Page 18 of Mom Com

I set to measuring and pouring, all the while not looking at Wilder.

He sighs next to me and I can feel him stealing glances in my direction. “I hope you don’t mind, I mean—” Wilder pushes his hair back, like he’s just realizing whatever he’s about to say is a bad idea, but he’s in it now for better or worse. “I sorta told Alice she could stop by when we’re ready to judge these things.”

My skin prickles and my eyes whip to Wilder. “You invited herhere?”

“Yeah,” he admits like he already regrets it. He puts down his spoon. “I just thought it would be better if we could all be friends. I did ask you straight out if you minded about me dating her. You told me you didn’t. I’m not trying to upset you, Mads,” he says in his mature voice that I used to find magnetic.

I lose some of my heat at the unarguable truth of it. “I know.”

“But you’re angry with me?”

I purse my lips, holding my reaction at bay. I don’t tell him that up until a few days ago. I thought this was all a passing trial, something we would go through and come out the other side stronger and more in love. But the truth is he’s moved on. Wilder is not in love with me the way I am with him. And now my anger turns inward, forcefully vowing not to care about him that way anymore, desperately trying to snap the invisible tethers that have bound us so tightly all these years. I feel a strange sense of recklessness, an unwanted freedom that’s a bit like a speeding car on an icy street. “You know what, Wilder? You’re right. Have Alice come.”

He stares at me, not quite sure if I’ve come to my senses or if I’m disarming him so that I can take a swing. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I am,” I say, and in that moment, I mean it. I pull out my phone and type a text to Jake.

Before we enter the bakery, we stop at the window to admire the cozy winter scene elaborately crafted from chocolate.

“No way! That is insanely cool,” Spence breathes.

“It really is,” I agree, once again wondering where my mother procured this display. It’s a perfect replica of Haverberry Town Square, I realize, right down to the ornate lampposts.

“Come on,” Spence says, pulling me away from the window and through the bakery door.

The bells give their telltale jingle and the warm pastry-scented air wafts toward me. The familiarity is so overwhelming that I gasp. The heavy wooden tables with their antique chairs and the arched wooden shelves displaying birch bark birdhouses and old lace gloves (a design choice made by my mother when they were first married) are the same as they always were. Despite the cute name and the small-town location, it looks more like an elegant teahouse plucked from a cobblestone alleyway in Italy, something hidden and intimate that only the locals know exists.

I register the elderly man behind the counter who isnotMrs. Varma, feeling further disoriented.

“Let me know if I can help you with anything,” the gentleman says, giving me an inquisitive glance no doubt because I’m staring at him like a spooked cat. His hair is mostly gone, save a thin line of white curls that loops over his ears. His smooth umber skin is clean-shaven, and he wears a pair of round spectacles that elevate his grandfatherly energy to expert level. But the fact that he doesn’t know me, that I’m a stranger in my own family bakery, causes such acute pain that I can’t think how to respond.

Spence, of course, skips up to the counter with his hand extended. “I’m Spencer DeLuca and that’s my mom,” he says happily, leaving out my actual name as he gestures in my direction. “My grandpa used to own this place. I came here once when I was five. He was making cookies in the kitchen, and he let me taste the batter.”

My breath catches at the memory, nostalgia sending a right hook to my already wounded heart.

The old man’s eyes brighten with recognition as he shifts his gaze to me. “So that would make you—”

“Madeline DeLuca—the one and only,” a voice announces as the door to the kitchen opens behind the counter. My shoulders tense and my hands twitch. I don’t need a visual to know who’s speaking. “Maddi, this is Albert. He’s been here since Mrs. Varma retired,” Wilder continues, walking up to the counter and smiling at Albert like they are the best of friends, only further exacerbating the feeling that I don’t belong.

Guilt snakes through me that I didn’t know Mrs. Varma had left.

“Pleased to meet you,” Albert says, standing a little straighter, his suspenders pulling tight against his belly.

I return his greeting. But my eyes flit to Wilder, who’s wearing an apron spotted with flour from baking in the kitchen. The indignity I felt yesterday spikes at the sight of him invading my dad’s bakery. It’s been twenty-four hours since my mother delivered the news of our inheritance and he’s already here laying claim?

“Spence, you okay if I pop in the back for a minute?” I say, my voice strained, giving Wilder a brief look that indicates I need to speak to him privately.

Spence absently nods, currently too taken with the display case to notice my stiff posture. Albert joins my son as he oohs and aahs over the deep-fried bomboloni donuts stuffed with Nutella and cream and the custard-filled zeppole topped with sour cherries, everything labeled with handwritten plaques showcasing cute names like Take My Heart Chocolate Tart that I made up when I was a just a girl. The sight of them sends me reeling, tightening my throat.

While Spence doesn’t verbalize a response, too busy spouting fast and furious questions about the pastries, Albert tells me he’ll keep an eye out. And so I walk around the counter, not meeting Wilder’s gaze, not wanting him to see how difficult it is for me to be here.

I push through the kitchen door, and Wilder follows me without hesitation. The moment it closes behind us, I turn to face him, crossing my arms like a shield. His dark wavy hair falls lazily onto his forehead, and when he makes eye contact with me, he smiles ever so slightly. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s trying to puzzle through a complicated equation.

“What’s that look for?” I say, balancing plates of chocolate tart in my hands.

Wilder holds the door open for me, and I step from the kitchen into the bakery behind the counter.

“Nothing,” he says, his eyes flicking to Jake and Alice chatting at a window table in the bakery. “I just didn’t realize you invited Jake.”