Chapter 13 No W-words Allowed
No W-words Allowed
— S IX M ONTHS TO A MELIE’S W EDDING —
Eyeing my reflection in the mirror, I turn from one side to the other, then check the way the chiffon off-the-shoulder dress wraps tightly around my hips. The forest-green fabric looks even darker on my fair skin, the flowy elastic sleeves are sheer, and there’s a deep slit up the side. Suspiciously similar to one I wanted Martha and Barb to wear for my wedding.
“What do you think, babe?” Martha asks from the couch behind me. Barb and one of Martha’s colleagues, Danielle, are wearing gorgeous dresses in the same color, though one’s considerably shorter, and the other has a soft tulle strap over one shoulder. Martha, in her regular clothes, is looking at us appreciatively.
“It’s beautiful, M.” I adjust the elastic around my waist and meet Barb’s eyes. I’m sure she’s noticed the similarity between the dress I wanted for my bridesmaids and the one I’m wearing today, but she says nothing, and neither do I.
“Come on, twirl! Strike a pose!” Martha squeals excitedly as the shop assistant hands her a glass of champagne. With my own glass in hand, I spin, showing off the way the dress follows my movements, the split reaching my knee as the light fabric caresses my skin.
“God, you look great,” Martha says, gently squeezing my hand. “Are you happy with it?”
“So happy.” Stepping off the pedestal, I stare down at the bubbles in my flute, trying to really feel happy, but I guess my efforts are all going toward not causing a scene today, because my chest feels utterly hollow. Martha and I haven’t discussed the wedding gown yet, but, considering where we are, I know what’s coming for me.
As she follows Barb and the shop assistant to the back, I sit next to Danielle on the white couch and take out my phone. No new texts. I’m not surprised, because the last time I heard from Ian was only a couple of days ago, and texting him right now would mean breaking the rule.
“Did you get it?” a voice calls from the changing rooms.
“Excuse me?” I ask Martha.
“The invitation. We sent them all out on Tuesday.”
I stall with a sip of champagne, trying to get the weight in my chest to settle. My progress with wedding planning has been abysmal despite all of Ian’s help, and all the joy I thought I’d feel at this point has either been smothered by Martha stealing everything or by Frank. “Didn’t get it yet!”
“I can’t wait. Trev and I will go talk to a caterer upstate next week, so I might not have time for a call, but text me the moment it arrives. I want to know what you think.”
I roll my eyes and, immediately feeling a deep sense of guilt, take a long, calming breath.
Jealousy is such an ugly, unwanted emotion. So what if she copied my wedding and now I need to settle for plan B? So what if her fiancé is involved in the planning the way I wish Frank would be? I should be happy for her. I’ve always believed there’s enough sun for everyone, even though lately it feels like there’s a perpetual gray cloud following me everywhere. Maybe I’m just a horrible, small person.
Stomach churning with remorse, I stare down at my phone. I’m probably smaller than a small person, because though I said I shouldn’t, all I want to do is text Ian. Let him distract me.
Amelie:
Unpopular opinion: bridal shops are depressing.
Staring at the screen, I wait. He’s always quick to text back, so if he doesn’t, I’ll take it as a sign. We shouldn’t break the rule.
Ian:
A huge scam too. They talk you into spending months of income on a dress you only wear once.
Ridiculous, don’t you think?
I can’t help the sense of relief that overcomes me, my lungs filling with air.
He answered.
Amelie:
Totally. And no other shop encourages day drinking.
Ian:
Oh, and strawberries and champagne?
It’s not a great pairing, and someone needs to come out and say it.
Amelie:
Right?! How about some cheese nachos instead?
Ian:
You’re reading my mind, Amelie.
Plus, cheese powder is surely easier to get off white tulle than strawberry juice.
Fighting back a smile, I scour my thoughts to try to find other absurd reasons for bridal shops being so bad. Really, they aren’t. They’re fancy, with soothing music, comfortable couches, and gorgeous dresses. Plus, there’s always this cheery atmosphere of new beginnings.
