Page 32 of The Wedding Menu

“I guess it depends what you mean by ‘affordable.’ See, La Brasserie doesn’t compromise on the quality of the ingredients. It’s based on the assumption that people would rather spend a few more bucks and be served high-quality food instead of overly seasoned grub—”

Barb’s nails dig into my thigh. I might have taken it too far.

Everyone’s head at the table ping-pongs from Ian to me, different degrees of shock etched on their faces. When I look at Ian, I expect him to be livid, but he’s not. His eyes are wide, his eyebrows arched, and there’s a full, jubilant smile on his face. With a loud snort, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The Marguerite placed first in the ‘Best New Restaurant’ category at the Fine Eats Awards. We won prizes for our marketing, our design, our inclusiveness, and our dining experience. We’re listed among the hundred best French restaurants in the country.” He fidgets with the cutlery. “Your father is a successful man, a damn skilled cook, but despite what you Prestons believe, that doesnotmean he’s the only one.”

Why am I not surprised there’s no food-related award on his long list?

“You’re right,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “My father isn’t the only talented chef around here.” Nonchalantly, I add, “In fact, you’ve got plenty of examples at this very table.” After a quick look around, I set my gaze on him again. “But you won’t find any in the Marguerite’s kitchen.”

It’s Ian’s turn to be stared at as I try to control my rising anger,and, judging by his expression, he’s thoroughly enjoying pushing my buttons. It doesn’t surprise me in the least, and it doesn’t make what I said less true. The only reason the Marguerite is so damn successful is because of how much smoke is blown in the customers’ eyes. Circus-like performers hanging from the ceilings, QR code menus, champagne fountains, and many more attempts to distract the diners from a simple truth: their food is substandard.

“By the way,” Ian says, snapping his fingers. “Looks like your language skills are a little rusty.” When he’s met by my dubious gaze, he explains, “Marguerite isn’t French for ‘too much onion.’ It means daisy, and it’s my mother’s name.”

The tweet.

I avert my gaze, making myself small on the chair, as the silence between us stretches.

“Well, this is surely an explosive start to our week,” Pam says in a tentative, cheerful voice after a while. Everyone half-heartedly laughs, and soon the chatter is back in full force, except for Ian and me, who continue to glare at each other until, eventually, I lower my gaze.

God, what a shit show.

“You know, I’ve met your dad.” Ian speaks over the others’ voices, and the laughter and chatter die down as people realize we’re about to start round two.

Barb raises her hand, frantically looking around the dining room. “Where is the damn waiter?” she asks worriedly.

“Have you?” I ask.

He slowly nods, sucking his cheeks in. If he thinks there’s anything he can say about my father that will upset me, he’s way off. I’m very much aware of his flaws and limitations. So aware, in fact, that I could list them alphabetically.

“And?” I ask with a fleeting smile.

A slow chuckle bubbles out of his lips. “Let’s just say… I get it.” He gives a cold, assessing look. “Why you’re like that.”

By the time the waiter approaches the table, Ian hasn’t uttered another word, and neither have I. I also haven’t been able to really grasp anything written on the menu, so whatever Barb’s getting, I say I want the same. Considering she’s pregnant, I hope it’s not too weird.

At some point, other brain functions kick in. I smile and respond when asked a question, then examine the little ceramic flowers on the rim of my glass until I’m served a chicken fried steak. After I’ve eaten half, I go back to staring at the flowers.

I get it. Why you’re like that.

I can’t believe he’d half insult me at a table full of colleagues. Actually, I can’t believe he’d insult me at all. Sure, I wasn’t exactly kind when I spoke of his business, but he’s attacking my personality. The very fiber of who I am.Like that.

As soon as he’s done with his soup, he stands. We throw each other a sullen look—a pissed-off, frustrated, sad look. This isn’t the end of it; we’ll have an entire week of these delightful exchanges, now that we’re more than Ian and Amelie. Now that we’re a Roberts and a Preston.

The thought of it makes my stomach churn.

Ian was a friend for a while there. The best one I’ve ever had, despite having only really met him a few times. And there was also something more, though we messed that up. I sure as hell won’t be his enemy, and he won’t be mine, so once he wishes the table a good night and walks away, I stand and follow him.

“Ian,” I call.

He turns to me with a glare, then looks away.

“Why I’m like that?” I mock. I realize this isn’t the best way to bury the hatchet, but I can’t let it go.

Strutting toward the stairs with his shoulders closing in on his neck, he doesn’t bother turning around as he says, “Hmm.”

“How am I, Ian?”

He stops on the carpet, which covers most of the hotel’s hall. After a long, deep inhale, he begins walking away again as if he’s changed his mind.