Page 85 of The Wedding Menu

“Wait, Frank. Read it first.”

“I have no doubt this is a good business plan—great even. It doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

He sets it on the table with a deep breath. “You know why not, Ames. We can’t afford a restaurant on top of the wedding.”

He’s right, and if he bothered to look past the first page of my business plan, he would notice that I took that into consideration. We’ve already scaled down a lot of the stuff I originally planned because of our six-month deadline, and to be completely honest, if it weren’t for the deposits we’ve already put down, I would just call it off and elope. With everything that’s happened, I can’t say I’m particularly excited about my wedding day, and planning it has been the equivalent of a nine-to-five job you hate and get charged for.

“I’ll ask for a loan. I’m a professional with loads of experience, and I’ve got great credit. I’m sure if I present the bank with a good plan, they’ll say yes.”

“A loan?” Worriedly, Frank bites his bottom lip. I nod and open the folder on the table, then point at the page with my estimate for the loan. “Whoa, Ames. That’s a lot of money.”

And it’s not the worst part yet.

“Yes, and at the beginning I won’t be able to make much, with the loan to repay. It could be months until the restaurant takes off. Maybe even a few years before I start seeing any decent profit.”

His eyes find mine, and he squints from behind his thick glasses. “Ames…” He shakes his head, then stands. His shoulders tense as he stares at the kitchen cabinet and rubs a hand over his face. As if I asked him to build me a castle out of paper clips. “This isn’t the right moment. You know I’m up for a promotion at work. Maybe we could talk about this some other time.”

Ian’s words come back to me.

Support goes both ways.

“So I’m supposed to put my life on pause until you achieve your dream.” Pressing a hand to my chest, I ask, “It’s not like we’ve already put our relationship on hold for your needs, right?”

“Is that how it is?” he retorts. “You’ll resent me forever?”

“I don’t know about forever, but you can bet it’ll take more than five fucking minutes to get over this, Frank.” I slam the folder closed. “What aboutmydreams? When is itmyturn?”

“Your dream is to be the head chef of your father’s restaurant.”

“No it’s not!” I shout. “And you’d know that if you ever bothered listening. Or asking. If you gave a crap about anything but your six months of being single, you’d notice just how unhappy I’ve been and for how long.”

He groans, hiding his face in both hands and staring at hisuneaten dinner. It feels like a boulder is crushing me to the floor and leaving me unable to breathe.

I remember our first date. Dinner and a movie. I told him about my dreams: how one day, I would love to open a restaurant not at all like my father’s. A cozy, bright place to enjoy simple food done to perfection. A place where people feel free to laugh loudly and sit back, and they leave feeling like they weren’t in a restaurant, but a home.

I’m sure he was listening back then. I clearly remember his smile, his comment about imagining a place like that being by the beach. It immediately made me swoon, because that was exactly what I pictured too.

I guess at some point he forgot.

“Your dad will promote you soon, Ames. You just need to be—”

Pointing a finger at him, I feel my eyes flare. “Say that I need to be patient and your weekend visit ends now.”

“What’s even the point of opening a restaurant and starting from scratch when you’ll be handed a restaurant anyway? You’ll be the head chef, and then one day you’ll be the owner. You get the wedding you wantanda restaurant.”

Or maybe I’ll get a wedding I don’t like and a restaurant I don’t want.

I look down, not a shadow of a smile on my face.

He stands, too, then cups my face with both hands. They’re cold, and besides, they feel like sandpaper right now, but when I flinch backward, he doesn’t let go. “Hmm? How does that sound?”

“I can give you until the wedding,” I say as I take his hands and gently pull them off my face. “But then I’m done putting your needs first.”

“Okay. That’s fair.” He kisses my lips, but I barely respond, the bitterness of our disagreement turning everything a sad shade ofgray. Eventually I leave the kitchen. I can barely stand to look at him, and it’s not because I’ll have to put everything on pause until after the wedding. Considering the years I’ve waited, three months is nothing. I can do it. It’s about everything else. How selfish he is, how inconsiderate and absent. How he hasn’t once thought about our deal and regretted it. How he hasn’t asked a single question about Ian since we met.

Approaching the couch, I grab my phone off the cushion. Of course, the only person who can make it all better has already texted me. Something between a frown and a smile blossoms on my lips as I open his text.

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