Chapter 8 A Meet-Atrocious
A Meet-Atrocious
— T ODAY —
We walk down the stairs toward the clinking of glasses, plates, and forks. Barb texted Ryan and asked to be sent a picture of their wedding’s guest list, then we left our room for an early dinner. After the train journey, all I’m craving is a bite to eat and a good night’s sleep.
We approach the dining room, which follows the same French splendor theme of heavy beige curtains pulled back to reveal double glass doors overlooking the pool. The sun setting outside paints the dark wooden ceiling and floor tiles with an orange light, and tables covered in white linen are peppered across the room and filled with formally dressed guests.
“We might have underestimated the dress code,” Barb says once we halt at the bottom of the stairs. She must feel as self-conscious as I do, because she stares down at her worn-out sweatshirt. With my gray oversize I’m not as think as you drunk I am T-shirt and the pair of faded jean shorts that come mid-thigh, I can sympathize.
Noticing the familiar faces of the chefs at the first table to my right, I’m reminded of Pamela’s email about having an introductory dinner tonight.
“We have to run back and change,” I say, trying to magically stretch the fabric around my legs. I hold on to Barb and back up toward the stairs, but before we can turn around, a crashing noise comes from behind us, jolting the room into silence.
“Amelie?”
My muscles, sore from the long day of carrying luggage and traveling, tense and turn into rock. My mind explodes like a dying star, the fragments of it flying around my head as every sound disappears in the background.
That voice.
It can’t be.
I turn, the movement resulting in a stab of pain, with my neck as stiff as it is, and when my eyes meet his blue-speckled ones, it starts all over again. Like a fireworks factory just exploded in my brain. “I-Ian?”
He’s motionless, gaping as he stands in front of the hotel’s revolving doors, a bottle of champagne that must have slipped through his fingers in broken pieces on the floor around him. He’s wearing a light blue sweater, and he’s so handsome—even more than I remembered. His ash-brown hair sweeps the top of his left eyebrow, and the stubble he had on his cheeks the last time I saw him is gone. The same speckled-blue lakes that represented a source of safety radiate, too, though at this very moment they’re bugging out, wildly terrified.
He walks around the glass shards, staring at me as if I’m a ghost from his previous life. And maybe I am. Once he’s standing a couple of steps from me, he stops. I’m almost certainly imagining it, but the citrusy, clean smell that’s integral to my memory of Ian envelops me. His warmth, his comfort.
Am I dreaming? This can’t be real, right? It’s almost too good to be true. Too fortuitous to be casual. Too fateful even for fate. “You—” My hand clasps Barb’s arm. “You—”
“Yes, I see him too,” she breathes. “It’s a meet-cute.”
Ian’s eyes haven’t moved from me at all. He obviously didn’t expect to see me, either, but what is he doing here at all? Why is he in this hotel, so far outside Mayfield? How is he in front of me?
“What—what are you doing here?” he asks in a warm, velvety voice.
Words. I need to say words. My brain has forgotten how to form them, or maybe the cable connecting it to my mouth has been severed and now information can’t get through. Though the whole sentence in my mind goes, We’re here for an international conference about fine dining, and I’m one of the speakers , the only strangled noise that comes out sounds like “Work.”
He nods, silence stretching again for more seconds than necessary, until Barb clears her voice. “Hmm. I’ll… I’ll be in the dining room.” She brushes past me, her back to Ian, and frantically mouths, “Get it together,” before waddling away.
But how can I get it together? I’m alone with Ian. Well, the hall is filled with people who froze in their position at the commotion and now resume walking from one side of the room to the other, but we might as well be alone. Just as a hotel worker approaches the mess of glass and champagne with a broom, Ian takes a step closer. “You look good.”
“You do too,” I offer, and he really does look good. Elegant, excruciatingly gorgeous, and he’s certainly maintaining his composure better than I am. All of a sudden, I’m aware of the weight I lost since he last saw me. Of my hair, which could use a nice trim, and the fact that I haven’t smiled in a really long time; I wonder if he can see that just by glancing at me.
“I’m sorry, I just…” His hand moves to the back of his head, stretching his lovely sweater over the waistband of his jeans. “I guess I never expected I’d see you again.” My expression must be conveying my feelings about that, because he quickly corrects himself: “I just mean… I’m a little… a lot surprised.”
Likewise. I mean, I was obviously hoping this would be the outcome, but I didn’t expect it to happen like this. On my first night here. With no effort on my part. Now it dawns on me: I should have probably prepared a speech of some sort, because he definitely deserves one. A carefully crafted explanation, a declaration of feelings, and an admission of mistakes. After the way I treated him, I’d beg him on my knees if he asked me to.
“Well, how’s… how’s everything?”
There you go. The most innocuous yet unwanted question he could possibly ask. How’s everything? Shit, pretty much. I’ve got no job, no relationship, basically no friends. My life, compared to when he last saw me, is a whole lot better and worse at the same time.
