Page 34 of The Wedding Menu

I snort, studying the Marguerite’s latest tweet. Whoever’s writing these is good, I’m gonna give them that.

My turn now.

Just as I tap on the “retweet” button, the apartment door opens and my stomach plummets. My gaze flies to the door through which, with a cautious smile, Frank enters with his suitcase. He’s been gone for two weeks, which is also when we properly talked last. But he’s back for the weekend, and it’s finally time to face the music.

“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him. He kicks his shoes off and drops the luggage, turning to me a couple more times. “I thought you’d be at work.”

“In half an hour,” I explain. “Welcome back. Was the trip okay?”

“Got stuck in traffic for a while. But it gave me a lot of time to think about, um… what I asked you.”

So we’ll get right into it, huh? Sounds good. I’ve been thinking, too—every day and night for two weeks. And I think—Iknow—I’m ready to have this conversation. “Yeah. If you’re not too tired, maybe we should talk.”

“Of course. But let’s not fight, please?”

“Uh-huh.” I rub my hands together, trying not to get immediately annoyed. If he doesn’t want to fight, maybe he shouldn’t act like an idiot.

“Look, Ames, it’s not that bad. We can set our own rules and boundaries. Adjust this to our needs as a couple and—”

My eyes narrow at his words. “Did you research this?”

“Yes,” he says, looking down at the floor to avoid my judgmental expression. “I just checked a couple of websites, you know? To help you—us.”

“Yeah? Perv.com and How-to-ruin-my-engagement.net?”

“You said we wouldn’t fight,” he says. “I’m not in the mood, Ames.”

“Fine.” I cross my arms and click my tongue. “So enlighten me. What results did your research yield?”

He hesitates, glancing around for a rescue. “There isn’t only one way to do it. It depends on what we want.”

“And whatdowe want?”

“I want nothing emotional,” he says with a firm shake of his head as he paces in front of the window, warm light peeking through and highlighting the beads of sweat on his neck. “I’m in love with you, and I want to marry you.”

“Just sex, then,” I say with a dramatic sweep of my hand as I cross my legs on the couch. “No big deal.”

“Ifit should happen.” He opens his mouth, then closes it. For a few seconds he says nothing, then he meets my gaze, anapologetic smile on his lips. “Ames, the sex we have is kind of… basic.”

I swallow and look away, because he said something I can’t possibly disagree with. At this point in our relationship, we just meet at night under the blanket and have missionary sex. If we’re feeling wild, I might give him a blow job. That’s it.

“Ames? It’s not an attack on you.” He sits next to me, his legs coming to rest beside mine as he holds my hands. “There are certain things that I’d like to try, but I can’t do them with you.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because you’re… you.” He shakes his head when my jaw drops. “No, not like that. It’s just… I see you as a… mom, I guess?”

My head jerks back, a cloud of shame and anger taking over my mind. Sliding my hands out of his hold, I yelp, “Amom?”

“No, notmymom. Just like… the mother of our future children. Or… or my future wife.” He nervously scratches the back of his neck. “I respect you is what I mean. I can’t do that stuff with you.”

God almighty, what in the world does he intend to do with these poor women?

He hesitates, then pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I need to do this, Ames. I feel this huge weight pressing on my chest at the thought of never being single again.” As soon as I open my mouth, his voice rises. “Look at it this way: if I get it out of my system, then there won’t be any of that once we get married.” He pauses. “Can you think of any rules that would make you more comfortable if I… meet up with a woman?”

Burying the feeling deep down, I focus on his question, but it feels like discussing sci-fi. Rules. “I guess… don’t… don’t have sex with anyone I know,” I say, since it looks like common sense has been lacking in this household recently. “Whoever you sleep with, you can’t ever meet again after we’re married. And use protection, because I don’t need syphilis from my fiancé.” I ignore his sigh. “Don’t tell anyone about it.”

“Okay, yes.” He nods. “It’s all fair. Consider it done.” Leaning closer, he whispers, “And in six months we get married. Do you think you could do this? For me—forus?”