But I don’t want to stop texting.
Just as I begin typing, he does too.
Ian:
PFP.
I’m guessing he thinks I’m here for a fitting for my own wedding, so I approach the mirror and snap a shot of my reflec-tion.
“Oh, yeah,” Martha says as she enters the room, adjusting the forest-green ankle-length dress Barb’s also wearing. “Send it to me too. My future mother-in-law needs to approve.”
Her lips twist, but as she quickly turns to the mirror and talks with Barb about her upcoming honeymoon, I check the picture. My smile is wide, my hip tilted, and I hope it’s enough to distract Ian from the fact that I’m at a bridal shop. I can’t keep talking about my nonexistent wedding planning.
Ian:
You’re gorgeous enough to marry.
If one was inclined to that sort of nonsense.
Amelie:
Still no story, huh?
Ian:
Nope. No story.
I mentally stomp my foot. There definitely is a story, and seeing as he’s all up in my business all the time, I won’t rest until I know it. But just as I prepare to type my next text, Martha squeezes my shoulder.
“Ames?” she asks in her whiny voice, and, even before meeting her begging green eyes, I know what this will be about. “Do you think, since we’re here, I could try on the dress?”
“ My dress, you mean?” I ask, turning to face her.
With her shoulders drooping, she nods. “Yes. Could I try it on? Because I can’t find anything else I like, and Trev’s mom keeps asking. It’s just so stressful, and since you’re not engaged yet—I mean, by the time Frank proposes, who knows? Maybe you’ll have changed your mind. There’ll be different trends and dresses and—”
“Actually, Frank proposed before leaving for Mayfield.” I set the flute down, my arms bowing at my hips. “So, no. I’ll need my dress, and I’ll need it soon. Six months, to be exact.”
Barb and Martha stare at me, open-mouthed and speechless. When Martha got engaged, she planned a whole party where she got us to dress up and announced it over a microphone. It’s one of the few memories I have of that night, before the Jell-O shots started being passed around, but I’m fairly certain there were fireworks. The news of her wedding certainly wasn’t sprung on people during an argument.
“You’re engaged?”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell us?”
“Ryan didn’t say anything either!”
“Let me see the ring!”
The saliva in my mouth thickens. God, I’ve got no ring. I have no ring, and I didn’t even think about it until this very moment. I doubt Frank even remotely planned for it, seeing as he’s busy living his best life.
“It’s… it’s being resized, actually.” I fidget with my dress, tugging and pushing as if it doesn’t look perfect already. “And we didn’t want to make a big deal.”
“But it’s your wedding,” Barb says softly. “You love weddings, Ames. You’ve been dreaming about this moment for—”
“And you have dreamed the exact opposite for just as long,” I say sharply, turning to Martha, and feeling a pang of remorse at cutting Barb off in mid-sentence. “Care to tell me why you’re after my classic white dress now?”
She hesitates, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I just… I realized it’s not appropriate to get married in a short red dress.” With an uncomfortable giggle, she shrugs. “And you have such good taste with these things. I don’t have a shred of a clue.”
“Not appropriate ?” I throw a disgruntled look at Barb, who shrugs. This is the woman who only seven months ago, at her birthday, was hanging upside down from her boyfriend’s shoulder and drinking from a keg of warm beer while everyone shouted, “Drink.” She complained, demanding everyone shout, “Swallow,” instead.
“You’re obsessed with weddings!” Martha continues. “You can find other things you’ll like. Please, Ames, your dress is the first one I don’t hate.” As her eyes well with tears and her lips wobble, she continues, “I’ve tried on hundreds. Hundreds!”
“Martha, I’m sorry, but—”
“You’re always saying how much you owe me, right? How much I changed your life and how without me you would have had a depressing childhood,” she says with a pout. “Can’t you do this one thing—just one—to pay me back?”
“Martha, that’s not nice,” Barb interjects as she stands. Considering her soft-spoken nature, so unlike mine and Martha’s, this is a full-blown scene for her. “You can’t manipulate her into doing what you want.”
