Chapter 41 Fifty Percent Mine
Fifty Percent Mine
— T ODAY —
I clutch my chest, my heart is beating so fast: it feels like there’s a whole engine working in there. “Ian, this is lovely. Really, it’s just… I love it. And I love you for it.”
Lowering the hand holding the ring, he takes a step back. “Holy fuck. There’s a ‘but,’ isn’t there?”
After a second of hesitation, I nod. “Just a tiny one.”
“Jesus,” he groans. “I can’t catch a break with these engagements, can I?”
“No, no. It’s just… what’s the rush?” I study his eyes. “Why propose today, after…” His smile wavers, so I know he’s thinking of yesterday too. “And at Martha’s wedding?”
With a short-lived chuckle, he shakes his head. “This isn’t Martha’s wedding.”
“Yeah, I know, but—”
“Didn’t you notice what I’m wearing?”
Of course I did. It’s weirdly similar to the outfit I planned for Frank to wear at our wedding—which then turned into the outfit the groom is supposed to be wearing today. “You look insanely great.”
He looks down and considers what I’m wearing. “Thanks. You should change.”
“Ouch.”
He’s happy and unbothered as he points to the right, where, hanging from the handle of a large white wardrobe, there’s a wedding dress.
My wedding dress.
“I called Martha yesterday. I expected it would take a while to explain what a terrible friend she’s been to you, but I’d barely even opened my mouth when she started bawling.” He tucks some hair behind my ear. “She really missed you.”
“I missed her too,” I whisper.
“I know.” His smile widens. “She helped me figure out who to invite from your old guest list, then I had to find the damn dress and a suit similar to Trev’s, because that’s one skinny man and I couldn’t fit in his. Oh, and invite people myself. Honestly, without her, Ryan, and Trevor, I wouldn’t have pulled this off.”
My heart almost bursts. After feeling so lonely for so long, knowing that all these people I love have come together for me is enough for a lifetime of happiness. “You—you want to get married… today ?”
He nods, his blue eyes flickering with excitement. “I get it now.” He pecks my head. “I’ve seen your perfect wedding, and it is perfect. The white ranunculus and floating candle centerpieces and the white theme. They’re perfect. And you deserve the perfect wedding, Amelie.”
Cupping my mouth, I bury my face in his chest. He’s wrong. So wrong. I deserve the perfect husband, and that’s Ian. Nothing else matters now. The flowers, the photographer, and the music are just the backdrop. My perfect wedding is with Ian.
Tears roll down my cheeks, his fingers rubbing the top of my head. Though yes is the word he wants to hear, as I grasp my arms around his neck, I mutter an apology. He deserves it. He’s been loving me from day one, and it took me a year to get here.
“?‘Sorry’?” He leans back a little so he can look at me, a worried look in his eyes. “As in ‘Sorry, I’ll pass’?”
“I can’t wait another minute,” I say. “Please marry me.”
“Yes? Are you saying yes?”
I nod frantically, his eyes closing as he laughs nervously. “I’m saying fuck yes.”
“Fuck yes,” he repeats, his lips meeting mine. He kisses me, his tongue swiping against mine over and over again, then abruptly stops. “Are you sure? Is this really what you want? I need to know for sure before I tell you everything else.”
“I’m one hundred percent—wait. ‘Everything else’?”
He nods. “Before I do, I need to know that, regardless of everything else, you’d marry me today, right here, right now.” He raises my chin with two fingers. “Would you, Amelie?”
My stomach twists, an ominous feeling settling in my chest. Ian can certainly act like a complete lunatic when he wants to, and the timing of it is too casual not to involve his father. I just know Ian came up with something crazy. “What did you do?”
He shakes his head. “First, your answer.” He gives me a little smirk. “I need to know that what I’ll say next won’t send you on a self-sacrificing journey. That, regardless of what comes next, you’ll marry me.”
I extend my hand, spacing my fingers enough that he can fit the ring. Whatever Ian’s done, I’d make any sacrifice for him any day precisely because he wouldn’t want me to. And if this sacrifice includes marrying him, I don’t need any more context. I will. “Yes.”
With a radiant smile, he steps closer and holds my hand in his, and, cold against my skin, the metal slides along my finger until it’s secure. It’s a little heavy and definitely vintage, but it feels like an extension of myself, now that it’s on. “It’s perfect.”
“I think so too.”
