Page 82 of The Wedding Menu

“Okay,” I whisper. Unfortunately, it offers only minimal relief.

We stand, silently watching each other for a while, until he points at the door. “Well, I’ll go.”

“Okay,” I whisper again.

He turns to leave, and like every time he’s walked away from me, it’s like a knife to my stomach. As though blood were gushing out and I slowly lose my life’s essence with the awareness that the only person who can save me is abandoning me. The sense of urgency, of every second that’s passing and how I’m losing him more and more every day crashes over me.

“What if it was just sex?” I blurt.

He halts and watches me carefully over his shoulder, his hand on the doorframe. “What?”

“What if we agree tojusthave sex?”

He slowly turns, lips parted, until he smiles. “I don’t think we could manage that, could we?”

“Me?” I ask. That’s who he’s talking about. It’s pretty clear. “I can.”

“And it’s not just a way to get me to change my mind about—”

“I’m offended you’d suggest that, honestly.” Sure, I hope he’ll fall in love with me all over again, but that’s regardless of the sex. Do I think sex could help? Yes, but it’s not why I want to have sex with him.

He’s Ian. I’ve wanted him for a whole year, despite lying to myself for so long. “Just forget about it.”

I turn to the sink and continue washing my cup, the high-pitched sound of running water the only one in the kitchen. Once I’m done, I set the cup down and turn around to find Ian still there, staring at me.

After studying my questioning expression for a while, he nods. “Okay. One night.”

Fuck It? Not?

— THREEMONTHS ANDTWOWEEKS TOAMELIE’SWEDDING—

I take in the large, dusty room. Three out of four walls in the space are made of glass doors that lead to a balcony overlooking the sea. The dark wooden deck might be the most gorgeous part of the property. When I stepped on it earlier, I could smell the sea salt, see the waves crashing against the rocks below. I could hear the seagulls calling and almost felt like I was on one of those boats I could see in the distance.

Glancing at the walls, I picture them coated in white paint instead of their actual dirty gray. They are arched at the top, with beautiful crown moldings at every corner and around the missing overhead lighting. Debris is scattered around the room, but beneath it the beige tiles are intact. It’s been established I’m no contractor, but I think once polished they’d look as good as new.

I enter the large kitchen in the back and duck to avoid a big spiderweb. All the appliances in here are prehistoric. The first thing I’d trash would be the line of fridges in the back—no, maybe the microwave. But once they’re all gone, there’ll be enough space to equip the workspace with all the gadgets I’ve ever wanted.

This place is perfect.

Once I’m back in the dining room, the real estate agent points at the phone against his ear and mouths a “Sorry” as he paces back and forth on the deck. I wave to dismiss him, then take my phone out and, after tapping on Ian’s name in the contact list, send him a text.

Amelie:

Busy?

Ian:

For you? Never.

Pressing on the “call” button, I bring the phone to my ear.

“Jeez, Amelie. I was in the middle of sex with a Brazilian dancer,” he says in an annoyed voice. “You call at the most inconvenient times, don’t you?”

“Some people just say hello, Ian.”

“Hello, Ian.”

“You’re twelve.”