Chapter 15 Family History
Family History
— F IVE M ONTHS AND T WO W EEKS TO A MELIE’S W EDDING —
Another tweet has come.
It’s stupid, really, but I’ve been craving one since their anniversary, and I’m shaken by a jolt of adrenaline when I grab my phone and find it waiting for me.
I wonder who’s behind it. William Roberts himself, or, much more likely, whoever his social media guy is. Making a mental note to check the restaurant’s website, I open the app and read.
Pulling the apartment door open, I snicker and set my gloves down. There’s a box by the door, so I pick it up and see it’s for Frank. “Here’s hoping it’s not a new cock ring. Lord knows, he’ll need one in Mayfield,” I mumble as I close the door behind me and set the box down. Though we’ve hardly talked at all in two weeks, I can’t say I’m looking forward to his coming to visit. Until the wedding, I’m happy to use an “out of sight, out of mind” kind of approach.
I know it’s insane. Rationally, I can totally draw that conclusion. I’m stuck, and the more I plan for this wedding, the more I can feel the pressure of expectations weighing on my shoulders. The more I hope to rekindle my relationship with Frank, the further I feel it slip away. It’s like a sinking ship, relentlessly taking on water, and whatever cracks I manage to patch up are replaced by new, deeper ones.
But the alternative is worse. Throwing myself off my familiar yet sinking ship in favor of a frozen ocean of unknowns. Alone to face all difficulties. My fiancé is my one certainty, and I won’t stop trying to fix our relationship until there’s nothing but water in my lungs.
I enter the kitchen, placing the food I brought from the restaurant in the fridge, and my phone notifies me of an incoming text. I expect it to be Ian and nearly topple over when I see it’s Frank.
Heart tumbling, I tap on the notification as one more message comes through.
Frank:
Something got delivered for me today. Open it, please?
Sorry this engagement isn’t exactly what you wanted.
I walk back to where I placed the box and open it, finding a black ring box inside. My bottom lip stings, and I realize I’ve been nibbling it; the metallic taste of blood floods my mouth. Without hesitating, I pull out the box, lift up the top, and find an engagement ring perched on black velvet.
It’s beautiful. Classy, simple. A small oval white diamond and a thin white gold band. Exactly like I’ve always wanted.
Settling on the closest chair, I slide it on my finger. It feels foreign, though I guess that’s somewhat normal at first. I think of sending Frank a picture, then sending one to Barb and Martha, but for a while I do nothing except stare at my hand, at the ring.
It’s good. Great, even, that he remembered the type of ring I wanted. Maybe it’s a sign of what he promised, that although I might not get the engagement I’ve always dreamed of, or the wedding I’ve always wanted, I’ll get the marriage I deserve. And that’s what counts the most.
My phone vibrates on the wood coffee table, and I throw a quick look at it.
Ian:
Send help right fucking now. There’s a spider on my desk.
I huff out a laugh, then open the message just as I receive a picture of the tiniest brown spider next to his computer.
Amelie:
It’s so small. Don’t kill it.
Ian:
I won’t, but I’ll need to move in with you.
Amelie:
Too late for that. I’m officially engaged.
Ian:
Officially? Did you submit papers?
I send a picture of the ring, and though he sees it immediately, no answer comes for a while. Then he types and stops. Then he types again, and for the second time the three dots vanish.
Until eventually:
Ian:
Congratulations, beautiful.
Are you happy?
Yeah, I guess. No, I’m definitely happy about the ring. It’s gorgeous, and Frank clearly put thought into it. I guess I didn’t imagine my engagement ring would come in a box. Or with a text.
Amelie:
Yes, very happy.
Ian:
Good.
Did he do the champagne thing?
Amelie:
What champagne thing?
Ian:
The cringe proposal thing where he plops the ring in the champagne glass?
Amelie:
Yes, but he used a Bloody Mary.
Ian:
Much better. You can use the celery stick to fish it out.
Snorting out another laugh, I switch to my chat with Frank, then stare at the keys on my phone, not sure which one to tap first. I should say thank you, that the ring is beautiful and I love him, but every word I think of sounds wrong. Not enough, or just too much.
I get a voice message from Ian and, curious to hear what else he has to say about proposals and celery, I tap on it.
