Page 21 of The Wedding Menu

Yeah, sure. Or a meet-ugly. Any type of meet would work, really.

“You could pick up his coffee by mistake.”

“He could be driving by when my car stops.”

“You don’t have a car.”

When I shrug, Barb chuckles. We both stare at the ceiling for a while in companionable silence, and the endless possible scenarios swirl in my mind, each one more glorious than the last. I’d even be happy to crash my nonexistent car into his.

“I can’t believe you talked to this guy for so long and you don’t know what he does.”

I open my mouth to explain, then think better of it. “I’m crazy, huh?”

Her head rests against my shoulder. “Well, the odds are against you. It’s, what, a million inhabitants to one very handsome guy?”

Yeah, it is.

“But what were the chances of my grandma taking his spot at the wedding? Of him sitting down next to you? What were the chances he’d love my cake and he’d bring it up with you, a chef?”

Turning to her, I let out a small, thoughtful sigh. “He asked your grandma to sit in his spot so he could talk to me, and he didn’t even eat the cake.”

“It’sreallydifficult to comfort you.” She taps her fingers over the back of her hand. “Can I at least know if you two…” Her coffee-brown eyes widen suggestively.

When I look away, she gasps. “Oh my God, I knew it! Did Frank find you together? Is that what—”

“We didn’t even kiss, Barb,” I grumble. I’ve done so many things in the past year that I’ve come to regret, but cheating isn’t one of them. Though I guess it wouldn’t have been cheating anyway. “Look, all there is to say is that the instant Ian sat down at my table, I knew he wasn’t just a random person who’d leave a shallow imprint on my life. I knew he was different—that he wouldn’t be a stranger for much longer. That he was going to stay.” I pause, struggling to explain it with words. “It was the way he looked at me. I didn’t recognize it right there and then—it took me a while, actually—but it was like he’d been searching for me his whole life.”

“Ames…” Barb says with a shaky voice.

I smile, though my first instinct would be to do the exact opposite. Maybe the day will come when we’ll be together, and letting him go the first time won’t hurt as much as it does now. But regret is a merciless feeling.

“I know it’s crazy. Coming out here knowing there’s a ninety-nine-percent chance I won’t find him. But it’s easier to run after that one percent than to let him go.”

I notice tears running copiously down Barb’s cheeks, snot smearing her upper lip as she tries to sob on the inside.

“Wha—oh. Oh, I’m sorry. Hormones, huh?”

“That one percent,” she whimpers, exploding into more sobs. Unable to help a snort, I stand and walk to the bathroom.

I’m fetching toilet paper when I hear a gasp bounce off the ugly wallpaper in the room. “Ames!”

“What?”

“Ames! Ames!” she shouts. I dart out of the bathroom, expecting to find her on the floor or in a puddle of her own water, but she half runs toward me, a hand on her bump. “I know how to find him! I know how to find Ian!”

“What?” My heartbeat spikes, fear and adrenaline mixing dangerously in my mind. “How?”

She swats my arm over and over again. “We asked the guests at my wedding the names of their plus-ones for the placeholders! Ian was his dad’s plus-one, right? His surname will be there!”

The toilet paper roll falls from my hands to the carpeted floor as my brain registers her words.

The guest list.

That’show we can find him!

A French Feud

— ONEWEEKAFTERBARBARA’SWEDDING—