Page 145 of The Wedding Menu

With my hands almost numb as my heartbeat skyrockets, I turn page after page until I’m greeted by the same picture of myself. My eyes scroll through the lines, grasping words here and there but not really retaining much. “The face of nepotism” and“Just a byproduct of her father’s success” are what stand out the most. By the time I get to the end, I know what the gist is, but I couldn’t quote a single sentence if I tried.

I read it and read it and read it again to no avail until I can’t feel a thing besides cold from the strong gusts of wind that have picked up in the last minutes. I can’t feel angry or defeated anymore. I just grieve everything I lost silently, like a funeral hymn echoing in my mind.

Setting the magazine down, I close my eyes, and I breathe.

How long will it take for my father to see it? How long until Barb does? Will it get to Frank or Martha too? How big will it become? Maybe it’ll find its way to Ian.

My phone beeps, and these days, every time it does, I dread it. It’s either someone asking for money or Martha complaining about wedding planning, which she started again a few months back. I don’t know when it happened, but at some point I started hating my life, and I still can’t get out of this slump.

I guess it started when I met Ian. When he showed me what else is out there.

If he were here, he’d know what to do—how to get rid of William Roberts. He’d tell me encouraging, lovely words that would push me to try one more time to think of a new solution.

But I’m out. Out of will, out of money, out of ideas. William Roberts destroyed my restaurant and my reputation, and I don’t know how to recover, nor do I truly want to. I’ll just find another job, one that doesn’t involve cooking. And I’ll be my own chef in my free time.

With a sigh, I grab my phone. It’s Martha.

Martha:

Call me sometime today?

I’m not exactly in the mood to talk, but it might be about Barb’s pregnancy, so I can’t exactly ignore her. Bringing the phone to my ear, I listen for the beeps.

“Hey, Ames.”

“Hey. Is everything okay?”

“Where are you?”

“At the restaurant. I had to clean up before the new tenants come in.”

Silence. I hear noises in the background, then she clears her throat. “Oh, maybe we should talk some other time.”

“Tell me whatever you need to say, Martha,” I say, stiffening on the chair.

We’ve been fighting a lot lately. And I don’t mean fighting like in the last year, where she does whatever she wants and I just take it while resentment brews under the surface. No. It’s been some proper fighting, with screaming and accusations and anger. Since I opted out of telling her about Frank’s arrangement in the end, she continues to blame me and Ian for the breakup, and I let her. Because I don’t care about her opinion and it’s less humiliating than the truth anyway.

“It’s just… I was wondering…”

Oh my God, I’ve got no patience left for this. “What?”

“You know the wedding is in twenty days, and…”

As she stutters incomprehensible words, my brain tries to guess what exactly she’s asking for. I haven’t got a clue.

“…Frank will be there.”

“Mm-hmm.” I bite my bottom lip, trying to push down the anxiety I feel at the idea of seeing him again. I already knew he would be, so there must be more to this call. “And?”

“And I was thinking maybe you could… talk? Before then?”

I remain silent.

“I know what he did was fucked-up, Ames, leaving you at the altar like that. But you can’t blame him. Not after you had anaffair—”

“No.”

Martha says nothing for a few seconds, and I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips.No.What a beautiful word that is.