“Not that you don’t sound absolutely over the moon,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm and filling the silence of my apartment, “but I figured I’d cheer you up anyway in case the engagement was cringier than I’m picturing. Because, dear Amelie, I have the cringiest engagement story for you. I hope you’re ready.”
“All right,” I say as the recording goes on.
“More specifically, this is the story of my parents’ engagement. They married later in life, so I was an unfortunate witness to all of it.”
I’m already smiling as I settle back against the chair.
“Well, I’m ten. My dad drags my mom and me to this fancy hotel for the weekend. Rain, fireplace, chocolates. The whole thing. The fucker makes me light up about fifty tea candles and spread them all around the room while my mom is at the spa.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “See, that’s a proposal.”
“He sends me away, but I steal my dad’s camera and hide somewhere in the room, because I figure my parents will love the video of their proposal, right? So he comes in wearing the hotel’s white fluffy robe, and when my mom enters the room, he’s there, holding the ring.” He snickers. “But because he’s always pranking her, she thinks it’s bullshit. She grabs the ring from the box and throws it across the room. And the ring, defying all laws of physics, hits one of the fifty tea candles a ten-year-old me might have placed just a little too close to the edge of the table.”
My eyes are wide as I listen, anticipating what happens next.
“And I’m still making a video of my mom crying, my dad screaming.” He sighs. “Eventually, he gets on one knee, begins his speech. But the robe is a hotel robe—one size fits all. Well, turns out it does not fit all. So now my dad’s kneeling in front of my mom, giving her this very emotional speech, and his dick and balls are hanging out for us to enjoy.”
My shoulders shake from so much laughter, it’s hard to breathe.
“And that’s when the whole room turns into a fiery inferno. The carpeted floors catch on fire, the flames spread to the curtains, the hotel’s alarm starts blasting.” He groans. “Oh, Amelie. You have no idea.”
God , the way he says my name, though.
“And any type of self-awareness has gone out the window, my dad’s dick is still swinging left and right like he’s trying to hypnotize us with it.” He laughs so hard and for so long, he struggles to speak, until eventually: “Oh, and… funny thing? My mom hated the ring. Hated it. My dad has no fucking taste: it’s this thick golden band with yellow topaz stones around a white central diamond, like her favorite flower. Gah. Of course, after we all risked our lives for it, she couldn’t exactly exchange it.” There’s a little pause. “So there you have it. Whatever Frank did, I’m sure he didn’t flash you and a ten-year-old, nor did he set a hotel on fire, causing hundreds of people to evacuate their romantic holiday.”
The message ends, and, still chuckling, I press on the microphone icon. “Oh my God, Ian. Please tell me you made it all up.”
As soon as I get his answer back, I press “play.” “Hell no. I almost died, Amelie. In fact, I remind my dad every time we go out for lunch. We’re close, which I guess is bound to happen when you know how to recognize your father’s ball sack out of a lineup. So close that if you were to propose to me , you’d have to ask him for my hand in marriage.”
I smile down at the phone. Though I didn’t need cheering up, I feel better. And I’m happy to know Ian has someone in his life who has his back. Pressing on the microphone icon again, I twist a lock of hair with my fingers. “You’ll have to send me a picture of that ring. You know, to verify the truthfulness of your story.”
Immediately, I receive an image. I open it, and the démodé ring isn’t even the first thing I notice. I think it’s his hand, which the ring is resting on. His tattoos wrapping around his wrist. Or his disgusted expression as he looks at it, his chin pushed down. He’s purposefully being ridiculous, and yet he’s painfully handsome, with his soft brown hair falling down his forehead and eyes so blue, it’s like being underwater.
Eventually, though, I look at the ring. The tear-shaped topaz stones surround a small circular white diamond, just like a yellow daisy.
The fact that Ian has it, though, could mean that his mom doesn’t want that ring anymore.
Amelie:
Still no story with you and marriage?
Ian:
Just opinionated.
No story.
“How was your week?” Ian asks as he lets out a long sigh. He said he got home five minutes ago, which means he must have had a long day, because it’s eight.
I hold my phone against my ear and chew my lip. “My week was… exhausting.”
“Did you get that promotion?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
I let myself fall back against the chair, then glance at the poster-sized paper on the table, peppered with black and red pins. My guests and Frank’s guests. I have to say that out of all the things I’ve planned for my wedding so far, figuring out how to place his homophobic uncle as far as possible from my lesbian cousin—and everyone else, really—is the most challenging by far.
