Chapter 23 Fuck It? Not?
Fuck It? Not?
— T HREE M ONTHS AND T WO W EEKS TO A MELIE’S W EDDING —
I take in the large, dusty room. Three out of four walls in the space are made of glass doors that lead to a balcony overlooking the sea. The dark wooden deck might be the most gorgeous part of the property. When I stepped on it earlier, I could smell the sea salt, see the waves crashing against the rocks below. I could hear the seagulls calling and almost felt like I was on one of those boats I could see in the distance.
Glancing at the walls, I picture them coated in white paint instead of their actual dirty gray. They are arched at the top, with beautiful crown moldings at every corner and around the missing overhead lighting. Debris is scattered around the room, but beneath it the beige tiles are intact. It’s been established I’m no contractor, but I think once polished they’d look as good as new.
I enter the large kitchen in the back and duck to avoid a big spiderweb. All the appliances in here are prehistoric. The first thing I’d trash would be the line of fridges in the back—no, maybe the microwave. But once they’re all gone, there’ll be enough space to equip the workspace with all the gadgets I’ve ever wanted.
This place is perfect.
Once I’m back in the dining room, the real estate agent points at the phone against his ear and mouths a “Sorry” as he paces back and forth on the deck. I wave to dismiss him, then take my phone out and, after tapping on Ian’s name in the contact list, send him a text.
Amelie:
Busy?
Ian:
For you? Never.
Pressing on the “call” button, I bring the phone to my ear.
“Jeez, Amelie. I was in the middle of sex with a Brazilian dancer,” he says in an annoyed voice. “You call at the most inconvenient times, don’t you?”
“Some people just say hello, Ian.”
“Hello, Ian.”
“You’re twelve.”
He chuckles, a car horn blasting in the background.
“Are you sure you’re not busy? I can call back later—”
“Not busy, Amelie. Just having lunch with my dad.”
Well, that sounds like something I shouldn’t be interrupting.
“To what do I owe this pleasure? You don’t usually call this early.”
Letting go of the thought, I glance around me. “I thought you might like to share with me the moment that could potentially change my life forever.”
“I’d like that very much,” he says, his voice etched with intrigue.
Walking to the back door and peeping at the short buildings and houses surrounding the restaurant, I grin. “I’m scouting locations.”
“Oh,” he says. He sounds somewhat disappointed. “You found something better than the barn on the Kent Farm, then?”
“No. No better place exists,” I say with a sigh. “I’m not talking about wedding locations.”
After a couple of seconds, he says, “No way. You’re doing it?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
He hollers for a good five seconds as I chuckle. “Amelie, I’m so proud of you. This is fucking amazing. It’s—” He groans. “I need to hug someone. Well, I need to hug you, but you’re not here. Wait, there’s a lady—excuse me? Can I hug you? My friend gave me amazing news, but she’s on the phone and I can’t hug her. Really? You don’t mind?”
I hear what sounds like an old lady say she’s always up for a hug from such a handsome young man.
“Thank you. You’re the best. What’s your name? I’m Ian. Okay, bye, Griselle. Lovely to meet you.”
“Are you done harassing strangers?” I ask.
“Actually, no, I’m not. I need to hug someone else, but Griselle loves strong perfume.” He groans again. “Amelie, come here perfumeless. I’ll get you a train ticket.”
“Be serious!” I shout, stomping my feet.
“I am! This is amazing news—an early Christmas gift!”
My grin is so wide, my cheeks hurt. Stupid Ian. Stupid, amazing, special Ian. I’m only considering it, but he’s turning this into such a big deal, like it’s already decided.
“This is a mistake. I know it is,” I say, adrenaline coursing through my body in a wave that leaves me queasy. “Frank will lose his mind, and my dad—” My throat closes. “My dad will hate me.”
“You haven’t told Frank?”
“No,” I admit. “I need to do it in the right way or he won’t support the idea.”
He mutters something that sounds like “Surprise, surprise,” then clears his throat. “Well, I’m honored to share this moment with you, Amelie, but I’m sure he knows you’re a kick-ass woman who will succeed. And if he doesn’t… well, that shouldn’t stop you. Support goes both ways, and you’ve been supporting him and his needs plenty.”
The sun shines through the large glass doors, lighting the room up all the way to the tall ceilings. The more details I notice, the deeper I fall in love with this place—with what it represents, and what it could be. “You’re the person who inspired this, you know.”
“Well, you inspire me every day.”
