Page 8 of The Wedding Menu

“You might want to take off your clothes first next time.”

Nodding, I squeeze my T-shirt, water rippling down on the sand. “Yup, you make a fair point.”

She smiles, her eyes still suspiciously scanning me as she walks away. With a resigned sigh, I walk until the beach is behind me, then begin the long trek back up the hill. At least the sun is unseasonably warm, so my drenched clothes aren’t even that bad, even with the weight of them.

Look at me: finding positivity in the little things.

I just hope I’ll also find my bag and keys where I left them.

My shoes make an annoying slapping noise as I enter my building post–ocean dip and leave a wet trail behind me. A neighbor on his way out throws me a disgruntled look, similar to the ones I received walking past the city center. No amount of positive thinking can make up for crossing most of my town looking like a drowned cat.

As I jog up the stairs, the damp shirt glues itself to my body uncomfortably. My hair smells like salt as it moves in wet chunks over my face, and even with the warm summer day I’m so cold that I’m fighting goose bumps and shivers with every step.

Once on the second floor, I grab the keys out of my bag and walk toward my apartment, but I stop in my tracks when I see Barb’s red curls jostling from side to side as she knocks at my door. “Barb?”

“Oh, Ames.” She turns around and stalks toward me, holding a hand to her baby bump. Her arms lock around my neck and squeeze; then, as quickly as she crowded me, she pulls away. “Are your clothes… wet?”

With a sigh, I look down at my jeans and T-shirt, a tone darkerthan they’re supposed to be, then shrug. “I took a dip off the pier. I’ve always wanted to.”

“The pier?” she asks worriedly. I unlock the door and enter, leaving it open for her to follow. As she joins me inside the apartment, her eyes scout the dusty, crowded space, then dart to me. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m…” The last few hours flash in my mind. You’d think I’d be crying my eyes out or cursing the journalist who wrote the most degrading words that have ever been said about me, but I haven’t spilled a single tear since the magazine was delivered to me two hours ago.

When I sit on the couch and bring one of the cushions to my chest, Barb yanks it away. She might be five inches shorter than me, with sweet, big brown doe eyes, but neither matches her superhuman strength. “Are we really not going to talk about it?”

I flinch when I realize she’s read it. I wonder how many people have so far—how many will in the next hours and days. “I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”

“Ames…”

“You’ve seen it, Barb.” I press a finger over my temple. “By tomorrow, everyone else will have seen it too. My career, my life—Ifailed. My worst mistakes, the most painful humiliations of my life, have been made public. And now…”

She swallows, her wide eyes filling with the same sadness enveloping my bones.

“…now… it’s over.”

“Ames, it’s not that bad. Yes, the article was… harsh,” she whispers while trying to mask her disgruntled look, “but it’s not too late for you to bounce back. You can’t give up.”

I chuckle. I understand Barb’s just trying to help, but it’s pretty safe to say my career is over. No one will ever hire me again, notwith whatYummagazine said about me. My only shot at getting back into the kitchen would be working at my dad’s restaurant, and I wouldn’t go back for anything in the world.

It’s fine. I will retire from my career as a chef and explore something else. And I’ll do that while retaining as much dignity as I can.

“So… that’s it?” she asks, awkwardly shifting positions as she holds a hand to her bump. “You’re one of the most talented and promising chefs in this part of the country, and you’re giving up?”

When I give her a distracted nod, she carefully lowers herself onto the couch, leaning back with a tired exhale. “What about the ICCE?”

My eyes widen as my arms fall limply down my sides, droplets of water still dripping from my short, dark brown locks onto my shirt. The International Cooking and Culture Expo, a global cooking conference for newbies and professionals alike, as well as a great networking event. With my life tumbling down a hillside for the past few months, I completely forgot about it. “When is it again?”

“September seventh,” Barb says. When she notices my expression, she adds, “Right before Martha’s wedding, remember?”

Oh my God. I barely know what month we’re in.

“Ames? It’s in a week.” She studies my face. “Have you been sleeping?” Her eyes barrel down my body. “Or eating?”

Avoiding both questions, I study the mess of my sad studio apartment, the dust and plates and clothes accumulated everywhere. I’ve been to the ICCE twice before, and when I was invited as a speaker for this year’s edition, I was more than thrilled. So much has changed since. “We should definitely withdraw. I’m sure they’ll be relieved. With that article, the drama would follow me to the convention.”

“Are you sure?” she ventures. “It might be good for you. Give you something to distract yourself with. Maybe motivate you.”

Or, more likely, someone will bring up the last six months of my life and ask what gives me the right to teach anyone anything at all. “I’m sure.”

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