Page 88 of It's Complicated

His eyes are on me like they’ve been all day. But this time… there’s a new glint of solidarity in them. Like he gets what I was trying to do.

I let out a breath of relief I didn’t know I’d been holding inside all week.

We’re on the same page. He wants to talk, too.

When the photographer has finished taking the millionth picture of glass stems no one will ever look at, I’m about to excuse myself again when Aiden’s mom turns to me, asking, “Did you know the Palmer hotel was built as a wedding gift?”

No, I didn’t know and I couldn’t care less.

Still, I plaster a polite smile on my face and pretend to find the nugget of information riveting. “Really? For who?”

“Potter Palmer, a Chicago business magnate, built it for Bertha Honoré, a wealthy socialite twenty-three years his junior. It was quite the scandal at the time. Someone even said their marriage was cursed.”

“Cursed, why?”

“Because only thirteen days after its grand opening, the hotel burned down in the Great Chicago Fire.”

Uselessly, I search the room for signs of fire damage. “How are we sitting in it now, then?”

“Because Palmer rebuilt it right away, making it one of the nation’s longest continually operating hotels.”

“Not so cursed, then.”

“But to lose all that money and for the hotel to be destroyed precisely thirteen days after opening its doors for the first time. Have you noticed they don’t have a thirteenth floor?”

Like half the hotels in America, I’m tempted to reply, but keep my mouth shut. Aiden’s mom is being nice, she can’t know her chit-chat is effectively keeping me from telling the love of my life how I feel for the first time. So I keep quiet and listen to her story.

By the time I’m finished discussing the century-old love affair with Aiden’s mom, the appetizers arrive, and at that point, I don’t attempt to leave again. Everyone else at the table seems glued to their seats, and I don’t want to appear rude, unappreciative, or uninterested in the wedding banquet.

Plus, Jace could excuse himself first. He saw what I was trying to do earlier. If he wanted to talk as badly as I do, all he’d have to do would be to get up, prove we’re allowed to use the restroom, and I’d follow.

But he doesn’t. Not after the appetizer, nor after the first course.

When a server drops the second course in front of me, I pale, and for a moment I forget all about Jace as the man announces, “Our entrée is an Amish breast of chicken in a marsala reduction with a side of mushrooms.”

An image of Gemima lying bloodied and deprived of her body parts stares back at me from the plate. I swallow hard, trying not to gag. The room spins around me and I might start to sweat cold any minute.

They forgot I asked for a vegetarian meal. I didn’t notice with the appetizers and first course because the tomato garden basil soup and pesto and goat’s cheese risotto were basically vegetarian for everyone.

What do I do now?

I’m not eating this, but I hate making a fuss. I don’t want to complain and point out someone, somewhere messed up my meal, especially not when I’m sitting next to Aiden’s mother. The Collymores must’ve spent a fortune on this wedding.

I could just leave the food untouched on my plate, even if every extra second I stare at the cooked corpse of a once-beautiful chicken, I die a little inside.

But then Aiden’s mom would probably just ask me if something was wrong with my food—at which point I’d either have to admit I’m a vegetarian or eat the darn thing.

I’m not eating the darn thing.

And I might be getting better at handling confrontations, but it seems only when it’s Kendall making a move on Jace. The servers haven’t done anything to me, and I don’t want to make a scene, especially since Kendall has already been rude enough to the waiting staff for all the people seated at this table combined.

What do I do, then?

As I look across the fancy dining room table, desperately searching for an alternative solution, my gaze lands on the open window just over to my right. And it’s one of those moments where a cartoon light bulb pops over my head.

The window behind our table overlooks a back alley, whereas the city backdrop is reserved for the newlyweds’ table. All I have to do is wait until everyone is distracted and throw the meat out. No one is bound to be in the back alley, so it’s not like I risk hitting anyone over the head with a chicken breast projectile.

And I know someone could argue wasting food is just as much of a crime as chicken murder. But even if I send this back to the kitchen, they’re just going to throw it away all the same. At least in the alley, I could make a few city rats happy.

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