“Me?” I say, surprised. “What do I inspire you to do?”
“You’re kidding, right?” He laughs. “You’ve been working for your dad since you were—what, fourteen? And even though he hardly gave you any of the well-deserved recognition you need, you’ve stuck by his side through it all.”
“Which you said I should stop doing,” I remind him. “Remember? That’s why I’m here.”
“And Frank,” he continues, blatantly ignoring me. “You know how many women would have dropped his ass if they were in your place?”
“Another thing you constantly complain about.”
“And let’s not forget Martha,” he says. “Not many friendships would survive her selfishness, and yet you—”
“ These are all things you said I should stop doing! ” I shriek.
“Yes, Amelie. You need to stop putting everyone else’s needs and wants above your own,” he says. “Still, there’s no denying your patience, your good heart, and your strength. You, beautiful Amelie, are the most resilient person I know.”
I bite my lip, my eyes filling with happy tears.
Before I can thank him, his voice comes through the phone again. “But just because you carry it all, it doesn’t mean it’s not heavy.”
God, it feels so good. For my efforts to be validated, to have someone acknowledge that I’ve been strong. Even if every ounce of strength I have comes from Ian. Without his comfort, I probably would have given up or gotten here feeling a lot emptier than I do right now.
Passing my hand over the dusty counter, I try to shake my emotions off. “It’s your ‘Fuck it’ attitude. It spreads like a virus.”
“Damn right. Fuck it.”
Well, I still have to discuss it with Frank. As my fiancé, he has a say in the matter of our finances. “I haven’t made up my mind about this, Ian.”
His boisterous laugh makes my face light up, and in the seconds of silence that follow, I fall deeper in love with every detail of this place. The white windows, the beautiful sandstone counter, the glass double doors at the entrance.
“Haven’t you, Amelie?”
Turning around and taking in a 360-degree view of my new restaurant’s interior, I bite my lip. I guess I have.
I set my phone down with a loud “Ha!” and cross my arms, pleased by the number of likes and shares of this morning’s tweet.
Since the Marguerite used our Valentine’s Day initiative from last year to throw us under the bus, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to return the favor. Imagine my joy when I learned about their “Buy one, get one free” promotion on crème br?lée. So damn tacky.
When the door rattles, I light up the two candles on the table and stand. Frank is back for the weekend, and there’s a lot we need to talk about. “Ames?” Frank calls from the entrance, and a minute after I shout back, “Kitchen!” he joins my side, his eyes roaming over the table set with plates filled with cannelloni. With an apprehensive look at the meatloaf in the oven, his forehead furrows. “Are we expecting guests?”
“No, don’t worry.”
He heaves a sigh of relief as he takes his cap off. “Then what’s this?”
“For you.” I move his chair back with a grin. “I wanted to talk about something.”
With a suspicious expression, he takes off his jacket. “So you sweeten me up with my favorite meal. Solid plan. Let me just change this?” he asks as he pinches his sweatshirt.
Once he’s left the kitchen, I take out the documents I’ve prepared and set them by the side of my plate, then release a nervous breath. Though the money I’d invest in the restaurant is technically mine, we’re about to be married. I can’t ignore his opinion… despite what Ian says.
“Okay, here I am.” He appears at the kitchen door wearing an old T-shirt and a tired smile. “Ready to listen.”
I point at his chair, and he takes a seat. “First, food. Or my plan isn’t going to work.”
“Of course.” He cuts a piece of his cannelloni, then brings it to his lips and closes his eyes with an appreciative sigh, waving his fork up and down. “My God, this is delicious. I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.”
My heart fills as he goes for a second bite, then a third. This particular joy is something I can hardly describe with words, but it never gets old. Ever since the first crêpes I used to make with my father as a child, seeing people enjoying the food I prepare is the best feeling in the world.
Which gives me more confidence for the next step.
I set a stack of papers in front of him and say, “Considering you’re such a fan of my food, I’d like to present you with a proposition.”
“How formal,” he jokes, grabbing the papers as he goes for another forkful. He reads the first page, eyes narrowed, his chewing becoming slower and slower, until he sets his fork down on the table. “A business plan?”
“Yes. A business plan for—” I shrug. “Well, keep reading.”
“Your restaurant,” he breathes out, his lips parting. His eyes move left to right as he swallows, and a few seconds later he’s stroking his chin and observing me with a stern expression. “Ames…”
“Wait, Frank. Read it first.”
