Page 12 of Mom Com

As I finish my sentence, I realize my mistake—the room must have fallen silent just as my voice raised in volume. A woman stands at the podium and clears her throat into the mic. “Good evening,” she says to the audience, looking away from me in a deliberate way that tells me she heard everything I said.

I glance at the crowd, only to find I’m right—people lean into each other whispering and shooting glances our way. And in a desperate attempt to flee, I push my chair back. But instead of sliding smoothly, it collides hard with something and I stop short, catching sight of the food stand the waiter behind me must have just set up. I don’t upend it, thank God, but the change in motion has me falter and I grab the table to steady myself, managing to knock over my now full glass of wine.

Humiliation rages inside me as I search for my napkin, which appears to have vanished. My chest tightens and I know if I don’t get out of here that I’m in serious danger of crying, the type that comes from feeling trapped in misunderstanding. And to make matters a million times worse, Wilder gets up, fast as lightning, and starts helping me clean up the mess.

As though the universe were aware that I was having a terrible day and decided to pile on, the paper plate I was using as a palette crashes to the art room floor, sending splatters of color across the tile, in what is arguably a much prettier piece of art than the portrait on my canvas. But the mess isn’t contained to the floor, it’s also on the legs of the art easel, my new sneakers, my bare calves, and my backpack that sits propped against my stool.

My eyes flit to Wilder, who’s perched next to me in this godforsaken elective that I mistakenly thought would be so romantic. The instant our eyes meet, I know he knows, that this isn’t one of those moments I can laugh off, not after my Murphy’s Law morning, and in about one point five seconds, tears are about to happen. The thought only winds me tighter. I hate crying in public. Maybe it’s stodgy New England’s influence or maybe I just wasn’t blessed with that emotionally-in-touch-and-accepting gene, but either way, it feels like humiliation.

Only before I get the chance, Wilder is off his stool, bending down to pick up the plate and getting it on himself in the process.

“Don’t,” I say, my churning emotions seeping into my voice. “You’ll get paint all over yourself. I’ll only feel worse if I drag you into my shit day.”

For a split second his eyebrows push together like he’s considering it. Then slowly a grin spreads across his face. “Maddi,” he says, now placing his hand directly into the globs of paint on the tile. “Whatever day you’re having, I’d like to have it, too.” Then he wipes his hand right across his pristine white T-shirt.

I’m so taken aback that I have trouble forming a response. “Wilder,” I say slowly, disbelievingly. The only thing about him that is ever out of place is his hair, but in a way that makes him look relatable and sexy, not messy like the rest of us. “What are you doing?”

But he only shrugs. “I’m painting,” he says and pulls his finger across his forehead, giving himself a rainbow unibrow.

And somehow the ridiculousness of Wilder Buenaventura painting his own face does it, a true kindness, which lifts the weight that was grinding me into the ground. I laugh. Bright and loud, my upset evaporated like a puddle in direct sunlight. I dip my hands in the paint, too. And I lean in to kiss him, right there in the middle of class, me getting paint on his cheek, him getting it on my neck as he pulls me into him, smiling against my mouth. Of course, Mrs. Mehta gives us both detention and mumbles something about this being fine art class, not Burning Man. But it doesn’t matter, because at that moment I have everything I need.

I stare at Wilder, who’s patting the table dry, horrified that he’s the one helping me after I just cursed him out publicly. I search around me, locating my napkin on the floor next to my chair.

“I don’t need your help,” I breathe, wishing he would sit down.

“It’s fine, guys,” Liv assures us as I furiously pat the tablecloth. “Don’t worry about it.”

But it’s not fine, it feels like a marker for all that has gone wrong, both this night and in the past. When the pool of wine on the table is sopped up, I mumble something that resembles an apology and I flee, a handful of guests following me with their eyes as I go. I don’t dare look at Mrs. Buenaventura, not wanting to know what she must think.

My hand shakes as I dig through my purse for my coat check ticket, speeding through the front room as fast as my heels allow.

“Maddi, wait,” Liv says, jogging to catch up with me just as I hand my ticket to the man.

I can barely make eye contact with her. I’ve eclipsed humiliated and moved into uncharted territory, where my mouth is no longer working in partnership with my brain. “Just tell me, Liv,” I say, hoping her brother was wrong. “Was Wilder right? Did you invite me here to get at him in some way?”

She closes her eyes for a brief second. “It’s not that simple,” she admits.

I wait.

She sighs. “Look, I want to explain, I really do, but—”

“Right,” I say, cutting her off, willing my chin to remain steady, not wanting to believe that the person I looked up to for so long would use me in a sibling rivalry tit for tat. I lower my eyes to my purse, pulling out her coat check ticket and handing it to her.

“Listen—” she says, taking it reluctantly.

“Don’t,” I reply, unable to mask the hurt in my voice.

“Shit, Maddi,” she says, “I didn’t realize it would play out like this... I’m sorry. Can I at least give you a ride—”

I shake my head.

She opens her mouth, but I don’t wait to hear her objection. I take my coat and walk out the door into the cold. She doesn’t follow and I don’t look back. On top of everything else, I realize I just lost my ride home and I don’t have money for a taxi. And it’s not like I can call my mom; she’ll hear about this soon enough as it is. In fact, there’s only one person I can call. I curse under my breath, feeling seventeen all over again.

CHAPTER5

Fast Escape No-Bake Cheesecake—

topped with fresh raspberries and a red wine reduction that I’ll probably spill