Chapter 27 A Friendly Date
A Friendly Date
— T HREE M ONTHS TO A MELIE’S W EDDING —
A white long-sleeved top with light blue flowers and high-waisted, dark blue pants. I love the big silver buttons on the front, and—I turn around and check my reflection in the mirror—yep. They make my ass look great.
What about shoes? Ian is tall, so maybe my white heels? I try them on, but I’m probably overdoing it. I opt for sneakers and put on some red lipstick. It’s one of the perks of going on a date when you know you won’t be kissed: you can wear whatever lipstick you want.
My phone beeps with a text, and I fetch it off the duvet as I hold my tube of mascara aloft.
Ian:
Are you a red roses woman?
Amelie:
I’m an engaged woman.
Ian:
No flowers?
Amelie:
No flowers.
See you soon.
He’s going to show up with flowers, isn’t he?
Shaking my head, I dangle two different necklaces in my hands. I haven’t repeated the phrase just a friendly date as many times in… I’ve never said it before this week, actually. But I’ve been saying it a lot since then.
I wonder what kind of date Ian has planned. He’s been instructed not to overdo it, to keep it casual and nonromantic, so I expect a candlelit dinner and stargazing.
With my coat on, I step out the door, and a black car pulls over. Ian gets out, shuts the door, then turns to me and jerks his head back. Holding a hand to his heart, he dramatically groans. “Oh, beautiful Amelie.”
“Deceitful Ian,” I say as he approaches me. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a rusty-orange sweater that looks softer than most pillows, and a black coat. You know what magazines would call that? Effortlessly gorgeous.
“How do you feel about raisins?”
My brows furrow. “Raisins? I… don’t love them.”
“Yeah? Then how about a date?” he quips.
My shoulders shake with laughter as I point at him. “Good one, good one.”
“Liked it?”
“Perfectly cheesy.”
He grins as his eyes roam down my body. “Did you do all that for me?”
“Well, this is a friendly date, after all.”
“Blue. My favorite color.” He smiles brightly. “And those red lips… I was right, red suits you even better than pink.”
I tuck some hair behind my ear, uncomfortable at the implication that I’ve done any of it for him. “I—I didn’t remember.”
“Didn’t you?”
When I shake my head, he tilts his. “Huh.” Then he gestures toward his car. “Are you ready for the most romantic night of your life?”
“Ian…” I warn, shoulders slumped and arms crossed over my stomach.
“I’m messing with you, Amelie.”
“You said—”
“The most casual date ever, I swear,” he says, raising his hands in defeat. “A burping contest and some axe throwing.”
“Sounds delightful.” I take the hand he offers me as he curtsies, then he theatrically walks me to the car, holding my hand up daintily, and opens the door.
“What?” I ask as he slides in and turns the engine on, a smug smile on his face. He waves me off, and I pinch his forearm. “Come on! What is it?”
“Nothing. Just—you know I don’t like perfume. When we met at the Quinns’ wedding and you weren’t expecting me, you had some on. Today you don’t.”
Oh, I… I must have forgotten.
As we walk across the large square, I throw a look at Ian. “Why are we here?”
He studies the mall in front of us with a thoughtful expression as a few people walk by. “You’ll see.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, alarmed as I step beside him. “Malls are closed at night.”
“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 letter Q is basically useless. It shouldn’t even exist.”
“It’s quasi-quarrelsome that you’d quench your questionable quest. Q is 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 a bridal 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 for you . 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 you do need a dress.” His left brow quirks. “Are you sure that’s the only reason?”
“Seriously, Ian? This is all about you trying to prove a point?”
“If I’m wrong, then…” He points to the shop with a flourish, then offers me a challenging look.
Unbelievable.
I glare at him and cross my arms. I exhale deeply, muttering, “Fine,” then begin walking. I’m not sure what game he’s playing, but I’ll give credit where credit is due.
This really isn’t romantic.
Ian relaxes into the white love seat, brushing some hair off his forehead as he folds his hands over his stomach. “So tell me, Amelie. What’s your favorite color? Do you have any siblings? What’s your zodiac sign?”
“Ugh.” I keep scrolling through the dozen dresses our shop attendant, John, has put together for me based on my preferences. “Please, spare me.”
“Fine. But I’ve got to tell you. No first-date questions, no third-date sex. You’re making this unnecessarily hard on me.”
“Dating an engaged woman is no easy task.” I shoot a glare at him. “Especially when you trick her into wedding dress shopping.”
“It really isn’t. You wouldn’t even let me buy flowers.” He smiles, observing me in the usual unsettling way. I can’t exactly figure out what that look means, but it squeezes something deep inside of me.
Eager to avoid his stare, I turn back to the white dresses and ask, “What’s with the flowers? You bring them up all the time.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. ‘Tell Frank to buy you flowers’ and ‘Did Frank get you flowers?’?” I shrug. “You always ask.”
He grins, rubbing a hand on his chin, then shakes his head. “Flowers are the one thing people never get for themselves. They have no purpose except to bring joy to the person you give them to. To make them feel special, loved, and important.” Crossing his legs, he sets his eyes on me. “It’s one of those little things that aren’t little at all.”
He’s right. Flowers are an unmistakable sign of appreciation. “Is that another one of your unpopular opinions?” I ask.
“My mom’s, actually, but I agree. Flowers are the ultimate love gesture.” I watch him, waiting for him to continue, and as he uncomfortably rubs both hands over his jeans, he smiles. “But what do I know, huh? I’m on a date with an engaged woman.”
“A friendly date.”
“Right. So how about this one?” He stands and studies the dress I’m currently looking at, then nods. “I like it. Those things are cute.”
