Page 138 of The Wedding Menu

He sighs loudly, nodding as he turns to the large daisy field beside us. “Fine,” he says, holding his hand out for me. “Today’s the last day. ICCE will be over tonight.”

I entangle my finger with his. “Martha’s wedding is tomorrow.”

“And you still haven’t invited me.” His eyes narrow, and then he squeezes my hand tighter. “And then… then I’ll be back in Mayfield, and you’ll be in Creswell.”

I nod, my heart beating out of my chest.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’m physically able to let you go,” he says matter-of-factly. “I know we agreed to one night only, but seeing as you didn’t relent with your texts despite my lack of response, I assume you’d also be okay with—”

I’m too befuddled to manage the mechanics of speaking, so I nod dumbly.

“Yeah?” He smiles. “Good. I’m not exactly sure what’s the best move here. It both feels as if I’m coming off way too strong and not strong enough. Like you’re a stranger and… well, my soulmate, all at once.”

Did he say… soulmate?

“See, I probably shouldn’t have said that.” He rubs his jaw, then sighs deeply. “Amelie, I’m not here to see how it goes. I don’t want to play it cool, and keep you on your toes, and tactically think about whether I should text you, and wonder when it’s the right time to tell you how I feel or if I should wait for you to do it first.” One side of his lips pulls up. “I want all the cards on the table. I want to show you my hand, and I want to be as transparent as I possibly can. If that’s okay with you.”

I know I need to get some words out, but, God, is it difficult. Of course it’s okay with me. It’s more than okay. I don’t want to pretend I’m not desperately in love with him; I’ve lied to myself and him about it already for months. I want him to show me his hand, and I want to show him mine, and I want to pick this back up exactly where we left it.

It’s Ian.

He’s my soulmate.

“I’d rather be your girlfriend than anyone else’s wife” is all I can say. I get his feeling, his fear of coming off too strong, but the words fall naturally out of my lips. It would be pointless to deny it when it’s all I’ve been wanting to tell him for the past six months.

His fingers entwine with mine, a full smile taking over his whole face. “I’d rather be your husband than be single ever again.”

I can’t help the tears welling up in my eyes.Husband. That word—the whole concept of marriage—is no longer my dream. Not the way it was before, at least. But knowing he’d do it for me means more than words can express.

“So… do you want to go back to texts and calls and phone sex? Because I don’t.” His fingers rub mine. “Not after having you with me for a whole week.”

“No, of course I don’t want that.”

“Hmm. So we’ll have to decide. Creswell or Mayfield.”

Oh, hell no. I want nothing to do with his father. “I don’t—I don’t think I—”

“Huh.” He taps his chin. “See, you’re looking as green as a vegetable, Amelie.”

“Ian, I don’t know what you’re after.” I cross my arms. “There’s nothing to say. I know your dad is the most important person in your life, but it’ll take me a minute. I was taught to hate him and… there’s a lot of history.”

“In the spirit of this ‘all cards on the table’ policy… is there any chapter I’ve missed?”

When I glare, he raises both hands in defeat. “Fine. Well, I really hope you’ll try. I know things have been said and done during the years, but you’re right. My dad’s really important to me.”

“I know. I’ll work on it.”

His head tilts, and, taking his sunglasses off, he levels his warm azure stare on me. “All right.” Throwing his sunglasses onto the table, he motions at me to move closer, and as soon as I’m within reach, he pulls me onto his lap. “But just so we’re clear. My dad isn’t the most important person in my life, Amelie.” He presses a soft kiss on my lips. “You are.”

Dinner with the Enemy

— NINEWEEKSAFTERAMELIE’SWEDDING—

Large metal rings hang from the ceiling next to blue, white, and red ribbons that gently flap as the breeze from outside makes its way in. Closing the door, I study the empty high tables, the tablets placed on each, the colorful theater masks hanging on the walls. Now that it’s empty, the Marguerite has lost all its usual festive atmosphere, and instead reminds me of an abandoned amusement park.

It’s bigger than what it looks like on TV or in magazines. And though it smells somewhat similar to La Brasserie, there’s something that’s just a little bit different and has me scrunching my nose. Maybe it’s what bad taste smells like.

“Hello?” I call, taking a reluctant step forward. I must say, when I suggested we come here for dinner, mostly pushed by a morbid curiosity, I didn’t expect the restaurant to be closed.