The groom left me at the altar for another woman, so I improvised. I stood there for two whole hours in my wedding dress, waiting for my fiancé to arrive. Everyone in attendance was giving me the same pitiful look.
Even the priest was gently telling me it was time to leave. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from him.
Sorry, can’t make it. Can’t make it. That’s all he had to say after making me humiliate myself in front of two hundred people.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, his best man looked at the floor and apologized, admitting he knew my fiancé wasn’t going to show. He’d met someone new at his last business conference. Chaos erupted.
Our families broke out into fights while I stood there, stunned. When I finally got home, I found his note on the counter. Keep the ring.
Sell it to fund your little cooking hobby. The same “embarrassingly stupid” hobby he’d belittled for years. And now he was telling me to fund it with a ring I helped pay for.
Fine. I crumpled up the note and spent all night finally planning something I’d always dreamed of doing: starting my own french fry business. I always hated how fries tasted the same—just salty, with no originality.
My dusty old notebook was full of recipes for crazy flavors I’d been developing for years. Rotisserie Chicken flavored french fries, fries that tasted like Hot Dogs but were one hundred times healthier, even Dessert Fries you could dip into vanilla sundaes. So, I sold the ring, bought a little food truck, and set up shop at the local park.
I named it The Fry Queen. The first few days were brutal. I was sad and defeated when no one wanted to try my food.
But then one line turned into five, then thirty, and soon the queue for my food truck wrapped around the park. One little kid who tried my Cotton Candy Fries screamed, “I want this every day!” before immediately getting back in line for seconds. Meanwhile, my ex, Derek, immediately started to struggle.
His upscale restaurant, the one I had essentially run for him, began failing. He had the audacity to blame it on me, texting me that I must have done something to sabotage him before I left. He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Before he abandoned me, I’d been the one running his business while he reaped all the benefits. I managed his books, handled staff schedules, and kept his vendors happy. I dealt with every customer complaint while all the money went straight into his pockets.
Now that I wasn’t there, his business was on the brink of bankruptcy. And to make things sweeter, I heard through the grapevine that his new flame—the one he was sure would be “better for business”—had left him at the altar, too. That’s when I met Ian.
He was a handsome guy who quickly became one of my regular customers. He owned several buildings downtown and was supposedly showing me potential restaurant spaces, but he always stayed for lunch, always ordering the newest thing on the menu. “Your ideas are incredible,” he said one afternoon, his mouth full of my new Bacon Cheddar Fries.
“I have no idea how you even come up with them. Dessert fries? Who would have thought they’d be such a smash hit?”
One afternoon, Ian showed up during a crazy lunch rush.
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