“Dad making you jump through hoops, Amelie?”
I drag my cousin’s pin all the way to the right, then rethink it, because she’s known to become a little too flirty when she’s had a few drinks, and Frank’s sister is having a bi-curious moment. His uncle would not like that . “I have a vague memory of us discussing taboo topics.”
“Fine, fine. But it has been two weeks already, hasn’t it?”
Since I told him, yes. Since my dad announced he was retiring and would be choosing the next head chef? Embarrassingly longer than that. Though I’m still not dying to get the job, it’s all types of insulting and infuriating. As such, it’s a thought I’d rather avoid. “Taboo topic.”
“Come on,” he says with a loud groan. “I’ll trade you. Just this once.”
I stab the bridal table with my pin and throw my head back. “Fine. But I don’t want to know about your job.”
“No? Are you sure? It’s really fun. Plus, I’m blanking and I could use a good comeback—”
“ No ,” I say pointedly, refusing to let him distract me. “You know what I want. The true reason behind your hatred for marriage.”
“Fine.” He clears his throat. “It all started a long time ago, in a faraway land.”
“Ian…” I scold.
“There once was a kingdom—”
“Come on! Be serious.”
“—whose queen and king—”
“Oh my—goodbye.” I hang up, my lips twisting with a smile I can’t undo when I receive his text.
Ian:
Well, that was rude.
Now you’ll never know my story.
I see the messages, then tap my fingers on the table as I wait.
Fine. The queen and king had a handsome, gorgeous, hilarious, good-spirited, merciful, impossibly smart prince.
With an eye roll, I press on the call button.
“And one day, the prince met a princess. She was… all right, I guess. Blond or something.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Yes, love! They were in love. Or so the handsome prince thought.”
“How old were you?” I ask, settling my feet on the chair and hugging my knees. Something tells this will be a long story.
“Me? I’m telling you a story about a handsome prince.”
“Fine. How old was the dorky prince?”
“He was in high school.” He waits for a hum of confirmation, then continues. “The prince and the princess dated for years, throughout their royal studies and until graduation, when the prince decided to do something really, really stupid.”
“Let me guess: he proposed.”
“Hey. This is my story.” He clears his throat again. “The prince proposed.”
“My, oh, my, I’m shocked!”
“And the princess wasn’t as condescending as you, so she said yes. Blissfully in love, the two of them planned their wedding. The whole court was invited, and the king and queen were thrilled. Flowers in the kingdom sprouted higher, their colors were fuller, honey was sweeter, and—”
My shoulders slump as he rambles on. “I’m hanging up.”
“—until one day,” he says, his voice turning grave, “the princess was kidnapped and taken to a tall, dark tower from which she could never escape.”
My thoughts run wild as I try to understand exactly what he means.
“Hmm… Wait, that wasn’t dramatic enough. The princess was taken by an ogre who brought her to his kingdom of sad sex and gray flowers, where honey tastes like gasoline.”
“I’m still—not sure—”
“I caught her fucking my best friend.”
I hiss through my teeth. “Shit. How long before the wedding?”
“Two months. He was going to be my best man.”
My shoulders fall, the cheerful and good-spirited Ian I know now mixing with a younger, heartbroken version of him. “God, Ian… I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Best wedding gift she could have given me. I saw her true colors; his too. Cut them both out of my life, and it was for the best.”
Still, he was fresh out of high school. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been. “And that’s when the prince swore off marriage?” I ask in a tentative voice. I just assumed he was playing around as usual when he started with the whole fairy-tale thing, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it’s just hard for him to talk about these experiences as his own.
“That is what the prince did. He decided he would never trust another woman, or have another relationship, and, most of all, he would never ever get married.”
My eyes widen. “Well, that’s hardly fair to women. Or to the prince. He could be missing out on a lot by swearing off the gentler sex.”
“Oh, trust me, the prince did not swear off any type of sex.”
“Funny,” I say flatly.
After a pleased chuckle, he inhales deeply. “You’re right. It was quite drastic. A little overdramatic, maybe. The prince was young.”
“But the prince hasn’t changed his mind. Has he?”
“He has not. But the story isn’t over yet.”
