Page 2 of Mom Com

Getting cut off in Massachusetts is no surprise; there’s a solid and justifiable reason the nickname for drivers in this state is Massholes. But whatisa surprise is that directly after pulling in front of me, the car hits its brakes. It takes me a half second to realize what’s happening and slam on my own. Only my worse-for-wear Prius doesn’t jerk to a stop the way the new sports car did. Instead, it glides forward, hitting the silver bumper with a thud.

“Shit!” I say, cursing the silver car, myself, and my worn brakes.

“Mom?” Spencer says again, his worried eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror.

“Spence? You okay?” I demand, panic flaring. I yank my car to the curb and whip around in my seat, searching him for potential injury. It doesn’t matter that we were gliding at approximately three miles per hour, my mind is screaming that my kid was just in acar accident.

“I’m fine,” he says with a shrug. “It wasn’t even as hard as bumper cars.”

My lungs deflate, my heart rate slowing, as I register that he is indeed fine. But when I turn forward once more, all sense of relief vanishes. On the trunk of the fancy car are two small wings—the telltale logo of an Aston Martin. And there on the bumper is a hand-length scratch that I’m guessing matches up perfectly with the edge of my license plate.

I leap out of my car, moving toward it to get a better look.

“Shit,” I mutter, running my hand along the groove in the cold metal, instantly aware that this is going to cost me more than I make...madein two months.

A car door clicks open and I stand up straight, furious at myself for the carelessness and at the bakery for existing at all.

Out of the driver’s side door comes a woman in her late twenties. Her dark hair hangs just past her shoulders in a silky sheet outlining her face; her lipstick is red, and her clothes are impeccable—luxurious black gloves and shiny high-heeled boots highlighting the edges of a long herringbone coat.

My stomach sinks so low I fear it might retreat for good.Liv Buenaventura, Wilder’s older sister, who not only owns her own internationally acclaimed line of beauty products but is also the face of the most recent campaign because she’sthatbeautiful.

“Madeline DeLuca?” she says, the annoyance in her expression softening as her heels click toward me. “My God, is that really you?”

“It’s me,” I say, lifting my hands and then dropping them again, my grubby travel clothes painfully marking the contrast between us. She was my idol as a teen, a year older than me, and Haverberry’s golden girl. I wanted to be her so badly that I practically had a poster of her in my bedroom. When I got accepted early decision to Vassar everyone in town kept saying: “We’ve got another Liv on our hands,” and it was possibly the best compliment of my life. Of course, a week later I found out I was pregnant and Vassar never came to pass.

“It’s been what? Ten years since I’ve seen you?” she continues.

“About that, yeah,” I reply. I’ve been home exactly twice since Spence was born. Once about four years ago, when he wanted to meet Jake, and once right after my dad died. Both visits were brief and purposefully devoid of socializing.

“Have you seen Wilder yet?” she asks brightly, and I consider stepping into traffic as an alternative to answering.

“Uh, no,” I say, biting back the urge to tell her that he’s welcome to fall off a cliff for all I care. “I didn’t know he was even here.”

My parents (despite my resistance) have given me updates on Wilder over the years. How he studied business at Oxford and as a pastry chef at Le Cordon Bleu, how he then remained “abroad”—code for philandering socialite—visiting Haverberry only periodically to dazzle the commoners with his European-inspired charm (the child my parents not-so-secretly wished they’d had).

She gives me a surprised look. But all she says is, “Oh, he’s here all right.”

“Plus,” I add, lightening my tone, “we just got in.” I gesture to my car where Spence is staring at us with his window down. “I haven’t even made it to the house yet.”

She looks at my outfit as though seeing it for the first time. “Of course!” she exclaims, clasping her hands together. “And here I am chatting you up. You both must be exhausted.”

And suddenly Spencer is out and moving to my side with a grin.

Liv looks from me to him. “You must be Maddi’s son.”

“Spence,” he says, extending his hand.

“I’m Liv,” she replies, shaking it happily.

“Wow. You’re beautiful,” Spence says in awe, then adds, “Not in an objectifying way, just, you know, as a fact.”

Liv laughs and I can’t help but do the same. We had a long conversation last week about reducing peoples’ worth to their appearances and he really took it to heart.

“Well, aren’t you my new favorite person,” she says with a wink.

On the sidewalk behind us, I hear the buzz of whispers and feel eyes on my back, which I pointedly ignore. I don’t want to know who’s gossiping or draw Spence’s attention to it.

Instead, I focus on Liv. “I’m sorry about your bumper. I feel awful,” I say, moving the conversation to its conclusion so we can get back in the car. “Would it be all right if I paid out-of-pocket for the damage?” The words stick in my mouth. I have no idea how I’m going to accomplish that. But what I do know is that my insurance is so bad I’d wind up paying most of it anyway, and my rates would skyrocket for the next three years.