Chapter 2 Unpopular Opinions
Unpopular Opinions
— O NE YEAR AGO —
Ian’s hand against the small of my back is innocent enough to keep me relaxed as we swing lightly on the spot. Though there’s nothing wrong with dancing with a stranger at a wedding, the moment his hand slides an inch south or there’s less than an appropriate space between us, I’m out of here.
To Ian’s credit, he’s kept it respectful.
“So did you like the ring?”
I tilt my head and grip his shoulder, enjoying the feel of the tequila swishing in my stomach and loosening my muscles. His hand gently holds mine as he leads us in a few basic steps. “The ring?”
“You said you know your preancé is about to propose.” He twirls us around. “I’m assuming you found a ring in his sock drawer?”
“Oh.” I smile, excitement pooling in my stomach. “I didn’t, but he left his computer open the other day, and I saw an email from a jewelry store.”
He rubs his lips in thought. “Hmm.”
“He’s not a jewelry guy, so it’s definitely about a ring.”
“Well, Amelie, not to rain on your ‘pre-parade,’ but it sounds like you don’t even know if he bought a ring.” He bites his lower lip. “It could have been a watch. A gift for his mom. An unwanted newsletter.”
My posture stiffens. “The subject was ‘The pleasure of rings,’ and the first line said ‘Thank you for your purchase.’?”
His smile falls and his steps freeze. With a shocked expression, he studies me, his blue eyes wide and his forehead creasing. “?‘The pleasure of rings’?” he repeats.
“Yeah.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Gripping my hand, he continues swinging on the spot. “And what was the name of the jewelry store?”
“Le Love Bijoux.”
With a nod, he lets go of my back and grabs his phone from his pocket. He opens a new window and types away while I wait, my foot nervously tapping on the floor. When he’s done, he hisses through his teeth as he sets his phone back. “Ugh. God, I hate it when I’m right.”
“Right?” My heart quickens. “Right about what?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he mumbles, “I don’t think I have the heart to tell you.”
“Well, come on, now,” I insist. Whatever he saw obviously wasn’t good. What the hell could it be? “You know I can just check it myself.”
“Nope.” He avoids looking at me, his lips pressed tightly, as if he’s trying to stop himself from laughing. “I don’t want you to cry at your friend’s wedding.”
“I won’t cry, Ian.”
At my annoyed tone, he looks down at me. He hesitates for a few seconds, and when I prompt him to speak, he says, “?‘ The pleasure of rings ,’ Amelie?”
“What about it!”
He leans closer as if we’re about to share a secret. “Well, I’m going to assume you know what a cock ring is?”
Oh, Lord. Did he say cock ring ? I open my mouth, and without making a sound, I shake my head.
“No?” He hums. “Solo use, then, huh? Frank sounds like a fun guy.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I whisper.
His eyes soften, every trace of amusement gone from his face. He cups my shoulder, the grip of his fingers delicate and comforting as he says, “Le Love Bijoux is a sex shop, Amelie. And a cock ring is a vibrating silicone ring you put around your—”
“Got it,” I say, raising my hand to stop him.
A sex shop. A cock ring. He was never going to propose to me. Fifteen years— fifteen —and he’s still not proposing. We’ll never get married, will we? I might as well let Martha steal my wedding, because I won’t ever have one.
I frown down at his suit, my eyes on the undulating pattern of his blue tie, and when his hand rubs between my shoulder blades, I force myself to smile. “Well, I guess you did fix my wedding problem.”
“Your wedding problem is hardly fixed. If anything,” he says with a dismissive gesture, “Martha will be all the more selfish now.” He looks deeply into my eyes as we resume gently swinging on the spot. “Which brings me to your solution.” There’s a beat of silence. “Fuck Martha’s wedding. When Frank proposes, you book the venue, buy the dress, the—whatever it is you said before. If it’s important to you, have the wedding you want.”
I look away with a sneer. If the solution were that simple, I would have thought about it all by myself. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“She’d hate me. I’d hate it too. We can’t have the same wedding.”
He sighs, lost in thought for a few seconds, then his eyes widen as he spins us around. “Even better: elope. Just get it done and over with. No more headache.”
Once he registers my eyes bulging in terror, he whistles. “Got it. Not an option.”
“ Definitely not an option.”