“I have no doubt this is a good business plan—great even. It doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
He sets it on the table with a deep breath. “You know why not, Ames. We can’t afford a restaurant on top of the wedding.”
He’s right, and if he bothered to look past the first page of my business plan, he would notice that I took that into consideration. We’ve already scaled down a lot of the stuff I originally planned because of our six-month deadline, and to be completely honest, if it weren’t for the deposits we’ve already put down, I would just call it off and elope. With everything that’s happened, I can’t say I’m particularly excited about my wedding day, and planning it has been the equivalent of a nine-to-five job you hate and get charged for.
“I’ll ask for a loan. I’m a professional with loads of experience, and I’ve got great credit. I’m sure if I present the bank with a good plan, they’ll say yes.”
“A loan?” Worriedly, Frank bites his bottom lip. I nod and open the folder on the table, then point at the page with my estimate for the loan. “Whoa, Ames. That’s a lot of money.”
And it’s not the worst part yet.
“Yes, and at the beginning I won’t be able to make much, with the loan to repay. It could be months until the restaurant takes off. Maybe even a few years before I start seeing any decent profit.”
His eyes find mine, and he squints from behind his thick glasses. “Ames…” He shakes his head, then stands. His shoulders tense as he stares at the kitchen cabinet and rubs a hand over his face. As if I asked him to build me a castle out of paper clips. “This isn’t the right moment. You know I’m up for a promotion at work. Maybe we could talk about this some other time.”
Ian’s words come back to me.
Support goes both ways.
“So I’m supposed to put my life on pause until you achieve your dream.” Pressing a hand to my chest, I ask, “It’s not like we’ve already put our relationship on hold for your needs, right?”
“Is that how it is?” he retorts. “You’ll resent me forever?”
“I don’t know about forever, but you can bet it’ll take more than five fucking minutes to get over this, Frank.” I slam the folder closed. “What about my dreams? When is it my turn?”
“Your dream is to be the head chef of your father’s restaurant.”
“No it’s not!” I shout. “And you’d know that if you ever bothered listening. Or asking. If you gave a crap about anything but your six months of being single, you’d notice just how unhappy I’ve been and for how long.”
He groans, hiding his face in both hands and staring at his uneaten dinner. It feels like a boulder is crushing me to the floor and leaving me unable to breathe.
I remember our first date. Dinner and a movie. I told him about my dreams: how one day, I would love to open a restaurant not at all like my father’s. A cozy, bright place to enjoy simple food done to perfection. A place where people feel free to laugh loudly and sit back, and they leave feeling like they weren’t in a restaurant, but a home.
I’m sure he was listening back then. I clearly remember his smile, his comment about imagining a place like that being by the beach. It immediately made me swoon, because that was exactly what I pictured too.
I guess at some point he forgot.
“Your dad will promote you soon, Ames. You just need to be—”
Pointing a finger at him, I feel my eyes flare. “Say that I need to be patient and your weekend visit ends now.”
“What’s even the point of opening a restaurant and starting from scratch when you’ll be handed a restaurant anyway? You’ll be the head chef, and then one day you’ll be the owner. You get the wedding you want and a restaurant.”
Or maybe I’ll get a wedding I don’t like and a restaurant I don’t want.
I look down, not a shadow of a smile on my face.
He stands, too, then cups my face with both hands. They’re cold, and besides, they feel like sandpaper right now, but when I flinch backward, he doesn’t let go. “Hmm? How does that sound?”
“I can give you until the wedding,” I say as I take his hands and gently pull them off my face. “But then I’m done putting your needs first.”
“Okay. That’s fair.” He kisses my lips, but I barely respond, the bitterness of our disagreement turning everything a sad shade of gray. Eventually I leave the kitchen. I can barely stand to look at him, and it’s not because I’ll have to put everything on pause until after the wedding. Considering the years I’ve waited, three months is nothing. I can do it. It’s about everything else. How selfish he is, how inconsiderate and absent. How he hasn’t once thought about our deal and regretted it. How he hasn’t asked a single question about Ian since we met.
Approaching the couch, I grab my phone off the cushion. Of course, the only person who can make it all better has already texted me. Something between a frown and a smile blossoms on my lips as I open his text.
Ian:
So… fuck it? Not?
Hugging myself, I stare at Ian’s name. I wish I could follow his advice. I wish his “Fuck it” attitude were as infectious as I made it out to be. Mostly, I wish he were here, right next to me, so he could hug me instead.
Amelie:
Not.