“How am I manipulating her?” Martha shrieks.
She’s using my gratitude to guilt me into giving her my wedding dress, that’s how. And it’s bad enough when I do it to myself, but that she would? This is so unlike her. “Martha, what the hell is going on with you?”
Sitting on the couch, she begins sobbing wildly. Danielle pats her shoulder, and Barb meets my gaze with an apologetic expression, then holds out some tissues for her.
“Please, Ames, just this one last thing,” she says through a wall of tears. “I promise I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t desperate.”
I don’t know what’s going on. Frank is acting like the very opposite of the man I love, Martha is basically unrecognizable, and the one event I’ve been waiting my whole life for is turning into a nightmare. It’s an avalanche, burying me alive and leaving no escape whatsoever. Wherever I turn, there’s just more and more weight keeping me trapped until I can’t breathe.
I speed toward the changing rooms, the need to get out of this place overpowering. I slam the door behind me after spitting out, “Just have the dress.”
I navigate the aisle of the store, throwing random glances at gardening products and vases. There’s a cute black ceramic one with a white rim, but never has a plant survived my care, so, with a yawn, I move forward and take my phone out. The last thing I feel like doing is choosing a bunch of crap we don’t need for our registry.
On the other hand, I’ve been thinking about my comeback to the Marguerite’s last tweet almost obsessively, but nothing has felt right so far.
I tap on Twitter, and once the app opens, their latest tweet is the first thing that shows up. It’s a retweet of That’s Amore’s update, where the Italian restaurant wished the Marguerite a happy tenth anniversary.
Seizing the opportunity, I click on the “new tweet” button.
I glance at the shopwindow, a pathetic little rush of excitement making me giggle, and stare at the rain still pouring down in buckets outside like it’s been doing for the entire month of September. When my phone vibrates, I peek at the screen, a certain disappointment settling on my chest as I notice it isn’t Frank. But it lasts only a second before my eyes widen and the humming in my veins quickens.
Ian is calling me.
His name blinks as I wonder what to do with my hands, my heart rate spiking. He’s never done this before.
My hand trembles, and after a long moment of hesitation I answer and press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hi,” he says in his warm, deep voice. “Hope you don’t mind me calling. I was thinking about you.”
With a newfound lightness, I walk along one of the aisles of the shop, glancing at the items on either side of me. “No, of course not.” A couple starts making out on my right, so I turn left and keep going. “I couldn’t remember your voice, you know?”
“Couldn’t you? Way to bruise my ego.”
“It’s a beautiful voice,” I offer.
“Do you remember my face? It’s my most striking feature and biggest source of pride.”
I grab what looks like a mug but on second thought could also be a soap holder and shake my head. “Really? Not your personality? Your sense of humor?”
“Nope. With these eyes? This dashing smile? My face is the best I can offer by far.” There’s some noise of plastic crinkling. “Anyway, I figured I should check on the bride-to-be.”
“That’s nice. Thank you.”
Someone next to me picks up what’s either a lamp or a record player, the scan gun in their hand beeping obnoxiously.
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m…” I check the price of the “could be mug, could be soap holder” and shiver. “I’m making the wedding registry.”
“Fuck—sorry. I can call back,” he says. It sounds like he’s got his mouth full, and the awkward-sounding words make me smile.
“No, no. Actually, I could use some company. Based on the number of guests, they suggested I find about a hundred items, and even with my list I only got to fifty. I’ll be spending some time here.” Setting down what I’m increasingly convinced is neither a mug nor a soap holder and rather a paperweight, I walk to the cooking equipment.
“Well, send me the list. I’ll call the items. You look for them.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. And turn on the camera so I can help choose.”
What sounded like a terribly boring afternoon has a whole different meaning if I’m hanging out with Ian, so I don’t even think of protesting. After sending him the list, I turn on the camera and smile.
He is eating.
“Hello.” He waves, his beautiful blue eyes framed by light wrinkles as he smiles. Setting the hot dog on the paper in front of him, he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks off some of the condiment. It’s my first time seeing him in a T-shirt, and it fits him nicely, the solid black lines of his tattoos disappearing under the gray sleeves. “Ready? We’ve got a lot to go through.”