“Appliqués.”
“Ah. That’s what that is. Even after PFP, I wasn’t sure I’d understood.” He grabs the last one from the row, then shows it to me. “This one’s even better, though. Better applits .”
Before I can correct him, my eyes land on the dress in his hands. Long sleeves, a crystal-beaded waistband, and jeweled buttons down the illusion neckline. When I look up to see his self-satisfied grin, the breath is kicked out of my stomach. “Ian…”
Isn’t that my— Martha’s dress?
“If the first question to come out of those pretty red lips includes the name Martha, I will legitimately lose my mind.” He points his index finger at me. “So choose your next words carefully.”
I meet his glare with one of my own. He might not realize this, but what he’s holding is currently someone else’s wedding dress. Wondering how he got it out of Martha’s claws isn’t a stupid question.
Without staring directly at the dress, as if it’ll cast a spell over me, I cross my arms. “All right. Who was crazy enough to give it to you?”
With a smile lighting up his face again, the whole shop looks brighter. He holds the dress against his chest and gently swings his hips. “I told the designer I’ve always dreamed of wearing this sleeve-something-shaped-something dress at my wedding, and she—”
“Ian,” I scold.
“Fine. I was honestly trying to spare your feelings.” He sets the dress down and comes a few steps closer. “When I told the stylist what had happened with the dress and your wedding, she sold it to me. Didn’t need convincing or anything.” He shrugs. “That’s how depressing this whole wedding drama is.”
“Depressing? How about a true show of friendship?”
He bites his lower lip, his eyes searching the ceiling as he considers my words. “Nope,” he says as his blue eyes find mine again. “Just depressing.”
“So what you’re actually saying is that you stole this from Martha.”
“No. I’m saying I paid for it.”
“For a dress that wasn’t yours.”
“It’s mine now that I paid for it.”
I sigh, pressing my fingers to my forehead in frustration. I’m pretty sure Martha has no idea her dress isn’t waiting for the next fitting anymore. Days before her wedding.
“Well, though I appreciate the thought, you have to give it back.”
He snorts, dropping on the couch. “As if.”
“As if?” I cross my arms. “Ian, you can’t steal someone’s wedding dress.”
“Sounds like advice Martha could benefit from.”
He holds my stare, the decided look in his eyes telling me he’s ready to die on this hill. Knowing it’s for my own good should sweeten the bitter pill, but it does not.
Of course I want my dress. Only knowing it’s right next to me is enough to bring me to tears. I wish I could skedaddle to the back and put it on and then twirl in it and look at it for the rest of our date. But I can’t. It’s just too much hassle, and I’ve made up my mind already.
Rolling my shoulders back, I try to assume a power pose he’d be less likely to fight. “Really, Ian, this is so sweet of you, but—”
“Let me tell you the truth, Amelie.” He crosses his legs, then hooks his arm behind the love seat. “I don’t understand half this drama. I mean, so what if you have the same flowers? The same centerpieces or band or menus? You’ll still make it yours, somehow, and it’s not like the ceremonies will take place next to each other.”
“But—”
He raises a hand. “But you say it’s not an option, so fine. Not an option.” He leans forward, then clasps his hands. “Let Martha have the rice paper menus and hire the Sound of Time and get the red roses bouquet. Like millions of people will have before and after her wedding.”
I nod, knowing there’s more to his point.
He stands, walks to the dress, picks it up, and walks back to me. “But this, Amelie, is one-of-a-kind. Made for you. You chose every single detail, and no other dress like it will exist before or after your wedding.” He sets his jaw. “If she gets everything else , all the details that are so important to you, you get this one thing.” He grabs my chin. “You get the only thing nobody else will ever have. It’s yours .”
His eyes hold mine, my heart beating so slowly, I wouldn’t notice if it stopped. The amount of peace he can infuse into me with his presence alone is something out of this world. It’s enough to make me hesitate instead of giving him the negative answer I know I have to deliver.
As silence settles and time stands still, his eyes leave mine and travel to my lips. The slow beats turn into loud, quick thumps in my ears, the shift so abrupt that it makes me flinch.
I should move away; I know I should. He looks like he’s about to kiss me, and though I’ve been confident so far he’d never do it, I’m not at all certain right now. Not when he doesn’t let go of my chin, his eyes remain on my mouth, and his breaths fan over my skin. This moment might be even more intense than a kiss, and I have no power in me to stop it.
“Unless,” he whispers, his eyes still hooded and focused on my mouth, “unless you’ve reconsidered—”
“Okay,” I interrupt him. I grab the dress, jerking my chin back to free it from his hold. “I—I’ll think about it. The dress. I’ll think about the dress.”
He swallows, smiling mildly. His hands rest on his hips, and silently he studies me. Can he read the fear in my eyes? Because I’m terrified.
He’s always made jokes. Flirted, given me his full attention, his endless kindness. But he said he didn’t want a relationship and he knows I’m engaged. Things have always felt safe. Now they don’t.
I finally recognize the way he looks at me. It’s like that couple at the Quinns’ wedding looked at each other. With the same intensity. The same drive. Like he’s looking at everything he’s ever wished to have.
I know he’s going to say something, and it will inevitably cause a cascading series of events that will, one way or another, ruin my life.
John enters the room as he clears his throat. Neither of us turns to him, and instead we remain in the worst staring contest ever.
When John sets something on the table and walks away, Ian smiles at him, then goes back to studying my eyes. “Don’t think about it. Wear your dress at your wedding and, most importantly, do what makes you happy. Humor me, Amelie.” He points at the white coffee table between us, and with a glance, I notice John has brought us champagne… and cheese nachos. “I will always humor you.”