His shoulder slumps beneath my fingers. “I think there’s only one thing you can do.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t partake in an archaic ritual that has, at this point in time, lost all meaning.” When my eyebrows knit, he throws his palm up. “Marriage made sense when women were a burden for their fathers and an instrument for men who wanted to continue their bloodlines.” He clicks his tongue. “The fathers would get three cows, a goat or two, and off the women went.”
“Jesus,” I breathe out, horrified. “ That’s your view on marriage?”
“It is. And that’s just marriage. Don’t even get me started on weddings.”
I study his light blue eyes, which I now notice are speckled with darker spots, and wait for him to say his piece. I don’t know Ian, but I know his piece is coming.
When his warm gaze meets mine, there’s a devilish quality to his smile that’s both concerning and inexplicably attractive. “A multibillion-dollar industry that has lots to do with status and power and little to do with marriage. Fireworks, carriage rides, doves. Impossibly pretentious food, increasingly ridiculous themes, hundreds of guests you’ve hardly even spoken to in years,” he scoffs. “Weddings are for politics, not love.”
Noticing that my face has gone slack with shock, Ian shrugs. “Am I wrong?”
“I don’t know if you’re wrong, but I’m ready to bet you’re divorced.”
Shaking his head, he laughs. “Sorry, never been married. I’m just opinionated.”
“About weddings,” I insist. Nobody hates marriage that much without a very personal story. “Why’s that?”
“No reason.” He spins me around, his breath fanning over my face as I land back in front of him. Whiskey mixed with something fresh. “I’m full of great opinions about anything.”
“Of course you are.”
“I mean it. Ask me the first thing that comes to your mind.”
“All right.” The song changes to a slower ballad. “Ariana Grande?”
He slowly shakes his head. “Shamefully underrated.”
“The color orange.”
“Not nearly as good as green.”
“Really?”
“Really. Rainy days are better than sunny days, making your bed in the morning is a waste of time, pumpkin lattes taste nothing like pumpkin, and Christmas isn’t the best holiday.”
I take in a lungful of air as I stand motionless, watching him for a long while. He must be used to it, even take some pleasure out of the shock on my face, because his smirk deepens. “Christmas?” I whisper eventually. “You’ve got a better holiday than Christmas?”
“St. Patrick’s Day. Green beer, cheerful leprechauns, unbearable bagpipe music that only sounds good when you’re drunk.” He makes a humming sound that rumbles in his chest. “Hard to beat.”
I think of arguing back with eggnog, snow, and gift exchanges, but something tells me he’d have a strong and unrelatable opinion about those too.
There’s a charming smile on his face as we silently dance to the rest of the song, and once the music stops and Barb’s mom begins her speech, he lets me go. We’ve swung to the other side of the dance floor, away from most guests, and it looks as if the realization hits him not long after it has hit me.
For a moment we both stand there looking at each other out of the corners of our eyes. Should we go back to my table? Should we keep dancing? Should we just part ways?
“You want to hear another one of my indisputable opinions?”
I nod, relieved he took matters into his own hands.
“Cake’s overrated. It’s too sweet, too bland, too dry.” He doesn’t wait for an answer and instead rises on the tips of his toes to look over the crowd of people. “But tonight’s cake was the only good one in history. We should find it and eat some more.”
I scoff, a laugh spilling out. I’m afraid to ask whether he means we should sneak into the kitchen and steal some cake, but before I can, Martha’s voice erupts from the crowd. “Amelie! Pictures!”
Even as frazzled as she is after sweating on the dance floor for hours, she’s breathtaking. Golden-brown locks frame her round face, her catlike eyes greener than usual, and her smile filled with exhilaration. The strobe lights illuminate her dress, making the millions of golden sequins shine like she’s some sort of mystical mermaid. When she shimmies—she must have also enjoyed the open bar—the fabric flows along her movements, her curves looking as splendid as ever.
“Speak of the devil,” I say out of the side of my mouth with a friendly wave.
As she retreats into the crowd, Ian laughs. “ That was Martha?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s not the pretty one. She’s—” He narrows his eyes. “Yes, she’s beautiful, but… come on.”
When he points at me, waving his hand up and down, I stifle a chuckle. Being told you’re pretty is a wonderful ego boost. Even more so when it comes from a handsome and quick-witted guy like Ian, and when your own preancé doesn’t say it as often anymore. It’s one of those things that happen with time, I guess. The small, everyday gestures fade as your comfort grows.
