lines on his face deepening.

I’d like to find whoever’s behind the Marguerite’s Twitter profile and set their car on fire. But if I’m to abide by the law, I’ll have to limit myself to humiliating the crap out of that disgraced restaurant. “I’ll answer, don’t worry.”

“Amelie, I let you handle this because I thought you knew what you were doing.” With a deep sigh, he rubs a hand over his forehead, the noise of his nails scraping his scalp, making me shiver. “But I might have overestimated you.”

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