Page 19 of Mom Com

“Yup,” I say. “Is that a problem?” I want to add that Jake is sitting with Wilder’s newgirlfriendand that any objection he has is one thousand percent moot, but I hold back for the sake of avoiding a scrimmage, which I think is rather big of me.

“No,” he says, but his voice says otherwise. Only I don’t feel satisfaction at his jealousy, the exact opposite.

“Look,” I say, “the last thing either of us needs is more tension. You asked me to be mature about this, and now I’m asking you the same.” He doesn’t get to pick and choose as he pleases.

“And as your friend,” he says, trying to sound casual, but I can clearly see this is bothering him. “I’m just saying that Jake is a player.”

I shake my head, losing patience with the conversation. “He’s actually the opposite. There’s no game there. He just likes girls, probably too many of them too enthusiastically, but he’s not slick about it. Also, I’m a big girl. I don’t need you to warn me.”

Wilder’s frown deepens. “So what then? You plan on dating him?” He sounds hurt about it and it sends me right over the edge.

“All I did was invite him to judge our tarts, just like you invited Alice.”

“Right,” Wilder says with the distinct tone that implies he doesn’t believe me.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I say, feeling my thin hold on my emotions growing weaker by the second. He doesn’t get to move on and then be hurt that I’m trying to do the same.

“Come on, Mads,” he says, letting his composure slip a little. “You and I both know you invited him because he’s my friend and you knew it would bother me.”

“Ourfriend, you cocky asshole.”

Wilder bristles. “Good to know we’ve already arrived at the point in the conversation where you just fling insults at me. I guess there must be more truth to what I said than I realized.”

I slam the plates I’m carrying down on the front counter, causing a few of the customers to turn in our direction, including Mrs. Varma, who fixes us in a glare that I imagine translates to “If you take this fight one step further and disturb my peaceful bakery, you better believe there’ll be hell to pay.” I mumble a guilty apology to Mrs. Varma, refusing to look at Wilder.

Instead, I take off my apron, throw it in the dirty rag bin, and push back my hair.

I move around the counter with determination. “You coming?” I say to Jake. And to his credit, he doesn’t hesitate. He gets up with a grin and tips his nonexistent hat at a scowling Wilder on the way out. And that is the last time Wilder and I ever attempt a bake-off.

“It’s really great to see you here,” Wilder says, and even though it sounds like it’s meant to be friendly, it gets my back up, remembering his remark yesterday about my lack of visits.

“What are you doing here, Wilder?” I ask calmly, eyeing his apron with the distinct feeling he’s intruding yet again.

“I thought I might get a jump start on working in our bakery,” he says like it’s a good thing.

His use ofourmakes my stomach flip unpleasantly. And the enthusiasm that had him coming here so quickly, before the paperwork is even settled, shines an unwelcome light on my own reluctance. But all I do is grunt, determined not to let him get the better of me today.

I watch as he pushes his tousled hair from his forehead and glances at the place on the counter where he was obviously just working, my dad’s recipe book splayed out next to bowls and ingredients. The red fabric cover is worn thin at the edges and is so stuffed with handwritten recipes, notes, and pictures that it bows triangular. To deepen the sting, sitting right next to it is a tray of freshly baked ladyfingers, and from where I’m standing, I can smell the coffee and rum in the mixing bowl. Wilder’s not just enthusiastically jumping into his duties at the bakery, he’s making tiramisu—my dad’s favorite dessert, his prized recipe passed down from his great-grandparents in Italy. My breath hitches and my eyes tingle before I can stop them.

Wilder looks from the counter to me, his expression apologetic like he gets that this must be difficult for me, making me feel even more foolish. And it’s all too much—this bakery, Wilder, my dad’s tiramisu, the memory of the young girl I used to be, the one who cared so deeply about this place that the wound inflicted in parting with it hasn’t healed after ten years.

The need to run is so strong that it takes everything I have not to bolt out of the kitchen. “So, this is what I’m thinking,” I say, doing my best to even my tone. “You said yesterday that you wanted this place, right?”

He pauses like I’ve caught him off guard. “I do.”

“Good,” I reply like a conclusion, emboldened by his agreement. “Then what I propose is... you buy me out.” As the words leave my mouth, I immediately feel guilty about them.

For a long moment he just stares at me, his smile gone, no hint of what he’s thinking in his eyes. Finally, he just says, “No.”

“No?” I repeat, a bright spark of frustration nipping at my calm, trying to justify my proposal to both him and myself. “Think about it. You want to be here. I want to be in California. It’s not a financial strain on you by any means. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he says again, no explanation or rebuttal, just that one stupid word followed by an apology that makes me think he’s experiencing the one emotion I will not stand for—pity.

I press my lips tight, my eyebrows pushing together. I want to mention how much nerve he has to even accept this place,myfamily’s bakery,mydad’s beloved business. But instead, I say, “I’m gonna need more than that.”

“Maddi,” he says with weight, like I’m putting him in an untenable position. “Your father wanted us both to have it. Youandme. Those were his dying wishes. And whether or not you want to respect that, I’m going to.”

Gut fucking punch.