My own smile wavers, and, lowering my hand, I look at Ian. He’s serious, which is never much of a good sign. “So… what’s ‘everything else’?”
“Right.” He scratches his forehead. “You heard what I announced yesterday. I imagine you have lots to say about it.”
About him deciding to close down the Marguerite? Yes, lots. That he doesn’t need to rush into making a decision, and that we can work out a solution together. That if he wants to keep it open, to forgive his father, I’ll never resent him for it. And that the world won’t miss Ella’s delicacies, though that’s not as necessary. Shrugging, I settle on “Are you sure that’s what makes you happy?”
Running a hand over his face, he looks down at the floor. His expression is similar to the one he wore yesterday, something between anger and fear. It might be defeat. “Amelie, my mom had this dream of a restaurant for us, her family. She kept telling me how one day I’d find this woman and she would work at the restaurant with all of us, and Brie would taste like cotton candy and…” He gestures wildly.
“She didn’t envision the possibility that you’d marry outside the restaurant world?”
“That’s what I said: What if I fall in love with an astrophysicist or something?” He rolls his eyes. “But I didn’t. I’m marrying a chef. How can it get more perfect than that?”
When his smile fades and turns into a grimace, I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes mine back.
“But it’s all ruined now, isn’t it? I know you wouldn’t have worked at the Marguerite anyway, but our restaurant was supposed to be for our family. One day, for our kids, assuming you want kids.”
“I… don’t think so.”
“That’s fine.” He waves the thought off as if it doesn’t matter, and I’m once again mesmerized at how his brain works. Fast and chaotic and just inherently good. “The point is it was supposed to be something good. Somewhere safe. And to me it was the place that represented all her joy. All her positivity and love.” Tearing up, he shakes his head. “My dad took that away.”
“I’m so sorry, Ian.”
“Me too. I really thought… I thought he was a better man. I hope one day he will be, but until then I can’t have him in my life. I just can’t.” He clears his throat, as if he’s decided he’s done with sadness. I’m afraid that won’t be the case. “It’s time for new dreams anyway, don’t you think?”
As his arms wrap around me, I rest my ear against his chest. “New dreams?”
“A restaurant by the beach, maybe? One where people feel at home?” Whispering, he continues, “One with no sticky, smelly French cheese?”
“Maybe one where food is mostly eaten with your hands.”
“Really?” His jaw drops. “And no vegetables and no water?”
“No, Ian. We’d still need people over the age of four to come in.”
He nods. “Fair enough. We can figure it out on our honeymoon. But the point is…” He turns serious again. “I spoke to my lawyer. It turns out when you only own fifty percent of a restaurant, you can’t dispose of it as you please.”
Our conversation about his mother’s will comes back to me. “You need to get married to access your inheritance and sell the restaurant.”
He nods but says nothing.
I inhale. Then blink. Then exhale as the idea fully settles.
I expect it to come all crashing down on me. All my fear of rejection and my abandonment issues and all the billion problems I can thank my parents for. I wait for the paranoia to take over my brain. To tell me that he’s rushing it because he needs to and not because he wants me to have a perfect wedding. That he wouldn’t get married at all if it weren’t for the restaurant. But there’s only a thrilled excitement coursing through my veins. Only a huge YES tattooed on my heart. Ian’s proven more than once that he’d do anything for me. Most recently yesterday.
If he says he wants to marry me, I have no doubt that’s the truth.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he asks. “You don’t… have questions or need me to—”
“No. I only ask that you take some time to think about the Marguerite. You’re angry and hurt, and I don’t want you to rush into any decision.”
“Sounds fair.” His smile widens. “So, are we really doing this?”
“I think so,” I say. With an exhilarated giggle, I wrap my arms around him as his own arms circle my waist and pull me to him.
We stand like that, embracing, for a long moment before he gently pulls away, raises my hand, and kisses my new engagement ring. “Let’s go get married, Amelie.”
“Well, isn’t this a whole different picture from last time,” Barb says, entering the room. Martha sobs—that’s all she’s been doing for the past half hour—and though I can’t because of the makeup, I feel a new wave of overwhelming emotion every time she sniffles.
Turning to look over my shoulder at Barb, I smile as she puts a hand to her mouth and screeches a loud “Oh my God.” Her eyes close, and waving her hand frantically, she turns around.
“I can’t. I cannot, Ames—I can’t.”
