Chapter 19 The Cheesier the Better
The Cheesier the Better
— F OUR M ONTHS AND T WO W EEKS TO A MELIE’S W EDDING —
“Number 86, Croque Monsieur!” Dean shouts at the pass before walking back into the dining room with a filled tray.
Drying the sweat off my forehead, I stir the pot in front of me, then glance at my phone. The Marguerite hasn’t reacted yet, but I’m seriously hoping my latest move pissed some people off big-time.
With a pleased chuckle, I study the large, bubbling vats of meat, covered in a crust so dark that it’s almost black. Under it, beans swim in a rich, gelatinous broth with bits of tender duck leg, cured pork belly, pork shanks, and sausages.
“Are the cassoulets ready?” the waiter asks.
I nod, gesturing at him to take them, and as he walks away, I shout that I’m taking five and step out of the kitchen. My shift is almost over, and I haven’t had a chance to take a single break. It’s ten; Ian must be falling asleep, but I never answered his last text.
Ian:
Did you find a band?
Amelie:
Not yet. Is yours interested in the gig?
The cool night air sends shivers down my spine. Shrinking inside my black coat, I look at the busboys taking a smoke break by the dumpsters. Is it too late to start smoking? Yes, it’s a terrible habit, but people say it’s relaxing. I could use some of that.
Martha paid me for the dress, which is currently with the designer, being altered, and Frank has been texting sparingly. I’m pretty sure I know what that means.
My phone beeps and, glad for the distraction Ian’s always ready to provide, I glance down at his text.
Ian:
For sure. But we only play death metal.
Amelie:
Too bad. I only listen to Christian funk.
He sends me a link, and after opening it I scroll through the page. It’s the website of a cover band, somewhat like the one I originally planned to hire for my wedding. Four members with a voice lead, a guitar, drums, and a bass. There’s a video, so I press “play” and listen to them playing a cover of “Crazy in Love.” I like them.
Ian:
The marriage virus is spreading and taking new victims every day.
I heard them play at a friend’s wedding last week, and they’re coming to your neck of the woods for yet another wedding next Saturday.
Amelie:
Do you know where?
I get a screenshot of a text conversation between Ian and Dan, who, based on the website, is the lead singer. They’re playing at a venue I’ve actually toured for my wedding, and Dan told him the newlyweds don’t mind me and my fiancé stopping by.
Ian:
Get Frank and go check them out.
Frank? God, for a second I forgot he’s coming to visit this weekend. But I swore I’d make a genuine effort, and I can’t think of anything better than dressing fancy and drinking champagne while we listen to some romantic music and see love blossom before our eyes.
Maybe a date would help us rekindle our romance a little. Maybe being at the Quinns’ wedding would make him see the beauty of it all, and he’d care about ours a little more.
Amelie:
Will do. Thank you, wedding planner.
Ian:
Of course, Bridezilla.
Amelie:
Two more hours before I’m off.
Ian:
Time to show your dad how it’s done.
Text me when you’re home safe.
After making my way through a loud crowd that smells like perfume and champagne, I find the small table reserved for me to the left of the large outdoor space. Not what I expected for a November wedding, but the Quinns were awfully nice, saving me the table, so I’m hardly complaining.
I place my coat on the chair next to mine. Finding another one would prove impossible, because the entire venue, filled with clear plastic chairs, long wooden tables, and white lanterns, is peppered with groups of people drinking and dancing to the music of the DJ. Not that I’m expecting anyone else, seeing as Frank never made it back to Creswell for the weekend.
Must be busy doing who knows what with who knows who.
The stage in front of me is empty except for the instruments, but I can see some people with headphones messing with a soundboard, so the band must be about to start.
When the waiter approaches, I ask for a glass of white, then turn to the stage and realize someone’s standing beside me. I never took the coat off the chair, but they must want to sit. “Oh, sorry, I forgot—”
Light brown hair. Blue eyes with even deeper blue flecks. A soft cream sweater with a white square pattern. Ian smiles in that dashing way I’ve spied countless times in photos and video calls, then looks down at the chair with a mock scowl. “Frank, I don’t want to fight you for this spot, but I will if I have to.”
“Ian?” I ask, my heart stuck in my throat. My skin tingles as a fluttery feeling awakens in my stomach. “How—what—”
I know it’s him, of course. While I haven’t seen him in the flesh since Barb’s wedding, there’s no mistaking that flirty grin, the perfect line of pearly-white teeth peeking through, his gorgeous hair, shorter at the sides and longer at the top of his head. But he can’t be here, can he? What is he doing here?
