Page 74 of The Wedding Menu

Does it turn you on?

I snort my laughter, then rest my chin in my hand. Ten seconds. That’s how long it took him to make me smile.

Amelie:

Uh-oh. Is it getting warmer in here?

Ian:

PFP.

Pointing the front camera at my face, I groan. My skin is ghostly, as if I spent the last few months living in a cave, and the top of my hair is pinned back; I always wear it like this at work, but it makes my forehead look huge.

I unpin my hair, then pinch my cheeks to give them some color. With a smile, I take the picture and send it.

I wait for a response, and when it doesn’t come, I turn to the busboy who’s smoking by the trash can. “George?”

His tired brown eyes meet mine. “Yes, Chef?”

“We’re not in the kitchen. ‘Amelie’ is fine.” I stand with a smile and walk over to him. “Could I have one?”

His hand rises, his forehead furrowed with confusion. “A smoke?”

“Yes.”

He hesitates, then quickly nods and takes out his packet. He offers it to me, and I clumsily slide a cigarette out, then accept hislighter. Just as I light the cigarette up and explode into a coughing fit, my ringtone blasts from my pocket.

“Thanks,” I manage to say before walking away. I take my phone out, and my camera is on. Ian’s video-calling me. Why today of all days?

With a sad look at my Iron Maiden sweatshirt and ripped jeans, I answer and force a smile on my face. “Hey, stranger,” I say as the call starts and his face fills my screen.

He’s as gorgeous as ever. His hair has grown, falling over his face with the wind, which is making his microphone rattle. And in contrast to me, he’s tan. The picture of happiness and relaxation. I often wonder what he does for a living; whatever it is, our lives must be pretty different. “Look where I am.”

The camera turns, and Mayfield’s Beckett Bridge stands tall against a bright blue sky. “Oh, wow, it’s beautiful,” I say, my voice soaked with admiration.

The camera switches back to his smiling, gorgeous face. “Frank, Martha, or work?”

“What?”

“What’s upsetting you?”

I hesitate, my eyes roaming left and right. How did he figure it out? I smiled—I really tried to look cheerful. How does he always get it?

“Are you—Amelie, are you on fire?”

Glancing at the screen, I notice the smoke from the cigarette still in my hand is moving in front of the camera. “Oh, no. I’m just—” I show him the cigarette, and his brows arch. “No, I don’t smoke. I’ve done it twice in my life and hated it both times.”

“Don’t tell me you’re holding it for a friend,” he says, cocking his head dramatically. “I’m pretty sure I came up with that one.”

“I just figured…” With a deep sigh, I shrug. “I don’t know. Stress. Smoke.”

“I see. Well, what’s new?”

What’s new? he asks. Besides the latest battle with my dad, and Martha sending her engagement photos on the group chat, Frank continues to live his best single life and hasn’t asked a single question about Ian.

“Are you on your way to work?” I ask. He’s walking along the street, people rushing around him, and it looks like he’s wearing one of his soft-looking sweaters. This one’s red.

“Lunch break.”

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