I know. It’s perfect. My beautiful dress, with the floral lace appliqués I love so much, the illusion plunge bodice, and a soft skirt that follows all my movements. My light nude makeup, my hair, curled at the tip.
My smile. The light in my eyes. And the jitters in my belly? Those are amazing too. They’re the expectant kind that bubble up your throat and explode out of you with giggles. The ones that make you warm, that can’t keep you still or steady. The ones that make you shake with adrenaline and not fear, the ones that make your stomach shut because food is no longer your sustenance, not when you’ve got those jitters. They only feed themselves, turning you into a giddy, fluttery, warm burst of happiness.
Everything’s perfect, but I’d rather take a little less perfect if it meant I get to marry Ian sooner.
“How’s Ian doing?”
Barb comes to stand beside me and holds out a glass of champagne. “He’s with Trevor and Ryan, and I honestly think if he tried to bail, those two would pin him to the ground and force him to marry you at gunpoint. But it’s hardly necessary. Your fiancé keeps tearing up. I think he can’t believe his luck.”
I accept the glass and notice that in her other hand, Barb has a small bowl of cheese nachos. Biting my lower lip, I grab both. “I can’t believe mine.”
Martha perks up on the couch beside me. “He’s so hot, Ames.”
Barb turns to her with a gasp. “And you haven’t seen his tattoos.”
“Tattoos?”
“ Bold and black, all over his arms! ” Barb shrieks. “I hope he does his legs next.”
Snorting into the glass, I throw a look at the hairdresser, who smiles down at me before curling another lock of my hair. “Guys,” I scold as I watch them through the mirror. “It’s my future husband you’re talking about.” Setting the glass down, I sigh. “Plus, he’s more than hot. He’s sensitive, smart, talented, hilarious.”
“He really is,” Barb agrees.
There’re a few seconds of appreciative silence, then Martha throws her head back. “And he’s sooooo hot.”
“Wait until you see the tattoos!” Barb explodes.
“And his ass! It’s sculpted!”
“Martha!” I click my tongue. “Don’t objectify my husband.”
“I’ll stop once he’s your husband.”
When I mock-glare at her, Martha raises her hands in defeat, and Barb claps her hands. “Oh, you guys. I’ve missed the two of you bickering.”
“We did too,” Martha says.
It’s weird. It does feel like we’ve missed a huge chunk of each other’s lives, but also like we’re back to being us. Maybe it’s because of the happiness goggles I’m wearing at the moment, but for the first time in a year it’s like everything is back to what it’s supposed to be. Like I’ve reached the destination I was always supposed to get to.
Barb shifts on the couch, turning to me. “So about today…”
“Yes. We need to talk pictures,” Martha interjects. “With the photographer, I planned—”
She’s interrupted by a knock. Chugging the champagne, Martha stands, walks across the room, and opens the door. Her body straightens, and although she’s facing away from us, I can imagine her eyes widening. “Hello.”
Oh, God. What now? If William Roberts enters the room, I might just set this farm on fire.
“Hello, Martha. Is Amelie in here?”
“Dad?” I call.
Shit. Just how sad is it that I completely forgot about my dad? I didn’t think of calling him, of letting him know about my wedding today. Sure, it’s been a whirlwind of emotions, but that’s my dad .
With my happiness slightly dampened, I gesture to the hairdresser to give me a second and stand just as he walks in.
He turns to me, his eyes scanning my dress, and I squirm a little on the spot. Though I wish I could say I don’t crave his approval, I don’t think I’ll ever truly stop. I don’t let it crush me when I don’t get it, but I still can’t help but want it.
“Wow, Amelie.” He looks up at me, his stern expression just a little less daunting. “You look…” Glancing at Martha and Barb, he clears his voice. “We need to talk about a couple of things.”
Okay, maybe it still does crush me a little.
With sympathetic glances, Martha and Barb leave the room, followed by the hairdresser. My dad waits for the door to close, then ackwardly rubs his hands together. “So… Ian Roberts.”
I almost feel bad for him. He’s far from perfect, but his daughter marrying a Roberts is probably his worst nightmare. “Yeah, Dad. He’s—”
“He’s a good man.” He quickly looks away. “A man deeply in love.”
I swallow, trying not to let my emotions show. Though he hasn’t explicitly said it, I think this is his way to let me know he approves, making it the first time he approves of anything I’ve done. “Yeah, he—he is.”
