Page 11 of Mom Com

Wilder frowns at the diminutive greeting but doesn’t take his eyes off me. Which of course makes Kate frown in turn. And there’s something about his look, something weighted and meaningful that makes it all the more uncomfortable.

I swallow, and even though it feels impossible, like I’m attempting to tear space-time itself, I look away. I do not care about Wilder Buenaventura, I repeat like a mantra—in fact, I actively dislike him.

They take their seats, Wilder across from me and Kate across from Liv. Kate keeps her gaze trained on Wilder, and by the way her eyes tighten at the corners and her jaw tenses ever so slightly, I can tell she’s more than aware of the way Wilder’s looking at me. There is nothing I would like more right now than to slide directly off my chair and under this table, followed by an army crawl out of the inn, Haverberry, and the state of Massachusetts.

My heart beats roughly in my chest and I take a big gulp of wine. I glance up at the podium, but there’s nothing to see. I’ve been a pastry chef in a friggin’ Michelin-starred restaurant, I remind myself. I supported myself as a new mom atseventeen, for God’s sake. I can handle one simple dinner with Wilder.Buck the fuck up, Maddi, you’re better than this.

Wilder looks from me to Liv, his frown turning into an accusation.

But Liv only smiles and places her hand on my shoulder. “Look who I bumped into on her way into town. Or maybe she bumped into me?” Liv laughs lightly and glances in my direction. “Maddi’s home for the holidays for the first time in ten years; can you believe it? And I thought we should give her the old Buenaventura welcome—you know, stodgy banquet with droning speeches and mediocre wine.”

Wilder stares at his sister and I find myself reading his expression the way I used to—the dent between his eyebrows representing his frustration, and his jaw tensed the way it always is when he’s holding himself back from saying something. But the more I register his emotions, the more I simmer in embarrassment. He has no right to be mad that I’m here; I have dibs on all the pissed-off-ness from here to eternity.

I raise my almost empty glass, now emboldened by my indignity. “You might want to snag yourself some of that mediocre wine, Wilder, it might help you look less horrified.” I know it’s not a way to start.I know. But I refuse to feel small and unwanted again.

Wilder meets my eyes and Liv chuckles.

But it’s Kate who speaks. “How nice you decided to come home after all these years,” she says, drawing out her words as though our previous conversation near the coat check never happened.

I blink at her.

Kate nods thoughtfully. “Tell us, what have you been up to? And don’t leave outUltimate Bake Off. I swear I don’t know anyone who didn’t watch it. You’ve beenquitethe gossip here. I do hope you sorted everything out with your job... and your rent?”

And perfect. Now I’m on Kate’s kill list, the girl who has a talent for finding peoples’ insecurities the same way those nose strips magically pull out the tiniest of blackheads. My cheeks warm, my unease increasing tenfold.

“Kate’s right, you were a total boss on that show,” Liv says, shifting Kate’s intended slight to a compliment. “I can’t believe you didn’t win. Highway robbery.”

Wilder and Liv look at each other, and I swear there is something more to their gaze. Wilder leans back in his chair, shaking his head ever so slightly at his sister.

Which is when Mrs. Buenaventura pulls away from her conversation to look up at us. I can tell, she too, is shocked to see me, although she hides it much better than Wilder did. “You all know the Floreses,” she says in her British accent, faded through many years of living in the states. “Except maybe Madeline.” She says my name in an underwhelming tone that tells me everything I need to know. And while I don’t expect her to jump for joy that I’m here, the disapproval sucks. She’s known me since I was born.

She moves through introductions smoothly, while Mr. Buenaventura sips his drink and says hello in his slight Argentinian accent. And for a brief moment, I think this might be the answer to all the tension—a long conversation with them about their recent trip abroad or the new apartment building they bought. The Buenaventuras have a chatty and engaging quality to them, placing their hand on your arm as they talk, making it easy to just listen and blend into the background. But unfortunately, we only say polite hellos and they continue their previous conversation without us, leaving Liv, Wilder, Kate, and me to fend for ourselves.

I adjust my gaze back across the table and find Wilder staring at me.

When his eyeline doesn’t shift, I reach for my wine, only to discover it’s empty. And in my peripheral vision, I see Mrs. Buenaventura steal another look at me, one that is followed by a frown.

Liv grabs a carafe from her parents’ portion of the table. She refills my glass and pours one for Wilder. “I think Maddi was right about that drink.”

Wilder’s eyes flash from me to Liv. “My problem isn’t lack of alcohol,” he says and even though his tone is perfectly pleasant, my stomach drops.

Liv sighs. “Think, baby brother. Do you really want to do this? Have a not-so-veiled conversation that’s going to make this night a million times more uncomfortable than it needs to be?”

“If you didn’t want the night to be uncomfortable, Liv,” he says smoothly, but his tensed jaw gives him away, “then you shouldn’t have orchestrated it that way.”

Liv frowns, but before she can respond, my defenses flare. The only thing worse than realizing Wilder is disappointed to see me (while it occurs to me this is a double standard, I do not have the bandwidth to analyze it right now) is that he’s vocalizing it. “You know I can hear you, right? That I’m sitting right here?”

Kate spears her salad in uniform bites, a small smile of satisfaction on her lips.

But Liv remains focused on her brother. “First of all, I invited Maddi because I wanted to spend time with her.” An opinion it’s clear Wilder doesn’t share, not that I want to spend time with him, but still. There’s something primitively satisfying about your ex seeing you and feeling remorse for his crappy actions like you won some small life prize. Today is not that day.

Blood rushes to my cheeks in a prickly flush and I have a deep desire to shut the whole conversation down. “It’s like Liv said, she ran into me in town,” I interject, attempting to imbue my voice with nonchalance. “Everything isn’t about you, Wilder.”

“No, it’s not. But you can ask Liv yourself,” he says so confidently that I now regret chiming in. “Ask my sister why she brought you here without warning me or our parents?”

And that’s it. That’s the very last straw. My already fanned embarrassment explodes like a firework finale, my heart trying to make a speedy getaway in my chest. I sit there for what feels like ten years but is probably only four seconds, trapped in the amber of unease. And for just a hair of a moment, I think I see regret on Wilder’s face. Only I don’t care. It’s as though every fear I had tonight is being actualized in this moment, heightened by the fact that it’s with Liv and Wilder, people I once considered family. I don’t even realize I’m speaking until I feel my voice like the base of a too-loud stereo, vibrating in my chest.

“Warning?” I breathe the word back at him, now full-on warrior-porcupine. “I was unaware that my mere presence came with a warning. But you want one? Fine, you’re getting one.Warning, Wilder, I’m back in town for two weeks.Warning, you should stay out of my way.Warning, if you do try to talk to me again, I’ll only tell you that you’re a self-righteous jerk who can take his attitude and shove itright up hispampered asshole.”