Page 33 of The Wedding Menu

“How am I?” I repeat, loud enough to cause a couple of heads to turn.

Once again he halts, but this time he grabs my arm and pulls me toward the corridor opposite the dining room.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He opens a door, and once we’re both inside, closes it behind us. Even with the low light of a lamppost filtering through the large windows, I can see the clean, polished white flooring and the beige walls. We must be in one of the conference rooms. We stick by the door, and he towers over me, his fresh and clean scent making everything else seem unimportant. Though it’s the very opposite thing I’d like to do, I cross my arms over my chest and wait for his explanation. Starting with why he dragged me in here.

“How. Am. I?”

This time I sounded aggressive.

“You’re a Preston. You think you’re better than anyone else. You’re pretentious, critical, and stuck-up.” He leans forward as he speaks, his cold eyes piercing mine. “Just like your father.”

My legs turn weak as a chill moves up my spine. “You—”

“Unlike your father,” he continues in a sharp tone as my vision tunnels, “you value everyone else’s wants more than yours, Amelie. You can’t fight for yourself. You’re a coward and—”

With my ears ringing and my muscles tensing, I beat his chest with the side of my fist, barely creasing his shirt. His lips compress as if he’s trying not to laugh before he looks down at my hand. “Was that supposed to be a punch?”

Well, yes. I’ve never punched anyone before, and it’s not like I want to physically hurt him. I don’t know what I was going forexactly, except maybe hoping that, unlike a jukebox, the noise would stop if I hit him.

I’m unsure of where to go from here, and his derisive look embarrasses me, so I go for a second mock punch. But he grabs my wrist, his fingers delicate but firm around my skin.

“Stop it,” he says as I try to free myself from his hold. The man must have sixty pounds on me, and my squirming does nothing to break his grip, now on both of my wrists. “Stop being ridiculous, Amelie.”

“Is that what you think? Do you really believe I’m… everything you said?” When he averts his gaze, I pull myself free. “Or are you just angry because I didn’t choose you when you asked me to?”

As his chin jerks down, his eyes shoot through me like a bullet. There’s hurt and disappointment in them, and they’re painfully familiar, because despite all my big talk, that’s exactly how I feel about myself. “The problem isn’t that you didn’t chooseme. The problem is that you didn’t chooseyourself.”

I swallow, trying to hold back the swell of emotions twisting my stomach.

Ian is right here in front of me, he’s a Roberts, and he hates me. It’s all too much to process in the span of one meal. Especially because he’s right. He’s so right, it hurts. I’ve failed myself in more ways than I can count, and by doing that, I’ve disappointed Ian. I’ve hurt him too.

So, he’s right. Except that he’s also completely wrong.

“I told you I couldn’t,” I breathe, my voice so weak and shaky, it’s barely audible. “I was engaged. I never led you on and—”

“Ha!” His eyebrows rise. “You never led me on?”

“No! You asked and asked. And I said no. I kept saying no! No, no,no!”

I stomp my feet, halting at once when bitter laughter bubbles up from his lips. “I remember you repeating ‘yes, yes, yes’ on occasion too.”

My face grows hot and tingly, the memories clouding my mind much too painful to bear. “Fuck you,” I whisper. “Fuck you for using that against me.” I try to walk past him, but he blocks me, not motivatedat allby my deadly glare to let me through. “Move!” I shout. “Let me out of here.”

He doesn’t at first, instead running a hand over his face, then steps to the side. Finally free, I open the door and run all the way upstairs to the safety of my room. Only then do I hide my face in the pillow and burst into a snot-filled, desperate crying jag.

I bawl for all the times I dreamed about seeing Ian again, because none of them went like this. I don’t know what I expected, exactly. Maybe that, like in a movie, our eyes would meet across a busy street and we’d walk straight into each other’s arms. That we’d fit into each other’s lives as magically as we did before. That, like in a fairy tale, one kiss would be enough to mend us, to make up for what we damaged and lost.

But this? Insults and hurtful remarks to wound each other? It’s certainly not what I envisioned.

So I weep.

For Ian, for me. For everything that has happened since Barb’s wedding. For everything that happened since mine.

Why You’re Like That

— FIFTEENDAYSAFTERBARBARA’SWEDDING—