Page 98 of The Wedding Menu

“No door is truly closed if you have hairpins and the right attitude.” When I halt, he chuckles and positions himself behind me to push me forward. “Come on, just joking.”

I let him drag me to the tall doors of the building, where he taps on his phone and then looks up at me with a huge smile.

“New unpopular opinion,” he says, raising a finger. “Road trips are better than flying off somewhere.”

He gestures to me to respond with one of my own, and after giving it a little thought, I say, “Your twenties aren’t the best years of your life.”

“Good one.” He thinks for half a second. “Beyoncé is overrated.”

I scoff. “Beyoncé? I have half a mind to leave.”

“Great voice, gorgeous, but her songs…” He shrugs, then points at me.

“The letterQis basically useless. It shouldn’t even exist.”

“It’s quasi-quarrelsome that you’d quench your questionable quest.Qis a quixotic, quizzical letter. Quintessential, quirky, and quaint.”

My laughter is loud, and since it’s so late in the evening, a few heads turn our way. God, he’s like a dorky volcano of useless opinions. “Are we spending our night here on these steps?” I ask as I point around us.

“No.” He looks at his phone, smiling mischievously. “Okay. He’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

The old lock rattles, and as the heavy wooden door opens, a short, middle-aged man with gray hair peeks at us from behind a pair of thick glasses. “Hello. Ian, I presume?”

Ian nods. “The one and only.”

“Come in.”

The man opens the door a little more, the beam of light broadening across the dark steps. With a smile, he motions to us to enter, and despite my surprised looks, Ian says nothing as he gently pulls my arm, prompting me to follow.

We walk through the long corridor, darkened shops all around us and only the echo of our quick steps on the checkered tiles to break the silence. Our mysterious guide turns left until suddenly we’re faced with a two-story, fully lit-up… bridal shop.

The bridal shop where I bought my dress.

“What—” I turn to Ian, my eyes wide. “What—”

As I take a step back, he follows. “Whoa. I imagined resistance but not a runaway bride.”

“What are we—” I glance at the frowning man, who is following our interaction, then back to Ian. Ian, who’s brought me to abridal shop. “What the hell is this?”

“You’re getting married in less than three months.”

“I know.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have a dress.”

“So, wedding stuff?” My shoulders droop. “That’s what you want to do tonight?”

“Fuck no.” Fitting his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he says, “What I want to do is eat a quesadilla—by the way, an amazing Q-word—and bring you to the arcade. But that’d be far too romantic, and anyway, this isn’t about what I want.”

“But it is. This date—it’s foryou. You needed—”

He takes a step toward me, then squeezes my arms in his big, warm hands. “Amelie, why won’t you buy a dress?”

My throat closes up as I realize he’s implying there’s more to my hesitation than I’ve owned up to. “I told you. Martha has the one I wanted.”

“But youdoneed a dress.” His left brow quirks. “Are you sure that’s the only reason?”