Page 88 of The Wedding Menu

“Good. Are you well… groomed?”

“Bye, weirdo,” I whisper with a smile as I stand. Once the call is disconnected, I walk to the mirror and close the tap. I finger-brush my hair to one side, move it back, then smell my armpits. My breath’s fine, too, and with a groan I pull my dress up and take a look under my panties. “It’s fine.”

“Amelie? All good?”

“Yes!” I call back, turning to the door. I let my dress go, and just as it grazes my ankles, the breath is kicked out of my lungs.

Fuck, fuck,fuck! I didn’t shave my legs. I wore a long dress and didn’t shave my legs and I’m about to sleep with a god of sex. “Holy shit,” I whimper as I hold both hands against my face. I wasn’t planning to be intimate with anyone tonight, and now it’s all I’ll be thinking about once I get naked.

I yank open the first drawer in the bathroom vanity. I could die from relief when I see a razor, but upon further inspection, there’s no soap or shaving cream. With sweat dampening the back of my neck, I spin around, panic sneaking its way around my throat until I can hardly breathe.

When I see the corner of something red poking out of my bag, I stop short.

Ian’s nose, scrunching, comes back to me.

He wrapped it in a napkin and shoved it in my bag.

Butter.

I swallow, taking two seconds to consider it. When I see no faults in the plan, I take my dress off, grab the stick of butter and the razor, then enter the bathtub. I really should have worn a bra today. Using the showerhead, I wet my legs, praying that I won’t activate Ian’s lactose intolerance, and rub the stick of butter on both. Setting it aside, I begin shaving, and my anxiety settles a little.

This is working out. Everything’s fine.

When there’s a knock at the door, I flinch, immediately blowing out a breath of relief when I notice I haven’t cut myself.

“Amelie? Please come out. Let’s have a drink and just talk—”

“No, no. I’m just”—I squeeze my eyes shut—“refreshing my makeup.”

“Is it cocaine? I’ve heard it’s a problem in the restaurant industry.”

“You’re exhausting.”

His chuckle is muffled by the door, and once I’m convinced he’s gone back, I continue. The first leg’s done and washed off. When I go for the stick of butter to rub some more on my right leg, it’s not where I left it. I’m getting clumsier, limbs flailing about as I look for the damn thing, until I finally spot it by the drain. Excellent. I’m working out a plan to set my foot down without slipping when the room’s pirouetting around me and my body violently hits the tub. The sudden pain in my right shoulder is so severe, the breath is forced out of my chest.

Now lying on my back, I stare at the ceiling with a whimper and blink my tears away. I try to pull myself up using my healthy arm as my heart hammers in my chest, but as soon as my fingers grip the tub, they slide off.

I guess thereisa fault in my plan, and it might just be too relevant to ignore.

Butter is fuckingslippery.

A Wicked Witch

— THREEMONTHS UNTILAMELIE’SWEDDING—

The upbeat ringtone of my phone distracts me from my conversation with one of the busboys. As I glance down at the screen, my brows furrow. “Excuse me,” I say, leaving the kitchen.

Ian is calling me. That’s weird. He’s never called out of nowhere; it usually starts off with us texting and one of us getting tired of typing. Most of the time, him.

“What happened?” I ask, skippingHelloorHow are you?If he’s calling with no notice, I know how he is, and it’snotgood.

“Hey.” His voice—I’ve never heard it like that. Soft, almost fragile.

“What’s going on?” I breathe.

“I’m—it’s been a shitty day. I needed to hear your—”

“I’m here,” I rush to say.

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