“Hot dogs and chocolate milk?” I ask when I notice the colorful box and straw. “Like a toddler?”
He spreads his arms, his hands opening wide as he frowns gently. “Hey, I’m here to help you. And you suggested cheese nachos and champagne.”
“I was joking!”
“Well, I was not. Strawberries and champagne stink, and chocolate milk is perfect at all times. Now”—he clears his voice and grabs a tablet by his side—“we’re looking for… throw blankets.” With his nose scrunched, he focuses on me. “Really?”
“I don’t know,” I complain. “I found this checklist online and—”
“Sure, throw blankets.” He claps, back to his infectious smile. “You can throw them on Frank.”
I roll my eyes, which does nothing to stop his chuckles, but I can’t say I’m truly annoyed. Not with how I feel about Frank. Though I have the decency not to say it out loud, I would like to throw something at— on him.
Turning around, I see pillows, and I walk in that direction, assuming I’ll find blankets. “Don’t you have something better to do on a Friday evening than tend to my wedding? Parties? Dates? TGIF and all, you know?”
“I keep my partying for Tuesdays and my dating for Thursdays. Boring days of the week,” he says, biting into his hot dog. “Friday nights are when mundane chores become epic stories.”
“Hmm. All about that single life, are you?” I ask.
“Absolutely. Being single means that I can help you out with your wedding planning. I choose what to do whenever I want to. And my happiness only depends on me, which isn’t too bad either.”
Though it’s in no way unreasonable, I just have this gut feeling there’s more to his complete rejection of relationships. But I’ve insisted plenty before to no avail, so I switch to the back camera, then point it at the throw blankets. Narrowing his eyes, Ian slurps from the straw. “The gray ones look cozy.”
“Don’t you think there should be some vegetables on your plate?” I ask. “Hot dogs and chocolate isn’t exactly a balanced meal.”
“I don’t eat anything green.”
“Excuse me?”
“No vegetables. And fruit… fruit isn’t great either. But I’m a fine snack connoisseur.”
“Huh,” I say, surprised. “You’re a junk food junkie.” When he hums in agreement, I grimace. “How does someone not like fruit?”
“I don’t mind the taste, but most of it has a weird texture. Apples are fine, but bananas? Persimmons? Mango ?”
I can’t help laughing. He sounds personally offended by mangos’ texture. “Tell me more.”
“More about my eating habits?” He looks away, then clicks his fingers. “Water. It’s a very disappointing fluid.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t understand why someone would choose, among all the fun drinks out there, to drink water. Soda is better than water. Juice. Beer. Coffee. And of course—”
“Chocolate milk, sure.” I think of saying something about his health but don’t. “What else?”
Letting out a long “Hmmm,” he stretches back. “Unpopular opinion? The best foods are the ones you can eat with your hands.”
“All right,” I say, though it comes out sounding like a question.
“And cheap food. Cheap food is the best food. And, mind you, it’s not about money. It’s just… processed, cheap, boxed food tastes much better than anything fresh. Always.”
I scoff loudly. He’s insane. No one—and I mean no one—in this world would agree with him. “You’re out of your mind.”
“And you’re out of…” He stares down at the list. “Patio furniture? I thought you lived in a condo.”
“I do.”
He leans forward, dramatically hitting his forehead against the table, then sets the list down. “How about luggage? It’s useful, expensive, and you can use it with Frank. To hide chunks of him.”
I switch to the front-facing camera and give him a pleading look, nonverbally begging him to drop the topic. It’s sinking my already horrible mood.
“All right, all right.” He bites into his hot dog. “Any progress on the wedding, then?” he asks. “Besides this?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why?” He dramatically brings a hand to his chest. “Is your long-distance engagement not as peachy as it sounds?”
I shrug and look around the store. Where the hell is the luggage?
“Fine. What about the dress? Are you still holding on to it?” When I say nothing, he groans. “Oh, come on. Seriously, Amelie? What the hell happened?”