“Whoa, whoa,” he says, stumbling backward as he glares at the empty chair. “What did you say about my mom?”
I can’t believe he’s here. “What—what are you—”
“You said you’d come with Frank, Amelie. You’re…” His posture relaxes as he snaps his fingers. “What’s the word I’m looking for?” He smirks. “Is it… cunning? Dishonest? No, that doesn’t sound right…”
Shock prevents me from feeling the slightest bit of shame at being caught red-handed in a lie, and a hysterical chuckle bursts free. “How are you here?”
“…Distrustful? Mendacious? Disingenuous?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in town?”
“Specious? Fraudulent?”
I stand, and even with the chair between us, he’s as close to me as he was when we danced at Barb’s wedding. “Deceitful. That’s the word you’re looking for. And you’re deceitful all right!” I playfully swat his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d be here?”
The right corner of his mouth curls upward, a lovely warmth settling in his eyes and making them look a shade darker still. “Hi, beautiful Amelie.”
“Hello, deceitful Ian.”
“May I?” He points at the chair, and when I nod, he holds my coat as he sits. He makes a gesture at the waiter and turns to me as I take my seat next to him, his focused, unwavering gaze making me squirm.
Ian and I have been growing close over the past few weeks; it’s undeniable. But only now does it hit me just how close we’ve gotten. How he’s quickly become the most present person in my life. One of my favorite people in the world. But is that how he feels? Or is there more? Why is he sitting in front of me right now, a long drive away from home?
“If you keep thinking so much, your brain will need a new hard drive,” he says, crossing his fingers over the soft sweater he’s wearing. God, the way it frames his shoulders, and the collar of his shirt raised around his neck. How the fabric falls over his thighs, wrapped in dark jeans. Has he always looked this good?
“Why are you here, Ian? Was all this a trap?”
“A trap?”
“Yes. You get me here, then show up.” I shake my head. “If you wanted to meet, you could have asked.”
The band is setting up on the stage, the harmonic strumming of the guitar mixing with the clinking of glasses and the surrounding voices. “You’re forgetting I told you to come with Frank,” Ian says, a hint of a smile on his face.
“He couldn’t leave Mayfield this weekend. Why are you here?”
“Because I could.” He smiles. “Are you happy?”
I am. So much. And I’m not just happy to be in someone’s company. There’s hardly anyone else I’d rather be here with than him. “Yes,” I say.
We study each other for a moment before the man onstage calls the audience’s attention, and we both turn to the band.
Bursting into a loud fit of laughter, I look up at the dark sky peppered with shiny stars. Ian’s lucky I’m fond of him, because his latest unpopular opinion would send teeth flying if shared with the wrong people. “Being a man is just as hard as being a woman.” The audacity.
“Seriously? Your best argument is that men are constantly criticized?”
“Mm-hmm. You would have never called a woman a toddler for drinking chocolate milk.”
“I absolutely would have,” I say as he lets some peanuts fall out of his fist and into his mouth. “You’re just trying to rile me up, but I can end this discussion with one painful, bloody word.”
“Always with the period,” he grumbles. “Women have more antibodies, live longer, and can cry in public without being called wusses.”
“You can cry if you need to,” I tease. “I won’t call you a wuss.”
With a chortle, he pokes my side. “They’re also less likely to suffer from cardiovascular diseases, antisocial behavior, alcoholism, and our suicide rates—”
“Did you prepare for this?” I ask, resting my feet on the third chair at our table, the split in my black dress baring my legs. Either that, or this topic comes up a tad too often in his life.
“I’m winning, am I not?”
I roll my eyes, and when I notice his insistent stare, I take a deep breath. “Pregnancy, labor, physical inferiority, sexual harassment. Men never get called sluts for sleeping around or frigid for not putting out. And what’s with female nipples? They look just like men’s do, yet they’re basically forbidden. Men hardly get catcalled, aren’t expected to have children, and are praised for focusing on their careers.” His eyes land on mine, but I only stopped to catch my breath. “We get paid less, we get interrupted more, and men never need to fake an orgasm, do they?”
He tilts his head as though he’s considering my words. “Looks like I didn’t prepare enough.” Then, taking a sip of his drink, he nods. “Your turn.”
I brush my hands together to get rid of the salt from the peanuts Ian stole from somewhere, then hum as I think of my next unpopular opinion. After “A man’s hands represent half his physical appeal” and “The fun part of watching a movie is talking through most of it,” I need a good one. I settle on “Pickup lines are cute.”
“Pickup lines?”
I nod. “The cheesier the better.”
“Huh.”