“Aw, that’s nice.” I stand and clean up the table. Frank will figure out where to seat Uncle Tony. “You’re right. The story isn’t over. You’ve got many more chapters to write, and I’m sure you’ll find your princess.”
“What?” He laughs. “No, that’s not what I meant. The story isn’t over because I’m not done speaking.”
“Oh? There’s more?”
“There’s more. But I’ll tell you after the commercials. It’s your turn.”
Abandoning my position at the coffee table, I enter the kitchen and take out the lasagna from the fridge. “Fine. The promotion. I’ve been groomed to take over my dad’s position since before I left school, and he’s decided he’s retiring. But despite what some of my colleagues think, he’s not a nepotist.”
“So you have to prove you deserve it.”
My lips pinch as I set the oven timer, my mind roaming to all the extra shifts and courses and hours of practice I’ve put into becoming a chef my father would be proud of.
Once the oven is set, I lean against the countertop. “Basically, yes.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who’d want a hand-me-down.”
“I’m not,” I confirm, drumming my fingers on my arm. I don’t know exactly how to put this into words, but here goes my best attempt. “I don’t mind working hard. And though I’ve already proved myself plenty, I don’t mind doing it again every day.”
“Okay.”
“It’s the stupidest thing, but… what if I want to be offered the position but I don’t want the position itself?”
He hums. “Didn’t you say you work with your father?”
“I do.”
“Yikes.”
Yeah, yikes. He’s right. If he did offer me the position and I refused it, it’d probably break his… well, it would give him an upset stomach, at least.
“Sounds like you want your dad to recognize your efforts,” Ian says, while munching on something. I swear the man’s always snacking. “And based on your long-ass, late-night shifts, it sounds like he should.”
“Well, he hasn’t yet.” And he probably never will either. All he cares about is this stupid fight with William Roberts. Which reminds me, I’m still waiting for the Marguerite’s tweet. “Anyway, commercial’s over.” Sitting down at the kitchen table, I rest my chin on my knuckles and wait.
“Fine. Where were we? Oh, right. I swore off love and marriage forever.” He clears his voice. “Then my mom got sick.”
My hand lets go, my arm slowly falling on the table as my brows pinch together.
“The woman was… a bomb. My dad says I’m just like her, but imagine this much energy and these few fucks to give as a woman. She was”—he snorts—“fucking fierce. A hurricane. A complete nutjob.”
I both smile and frown, my thoughts returning to my mom, a whole world away and so terrifyingly absent throughout most of my life.
“She had absolutely no time or patience for my heartbreak. And she was not okay with my ‘nonsense about marriage.’ That’s what she called it.” He takes a deep breath, then lets it out with a sense of resignation. “Anyway, as I said, she got sick, and it was one of those diseases that’s long and debilitating and known to be fatal since the beginning. In the end, she was nothing like the woman who raised me. And seeing her like that… I wished she would just die.”
“Ian…” I whisper.
“I know. It sounds horrible. It took me a lot of therapy to accept the way I was feeling.”
“It’s not horrible,” I tell him. Not for the first time in the past few months, I wish there were no phone between us. That he was here, or I was there, and right now I could hug him tight and whisper in his ear that his feelings are perfectly normal. I can’t imagine what it would be like watching someone so exuberant lose all their light. It’s even harder to imagine seeing someone you love go through that.
“Well, the dumbass decided if she was not going to be by my side for the next fifty years to remind me not to give up on love, she’d motivate me enough to remind myself.”
“O… kay?”
“So when the queen died and the whole kingdom mourned her loss, the prince found out he’d been left fifty percent of her inheritance, and he’d only receive the other half on one condition.”
Bursting into a smile that takes over my whole face, I say, “He had to get married.”
“Mm-hmm. Can you believe this lunatic?”
“Not only can I believe her, but I love her.”
Ian mumbles, “Yeah. I love her too.”
As I get up to set the lasagna into the oven, I ask, “What about the princess?”
“What about her?”
“Well, did she end up with the ogre? Are they still having sad sex? Or did she come back for the prince?”
“No, she never came back,” he says. “And by the way, she’s anything but a princess. Maybe one of those wrinkly witches with a dark hood over their almost bald heads and huge, hairy warts on their noses.”
“Not a princess. Got it.” I bite my lower lip. “So, then, what should I call her?”
“You could call her a bi—” When I laugh, he sputters an amused chuckle too. “Ella. Her name is Ella.”