“That’s not a good topic, either, Ian. Drop it.”
He laughs, the sound oddly familiar and heartwarming, as if he’s someone whom I’ve known for a lifetime, who’s happy. It certainly feels as if I know Ian better than most people in my life. “See, Amelie, that’s not going to work for me. I allow my friends one taboo topic. And you only get one, so choose carefully.”
I see suitcases, and like a mirage in the desert I sprint toward them. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Take Andres, my high school buddy. He demanded we not talk about his hot younger sister. Since that day, he’s had to answer whatever question I come up with about his bowel movements. It isn’t funny for either of us.”
Stifling a laugh, I switch to the back camera. “I might have to go with bowel movements, then. Save us both some discomfort.”
“Is that your final answer?” he asks, deadpanned.
I tilt my head to the right. Bowel movements sounds like an undeniably good taboo topic to settle on, but talking about the wedding is becoming dreadful. As for Frank… every time Ian asks about us, I can’t answer.
A notification on the top of my screen distracts me, informing me that yet another one of my dad’s moments on the last season of The Silver Spoon went viral. That’s all it takes to sway me into a certain answer. “Work,” I say, walking in front of the rows of luggage. “I choose work.”
Ian grabs his phone and brings it closer to his face, his eyes squinting. “The red set looks nice. Check if it’s sturdy. Oh, and a lock. See if it has a lock.”
This close, he’s excruciatingly gorgeous—though, to be fair, he’s handsome from every angle. His light brown hair looks scruffy and soft, and the stubble on his cheeks makes him look a little older. I almost get a whiff of his scent— that , I remember clearly. Like fresh, clean clothes.
Looking away, I tap on the luggage, not sure how to verify its sturdiness.
“So… work, huh?” comes from my speakerphone.
Yes, work. Work is my taboo topic. Ian lives in Mayfield, where The Silver Spoon is shot, and besides, chances are that he got bombed like everyone else with useless “news” about my dad’s latest hot comment or unjustified lashing out. If I can choose to keep one thing secret, that’s it. I want Ian’s impression of me to be unencumbered by the aura of hatred my surname carries. The less he knows about my career—and my family tree—the better.
“Why?” he continues.
I tap another piece of luggage to see if I notice any difference. “Isn’t the point of choosing it as a taboo topic that we won’t talk about it?”
“Yeah. Just… you’re not getting fired or anything, right?”
“I’m actually up for a big promotion, but the decision hasn’t been made yet.”
He sucks from the straw of his chocolate milk until it makes a slurping noise. “Well, then tell your boss to drop the dumb act and give you the job already.”
With a grin, I inhale deeply. I wish it were that easy, but it never is when it’s your dad. Even though I’m his best chef, he’s stalling.
“I work for my father,” I explain. Seeing as he also works in the family business, I’m sure I don’t need to say more.
“Oh…”
He knows. When family is involved, it’s much more complicated.
Silence. Then: “Fine. Work it is,” he says. “So, how’s the wedding planning going?”
“What’s yours?” I ask, pointing my scan gun at the red set. Frank and I will find out if it’s sturdy on our first trip with a low-cost airline. “Your taboo topic?”
“Well, if you don’t want to confess the dirty secrets about your job, you’ll miss the awesome anecdotes about mine.”
I smile. Though I had zero interest a minute ago, now I kind of want to know.
“Will you ignore my questions about the wedding again?”
Bringing a hand to my left shoulder and loosening up the muscle, I say, “Yeah. Weddings and work are some of my least favorite topics these days.”
“Sounds like it’s a W-problem.” He snaps his fingers. “We should ban all W-words from our vocabulary.”
“Right. ‘Wackadoodle,’ ‘whippersnapper,’ ‘wigwam.’?”
His laughter hits all the right notes in my ear. “And ‘whemmel,’ ‘wheeple,’ ‘woebegone.’?”
“Ha!” I snort. “?‘Woebegone.’ Especially ‘woebegone.’?”