His brows bend in a silent question, and as I smile down at the table, heat creeps up my cheeks. “I don’t know. They’re cute. It’s not like I’d bring a guy home who approached me with a line. But if Frank used one to make me smile, I think I’d like that.”
“I have the perfect one for you.”
My eyes dart to him. Great: now it looks like I was begging for pickup lines. “I didn’t mean—”
He holds his hand out, and when I hesitate, he extends it a little more. With a sigh, I rest my hand in his, preparing for what I’m sure will be the cringiest thirty seconds of my life. But his skin is warm, softer than I pictured it being, and my breath catches in my throat in response. We haven’t touched since Barb’s wedding, and this somehow feels different.
Then he looks at me. His eyes are so full of depth, I could get lost in them. His smile is so genuine, so young and carefree, it radiates all the joy that’s been missing from my life lately.
It’s like something flips inside my mind. I almost hear it click—like a switch. And I see something more in him than I did a few seconds ago.
Maybe he feels it, too, because his eyes drop to our joined hands, and his thumb presses lightly over my knuckle. It’s the softest touch, but it makes my head spin, my heartbeat slowing down as my whole body tenses and I wait for what he’ll do next.
Eventually, he clears his throat, his eyes burning into mine. “I think there’s something wrong with my phone,” he says. “Your number’s not in it.”
And just like that, the tension eases off. I break out into a sharp, nervous chuckle, sliding my hand out of his and ignoring the tingle spreading through every finger. “Yep, that’s cheesy.”
“I’m sure I can come up with worse ones.” He laces his fingers together over the table and leans forward. “My turn, Amelie.”
I give him an uncertain nod, his weirdly serious tone sending chills down my spine.
“Unpopular opinion. If your fiancé can’t bother to drive two hours to see you, he’s probably not treating you the way he should.” Met by my glare, he shrugs. “Am I wrong?”
Why is he bringing this up now? We were having such a great night, listening to the band first, then swapping unpopular opinions. Why, out of everything we could talk about, does he choose to bring up Frank?
“Is that why you’re here, then?” I cross my arms over my chest, unable to help a scowl from forming on my face. “To tell me how terrible my fiancé is?”
He presses his lips tightly, trying—and failing—to suppress a sly smile. It aggravates me even more.
“Seriously, Ian?”
“Come on, Amelie,” he says, his voice warm and sweet in a way that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Of course not.”
“Because if that’s what’s happening… If you’re acting as if we’re friends, but you’re just waiting for the opportunity to sleep with me—”
“No,” he says, cutting me off. After pressing a finger to his lips, he continues. “Look, I’m not going to say I’m not attracted to you, because I am. And I admit that when I approached you at your friend’s wedding, I figured I’d shoot my shot. But I didn’t plan all this. Us. Our friendship.” He smiles lightly, almost melancholically. “I meant it when I said I’m not looking for a girlfriend, Amelie. But you…” He shrugs. “You’re my favorite notification.”
It feels like a live wire is stretching between us. A connection I can’t explain, one unlike any other. His eyes are simultaneously hard to stare at and impossible to look away from.
With a nervous nod, I look over the dissipating crowd, then at a couple sitting at a nearby table. They’re both gorgeous, and there’s almost a glowing bubble around them. A circle of happiness and love that’s impossible to ignore as he leans closer to her, whispers something in her ear with a cocky smile, and makes her laugh. Or the way his eyes light up when she does.
“We’ve… we’ve been having problems,” I breathe out. Immediately feeling guilty, I add, “But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. Or that I don’t love him.”
“I know,” Ian says.
Reassured by the look on his face, I nod. “Since the engagement, though, some stuff has been… off.”
“Hmm.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shift position, but I continue staring at the couple intimately chatting as if nobody else is around. It’s the first time I’ve said any of this out loud, and it’s hard to hold back tears. “Did you talk to him about it?”
“Yeah. He says he needs this time before the wedding to himself. To have some new experiences.”
“Okay,” he concedes. “Everybody needs a little privacy once in a while.”
Swallowing, I nod. “Right.”
Except he’s after anything but solitude. He’s after nights out with friends, dates, sex.
“So what kind of experiences is he looking to have?”
There. That’s where the problem lies, and though I started out with the intention to once again vomit all my issues at Ian, now that I glance at his gentle and curious expression, I can’t bring myself to tell him the whole truth. “Just, you know… friends and stuff,” I mumble as I carefully avoid his stare. “Anyway, we’ve been together for fifteen years. Wanting a few months of independence doesn’t mean anything.”
“But?”
My eyes meet his. “But what?”
He brings a hand to the back of his neck. “It doesn’t look like you believe any of that. More like that’s what he’s told you over and over again. What do you believe?”
