Page 46 of The Wedding Menu

“Hmm. All about that single life, are you?” I ask.

“Absolutely. Being single means that Icanhelp you out with your wedding planning. I choose what to do whenever I want to. And my happiness only depends on me, which isn’t too bad either.”

Though it’s in no way unreasonable, I just have this gut feeling there’s more to his complete rejection of relationships. But I’ve insisted plenty before to no avail, so I switch to the back camera, then point it at the throw blankets. Narrowing his eyes, Ian slurps from the straw. “The gray ones look cozy.”

“Don’t you think there should be some vegetables on your plate?” I ask. “Hot dogs and chocolate isn’t exactly a balanced meal.”

“I don’t eat anything green.”

“Excuse me?”

“No vegetables. And fruit… fruit isn’t great either. But I’m a fine snack connoisseur.”

“Huh,” I say, surprised. “You’re a junk food junkie.” When he hums in agreement, I grimace. “How does someone not like fruit?”

“I don’t mind the taste, but most of it has a weird texture. Apples are fine, but bananas? Persimmons?Mango?”

I can’t help laughing. He sounds personally offended by mangos’ texture. “Tell me more.”

“More about my eating habits?” He looks away, then clicks his fingers. “Water. It’s a very disappointing fluid.”

“Is it?”

“I don’t understand why someone would choose, among all the fun drinks out there, to drink water. Soda is better than water. Juice. Beer. Coffee. And of course—”

“Chocolate milk, sure.” I think of saying something about his health but don’t. “What else?”

Letting out a long “Hmmm,” he stretches back. “Unpopular opinion? The best foods are the ones you can eat with your hands.”

“All right,” I say, though it comes out sounding like a question.

“And cheap food. Cheap food isthebest food. And, mind you, it’s not about money. It’s just… processed, cheap, boxed food tastes much better than anything fresh. Always.”

I scoff loudly. He’s insane. No one—and I mean no one—in this world would agree with him. “You’re out of your mind.”

“And you’re out of…” He stares down at the list. “Patio furniture? I thought you lived in a condo.”

“I do.”

He leans forward, dramatically hitting his forehead against the table, then sets the list down. “How about luggage? It’s useful, expensive, and you can use it with Frank. To hide chunks of him.”

I switch to the front-facing camera and give him a pleading look, nonverbally begging him to drop the topic. It’s sinking my already horrible mood.

“All right, all right.” He bites into his hot dog. “Any progress on the wedding, then?” he asks. “Besides this?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why?” He dramatically brings a hand to his chest. “Is your long-distance engagement not as peachy as it sounds?”

I shrug and look around the store. Where the hellisthe luggage?

“Fine. What about the dress? Are you still holding on to it?” When I say nothing, he groans. “Oh, come on. Seriously, Amelie? What the hell happened?”

“That’s not a good topic, either, Ian. Drop it.”

He laughs, the sound oddly familiar and heartwarming, as if he’s someone whom I’ve known for a lifetime, who’s happy. It certainly feels as if I know Ian better than most people in my life. “See, Amelie, that’s not going to work for me. I allow my friends one taboo topic. And you only get one, so choose carefully.”

I see suitcases, and like a mirage in the desert I sprint toward them. “Is that so?”