“The thing I wanted to talk to you about… I…” His hand scratches a spot over his ear as he stares down at the floor uncomfortably. “The head chef position is yours if you want it,” he eventually says with a frown.
Wow.
How can I say no to such an appealing offer? It’s like he’s doing me a favor—like he feels forced to give me something to make me happy.
I take a step forward, the dress flowing with my movement, then ponder how to phrase what I need to get out, but I don’t think there’s a good way, nor do I see a scenario in which this doesn’t end in a screaming match. “I…” Biting my lower lip, I look up into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dad, but I don’t want it.”
He remains still for the longest time, then cracks a smile. I figure it’s a cruel grin, but when he finally looks into my eyes, he nods. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes, good, Amelie.” He crosses his arms. “You’ve always wanted me to tell you you’d be as good a head chef of La Brasserie as I am. That you’re as good a cook as I am.” He shakes his head firmly. “But you’re not.”
If there’s a hell, that’s where he’s directed. How can he say this two minutes before my wedding? “Okay, Dad, I—”
“You don’t have forty years of experience, for one.”
“You know I’ve never claimed that. Of course I lack your experience.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, catching on to my annoyed tone. “Compared to me, at your age? You’re not as good, Amelie, because you’re not enamored with French cuisine. You’d be a great head chef for La Brasserie. You’re talented and hardworking. But as good as me? No. You’d never be as good as me.”
Ian punched his father yesterday. I could punch mine today. What’s the worst that could happen?
“Are you listening to me?”
I nod, lips pressed tight.
“I taught you everything I knew, Amelie. You had raw talent, and I showed you the way. I made you the chef you are today.”
He’s right: I owe my career to him, and not because of his connections or his restaurant but because of his teaching and his recipes.
“I could see this is what you wanted to do. Cooking. And it filled me with incredible pride, so I fed that part of you. I tried to guide you, to inspire you. And though cooking is my passion, you are my daughter, Amelie. La Brasserie and my work were always for you.”
My throat clenches violently, but I nod again.
“You’ll be as good a chef as me when you find your way.” He shrugs. “I hoped it’d be my way, but it isn’t. You’ll always have La Brasserie to fall back on should you need it.” He looks away. “Whatever you end up cooking, I’ll be your harshest critic, because that’s how you’ll rise to the top. But for what it’s worth, I think once you do what makes you passionate, you’ll be a better cook than me.” He holds his chin up. “You had a better teacher than I did.”
I smile, my lips quivering as I try to hold back tears. He’s just given me the bare minimum a parent should give their kid—reassurance and approval—yet it feels like one of those long, warm hugs that are meant to make you feel loved. Why is he being this affectionate for the first time when I’m refusing his life’s work?
“As for William Roberts and Amelie’s Bistro, I—”
“I really don’t want to hear that name again, especially today,” I say, cutting him off. “What’s done is done.”
“Fair enough.” He adjusts the pants of his suit. “Ian came to talk to me yesterday. He explained what’s going on. The reason for marrying you out of the blue.”
Uncomfortable with the implication, I look down at my gown. “It’s not about the money, Dad.”
“That’s what he said,” he says, and as my eyes meet his, he continues. “He said you’ve been in love with each other for a long time. That you’ve been friends, but he’s always known you’d be the one.” He walks closer still. “Did you know I met him before?”
Trying to stifle a chuckle, I think of that first night at the conference when Ian told me not so kindly that he understood why I was “like that.” “He’s mentioned it, yes.”
“I like him.” He nods. “I can see why you do.”
“I love him.”
“Quite an upgrade from your previous choice.” He kisses my cheek, patting my shoulder, then quickly moves back. “You look magnifique , Amelie. Your mother will be extremely upset she missed this, and for that I’m thankful.”
As I hold back a laugh, he walks away. I do wish my mom were here, but she hasn’t been a constant in my life for years. My dad has, for better and for worse, and I’m happy he won’t miss my wedding.
“Dad?” I call as he opens the door. When he turns to me, I bite my lower lip. I do feel a pinch of guilt. He’s an old-fashioned man, and he probably expected to be asked for his opinion. “I’m sorry we didn’t talk to you before today. Do we have your blessing?”
He clears his throat. “As I told Ian when he asked, you don’t need it. The choice is yours.” He clears his throat. “But if I can make a small request…” He grimaces. “Please, keep your surname, Amelie.”