“Thank you.” I straighten my dress, then throw a look behind me. “I’m afraid I have to…”
He waves in dismissal. “Of course. Go ahead.”
“Sorry about the cake.”
With a playful wink, he drops his hands into his pockets. “We’ll get cake at the next wedding.”
“Right.” My fingers awkwardly play with the flaps cinching my dress, and with a quick smile I offer, “It was great meeting you.”
His pearly-white teeth peek through his lips. “Likewise.”
With a little hesitation, I turn around, then back to him again. There’s an expectant look in his eyes as we peer at each other for a few seconds, and I soak in the fact that we won’t be sharing cake at the next wedding because there likely won’t be another wedding we’ll both happen to be at. And though I’ve just met Ian, the thought saddens me.
Living in a small town like Creswell, most of the people I engage with I’ve known since I was in kindergarten, and it’s refreshing to meet someone new. Meeting someone new and getting along this well is basically divine intervention. God, I can think of at least three girlfriends I could set him up with. But he’s probably not interested, right? People at our age aren’t looking for new friends, and all I am is his entertainment for tonight.
“Just do it,” he says, his smile so bright and joyful, it’s contagious.
“Do what?”
“Whatever you’re considering. Don’t think about it.”
We share another silent yet word-filled look. I am considering something. He’s right. The fact that he knows only makes my decision easier.
Fishing into my bag, I take out my phone. “Give me your number. You’ve been nice enough to listen to my problems, and if it weren’t for you, I’d still think I’m almost engaged instead of knowing my boyfriend’s creative when it comes to fiddling with himself.”
He smothers a smile.
“The least I can do is get you the only cake you ever liked.”
His brows rise for a second, and—considering it doesn’t look like he knows I’m a chef—I expect him to ask follow-up questions, but he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs the phone, taps on the screen, and gives it back with a winning grin. “There. Oh, wait.”
He walks to the closest table and stretches toward the center, causing the guests sitting at it to give him the side-eye suspiciously. Even more so when he grabs one of the flowers belonging to the centerpiece.
He walks back to me, then holds out a yellow daisy. “For turning my night around.”
I chuckle, awkwardly accepting the flower and rolling the stem between my thumb and index finger. “Thank you.”
With a dazzling smile, he waves and walks away. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Amelie.”
Three hundred pictures later, I fetch my jacket, congratulate the newlyweds, and leave the venue, my yellow daisy in hand. The party isn’t over yet, and people are still dancing to the music of the DJ, but I’ve been here much longer than they have, and I’m so exhausted, I’m seeing double.
Stepping into the brisk night air, I find Barbara’s grandma looking down at the white steps of the venue, and with a smile I approach her. “Mrs. Wilkow?”
She turns to me, her eyes glossy and tired. When she says nothing, I say more loudly, “Do you need help to get down the stairs?”
“Oh. Yes, yes.” She holds on to my arm and, step by step, we walk. “It was a beautiful wedding, wasn’t it?”
“Gorgeous!” I shout. Damn right it was a beautiful wedding. Martha and I helped Barbara plan it right down to the tiniest detail. Although the photographer was late and half the flowers were a little on the sick side, Barbara looked happy, and that’s the way you know a wedding has been successful.
“Did you have fun? Did that man behave like a gentleman?” she croaks.
I squint as I try to figure out what she’s talking about, when it hits me. Ian gave up his chair for her; she must have seen he came to sit next to me. “Very,” I reassure her with a soft pat on her hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You’ll make a great couple.” With another unsure step, she squeezes my hand hard enough that it might just need to be amputated. “My husband and I were one too. Everyone would turn around when we entered a room.”
I can’t help but frown. I’ve known this lady for as long as I’ve known Barb, and she’s always been sharp. Unfortunately, things have changed in the past year. “I have a boyfriend, Mrs. Wilkow. Remember? Frank. Dark hair, glasses?”
Her mouth widens, her lost eyes focusing after a few seconds. “Oh.” She brings both hands to her cheeks. “Did you reject that handsome man? Oh, it’s all my fault: I forgot.”
I place a hand on her shoulder, trying to ease her concern. I won’t stand by as this woman has a heart attack at her granddaughter’s wedding. “No, no. It wasn’t like that, Mrs. Wilkow. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Wasn’t it?” she asks, her eyes wandering to the people walking beside us. “He asked me to sit in his chair so he’d have an excuse to talk to you. He said you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.”