I study his eyes for a while, considering how deep I should go to answer his question.
“Amelie,” he insists. “Just because yours is an unpopular opinion, it doesn’t mean it’s less valid than anyone else’s.” When my face relaxes, he tilts his chin up. “Let’s hear it. Come on.”
I sigh deeply, turn back to the couple a few tables away from us, then discreetly point at them. “You see that guy?”
“Dark hair, blue suit?”
“That’s the one.” The man grabs the woman’s hand, kisses it as she speaks, then whispers something back, his face radiating joy. “See how he looks at that woman? As if a piece of his soul belongs to her?”
“Yeah. It’s intense.”
“ So intense. And the way she looks at him too.” I pause for emphasis as the brunette woman stares dreamily into the man’s eyes. “It’s like they’re competing at who loves the other more.”
“Looks like they’re both winning.”
“It does.” There’s a moment of silence, and in it the thumps of my heart overpower the music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses. It’s the only noise in my brain. “My unpopular opinion is… Frank doesn’t look at me like that. Not even… not even close.”
Ian says nothing.
“Unpopular opinion,” I continue. “He cares more about having fun than being with me. He never calls, and I’m planning this wedding by myself. He’s selfish, and he’s definitely not being honest about his feelings. Not with me, and maybe not with himself either.” I inhale a quick breath, then power through. “Unpopular opinion. I’m scared, and I should be, because I don’t know when it happened or why, but I think he’s fallen out of love. I don’t know if it’ll last forever or if it’s just a phase. If he got comfortable and now he’s become complacent, or if he just doesn’t want to marry me or… or…”
Ian rests his hand on my forearm, lightly squeezing as his thumb rubs a spot on my skin. “I’m sorry, beautiful.”
I look into his eyes, almost hoping to catch him in a lie. To see that it doesn’t bother him in the least that my relationship is dying, but instead he’s quite thrilled. It’s stupid, of course, because that’d mean our friendship was nothing than a ruse to get me into bed. But for a second or two I want it. I want to see someone love me.
“I believe you, Amelie. If you think something’s wrong, then something’s wrong.” His voice is as soft as cashmere, as warm as the spring sun, and at the accepting expression on his face, the dam I’ve put up to keep my tears at bay takes a serious hit. “But look”—his eyes dart left and right as he thinks—“those two,” he says, nudging his head toward the couple, “they’ve probably been together for a couple of weeks. I bet they won’t be together in—”
The man stands as the woman brings a spoonful of cake to her lips, then approaches a stroller to the right of him, which I didn’t notice until now, and takes out the most beautiful baby in a pink dress. He gently brings her to his chest, her little head resting on his shoulder as he bounces on the spot. Once again, in the woman’s eyes, there’s such an all-encompassing and consuming love, it’s hard to witness without feeling overwhelmed.
“Okay,” Ian says. “So nine months and a couple of weeks.”
When I chuckle, he does, too, and my sadness dwindles enough for me to cock my brow at him. “I don’t know, Ian. That girl looks older than two weeks old.”
“Three weeks tops.”
“I’m pretty sure she just spoke.”
“Look,” he says with a serious expression, “I know close to nothing about love. I told you my mom died young and my dad is my best friend, but he’s not exactly been lovey-dovey since.” When I nod, he keeps going. “As for women…” He forces a laugh. “The only one who lasted long enough was Ella, and she certainly didn’t love me.” With a sweeping gesture, he shakes his head. “My point is, I’m not the best person to tell you how your fiancé is supposed to look at you. What I can say is…”
He hesitates.
“What is it?”
“I don’t think I…” He takes another look at the couple. “I don’t think I’d ever stop looking at you that way. If you were mine.” When I look away, he clears his voice. “?‘You’ as in—not you . Just… the woman I love.”
My eyes bug out.
“Who is not—” He blinks, his mouth moving soundlessly. “I’m just saying. Hypothetically. A woman—any woman. No woman, really, because I—”
“You don’t want a girlfriend,” I interrupt with a smile.
“No. I mean yes. I don’t.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and slowly shakes his head. “That was painful for us both. How about I get you another drink?”
Sinking into my chair, I watch Ian walk to the counter, then wait for his turn to be served. He glances over his shoulder at me and smiles, so I tilt my head in a silent hello.
That smile. There’s something about it. It’s caring and full of adoration, a smile that melts ice better than the sun itself. It takes over his whole face, his eyes alight and his lips stretched. He’s handsome at any given moment, but when he smiles, he’s bottled perfection.
Does he always smile like that, or is it only when he smiles at me? And even more importantly, how do I smile at him ?