I’m sure he’d understand if I explained it, but it’s hardly a conversation to have in the middle of a hotel hall, one second after reconnecting, when I’m struggling to get two syllables together.
“It’s… um… good.”
He nods, his eyes darting away for a moment.
“What about you?”
“Good. Great.” His jaw tenses, the lines so sharp they could cut concrete. “Everything’s great.”
An uncomfortable silence stretches yet again as we study each other with tentative smiles. God, there was a time when Ian was the only person I could talk to. The only one who was there, who made an effort to understand; the only one who truly cared. And now we’re back to being strangers.
“It was nice seeing you,” he says, awkwardly looking away. “I should probably—”
“Would you—” I blurt the words even before my brain fully puts the thought together. I just know he’s about to leave, and I’ll be damned if I let him disappear from my life again. “Would you get a coffee with me? Or dinner, or…”
His eyebrows knit with suspicion, as if I just asked for his credit card details.
With a slight shrug, I ignore the bite of nausea in my stomach and say, “I still owe you drinks, don’t I?”
“Hmm.” He looks down between us, then back up at me. The tension in his shoulders tells me he’s either about to say no or he’ll say a very displeased yes. It’s unfair of me to expect he’d be thrilled to see me—not at first—but it’s a punch in the stomach anyway. “Yeah, of course. Of course I would.” He smiles softly. “We should catch up.”
Oh. He almost looks like he… like he means it. “That’s—I’d love that.”
“I’m staying here for a weeklong conference. When do you—”
“A conference?” My heart beats a thousand times faster. “You’re attending the ICCE?”
“Yeah. Are you?” he asks with a confused smile.
“Yes.” I grin widely, my posture relaxing now that he’s less tense. “I’m one of the speakers.”
“You are?” His expression brightens with surprise, and when I nod, he replies, “Me too.”
My smile dies as my throat turns dry. “You’re a chef?” Everything I know about him points to Fuck no . Hell, the man has the weirdest eating habits I’ve ever heard of. But the possibility terrifies me anyway. If he is a chef, then he either knows who I am or he’s about to find out. He’ll know what the past six months of my life have been like, and not from me. He’ll hear about the article, about my father, about Frank and—holy fuck, I’m going to be sick.
“Actually, I manage and co-own a restaurant here in Mayfield. Wait—you’re a chef.” He chuckles to himself. “Right. You’re a chef. It makes sense.”
And it makes sense he’s a restaurant manager. Much more than his being a chef, anyway. He said his dad is friends with Barb’s father, and Mr. Wilkow is a chef. My money is on Ian’s dad being a chef too. “So, hmm, what restaurant—”
“Amelie! Ian!”
A woman approaches us with a tentative grin, and when we smile back, she offers us her hand to shake. “Hi! Oh, it’s so nice to meet you both. Pamela Gilbert—I work for the ICCE. Was the trip all right?”
When I nod, Ian affably says, “My trip was short, actually. Are we late for dinner?”
“No, you’re not.” Pamela gives his shoulder a squeeze, then prompts us to follow her. “We’re still waiting on some members of the team.” We walk through the busy dining room as Ian and I throw curious looks at each other.
Even though I wish I could have told him about everything that happened myself, I don’t mind so much that he’ll hear all the gossip about me. Ian’s never judged me once, and I’m far too happy he’s next to me again to care about anything else. “Come. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
We walk to one of the last tables, where I see a few familiar faces beside Barb. Phil and Gianni, two chefs of That’s Amore, a nationally famous Italian restaurant, as well as Rosalia, a Mexican chef I’ve met only once before at a similar event. Pamela mentions the names of two more chefs, and after they all wave, the group continues chatting and eating.
Barb has saved us two spots, but once I sit down, I notice Ian took the chair on the opposite side of the table, the one that’s farthest from me. My shoulders slump as my eyes meet his, and with a light smile he looks away.
I guess not all walls have turned to dust.
Pushing the sadness down, I exchange polite glances with the seven other people at the table, but the vibe is definitely weird. I’m certain they’ve read the article. They all know: they’re judging me, and on top of that, they’re all wearing dresses and blazers and pants. Not a single inappropriate T-shirt in sight.
I shrink into my chair, but when I glance back at Ian, I notice he’s also worriedly looking around. Because the people at the table are staring not only at me but at him too.
There’s no way they know, right? They can’t have any idea that Ian and I have met before—that we’re much closer than any other person at this table is to the next one. But then, what’s going on?
Pamela clears her voice, her head bobbing from him to me a couple of times. “Obviously, you know each other already. I’m aware your fathers don’t always get along, but…”
I tune the rest of it out. Our fathers? Who’s his father?
He must be asking himself the very same question about me, because his eyes narrow, and just as I put the pieces together, he opens his mouth too. “Ian Roberts ?” I ask at the same moment as he exclaims, “Amelie Preston ?”
Oh, this is definitely a meet-atrocious.