Page 55 of The Wedding Menu

“She had absolutely no time or patience for my heartbreak. And she was not okay with my ‘nonsense about marriage.’ That’s what she called it.” He takes a deep breath, then lets it out with a sense of resignation. “Anyway, as I said, she got sick, and it was one of those diseases that’s long and debilitating and known to be fatal since the beginning. In the end, she was nothing like the woman who raised me. And seeing her like that… I wished she would just die.”

“Ian…” I whisper.

“I know. It sounds horrible. It took me a lot of therapy to accept the way I was feeling.”

“It’s not horrible,” I tell him. Not for the first time in the past few months, I wish there were no phone between us. That he was here, or I was there, and right now I could hug him tight and whisper in his ear that his feelings are perfectly normal. I can’t imagine what it would be like watching someone so exuberant lose all their light. It’s even harder to imagine seeing someone you love go through that.

“Well, the dumbass decided if she was not going to be by myside for the next fifty years to remind me not to give up on love, she’d motivate me enough to remind myself.”

“O… kay?”

“So when the queen died and the whole kingdom mourned her loss, the prince found out he’d been left fifty percent of her inheritance, and he’d only receive the other half on one condition.”

Bursting into a smile that takes over my whole face, I say, “He had to get married.”

“Mm-hmm. Can you believe this lunatic?”

“Not only can I believe her, but I love her.”

Ian mumbles, “Yeah. I love her too.”

As I get up to set the lasagna into the oven, I ask, “What about the princess?”

“What about her?”

“Well, did she end up with the ogre? Are they still having sad sex? Or did she come back for the prince?”

“No, she never came back,” he says. “And by the way, she’s anything but a princess. Maybe one of those wrinkly witches with a dark hood over their almost bald heads and huge, hairy warts on their noses.”

“Not a princess. Got it.” I bite my lower lip. “So, then, what should I call her?”

“You could call her a bi—” When I laugh, he sputters an amused chuckle too. “Ella. Her name is Ella.”

LES PLATS DE RÉSISTANCE

Ratatouille Equals War

— TODAY—

“Ella isn’t just the Marguerite’s chef, is she?” Barb asks, following behind me as I quickly ascend the stairs. “Is that why we’re running away?”

We’re not running away. Ella introduced herself. I shook her hand and said I’d meet them soon enough. Then—well, then I guess we ran away.

“Ames? Pregnant women should never exercise,” Barb says with a quick pant.

Halting and turning around immediately, I stare at her bump, my hands hovering over it as if it’ll fall off. “Shit. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she says with an amused grin. “Don’t you know anything about pregnancy? I said that so that you’d stop.” When I glare, she tilts her head. “Come on. Who was that?”

“Isabella—EllaClarke, of course,” I grumble as I make my way up the stairs.

“But you know her.”

Passing a hand over my face, I hop onto the last step and turn to Barb. “I’veheard ofher. She and Ian were… engaged.” As her eyes widen, I clarify, “No, not when I met him. A long time ago.”

“But they didn’t get married?”

I shake my head.