Page 79 of The Wedding Menu

As I grab shallots and asparagus, Ian tentatively hums. When I look up at him, he gives me an apologetic shrug. “Those are green.”

Oh, right. He doesn’t eat anything green.

“Don’t you need to bring Ella tea?” I ask as I put both back.

He leans against the closed side of the fridge. “In a minute.”

I shuffle back to the counter and set my loot on the wooden cutter. I put a large saucepan of water on to boil, then finely chop some pancetta. Once the pecorino cheese is grated, I grab some eggs.

“You remember I’m lactose intolerant, right?” Ian asks as he suspiciously glances at the pecorino. “That means that if I eat cheese, you want to be nowhere near me for a while.”

“Hard cheeses, such as cheddar and Parmesan, and matured cheeses like Brie, Camembert, and feta, contain almost no lactose,” I explain as I beat the eggs in a bowl and season them with a little black pepper, then add the cheese before setting the pancetta in a pan, stirring occasionally as it cooks on medium heat.

After I’ve taken out the last batch of macarons from the oven, he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy.” He’s sitting on the other side of the counter, his arms on the stainless steel surface.

“Hmm?”

“Not when we video called or when you talked about Frank or…” He bites his bottom lip, lost in thought for a few seconds. “Or ever, really. I’ve never seen you as happy as you are right now, cooking.”

I stir the bacon, the meat turning golden and crispy as the comforting smell fills the kitchen. “It’s my safe space.”

“So, then, why stop? Why haven’t I seen you cooking once this week?”

I throw him a sidelong glance, then add salt to the barely boiling water. Ideally I’d wait longer, but I’ll compromise a little on taste if it comes to avoiding this very uncomfortable topic.

“Having a restaurant fail could undermine one’s confidence. I’d understand if you thought you weren’t as good a cook as you figured.” His gaze is trained on me in the brightly lit kitchen. “But that’s not it. Is it?”

“I’m better than any cook you’ll find in your kitchen,” I tease.

He ignores my retort, his expression thoughtful. “And the trauma of having your dream turn into a nightmare didn’t smother the fun of it, either, obviously.”

“We’ve got you for that,” I whisper. When he gives me a predatory look, I smirk and focus on the bacon.

“So you love cooking.” He raises one finger. “And your arrogance hasn’t diminished at all, unfortunately,” he continues as he raises a second finger. “You love talking about food, you love learning about food, and youlovebeing right.”

With a sigh, I set my ladle down and stare into his eyes. For a few seconds that’s all I do, all he does. We study each other in silence, save for the bacon fat sizzling and the water boiling.

“Are you really going to make me say it, Amelie?”

“Ian, just leave it alone.”

“Unpopular opinion: you quit cooking because you’re afraid of failing again.”

I swallow, grabbing the bag of pasta and emptying half of it into the water. A cloud of vapor rises from the pot and, tucking my hair behind my ear, I stir a couple of times.

“Am I wrong?”

“You are,” I say, and though he watches me attentively, waiting for me to elaborate, I don’t speak. I don’t say that he’s been right all along about Frank and rejecting the possibility of failure led me to deny the clear signs that he didn’t love me. That he didn’t evencare.

I’m not afraid to fail. I’ve failed spectacularly at everything already. But there comes a time when you need to give up and admit defeat. I’ve learned this the hard way in my personal life, and I won’t make the same mistake with my dying career.

Once I drain the pasta and add it to the pan with the bacon, I throw in some of the pasta water, too, then the egg-and-cheese mix. Satisfied with the creamy result, I turn the stove off and grab a plate.

Setting the food in front of him, I watch him expectantly. What Ian thinks of my cooking is important, regardless of what’s going on between us. He could reject me a thousand times and I’d still care.

He twirls some spaghetti around his fork, then studies it witha dubious look, like an animal that’s been poisoned one too many times and doesn’t trust the food it’s given. When he finally chews, he does so slowly until he begins nodding. “This is delicious.”

The soft, glorious tingle of victory moves up my spine. “It’s because I used the best ingredients and—”

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