Page 23 of Mom Com

I stare at the ice cream freezer in the supermarket, looking for a pick-me-up. Wilder and I have been in a nonstop verbal boxing match this past month since he started dating Alice and I started dating Jake. I can feel the tension building between us into something unruly that I fear, unchecked, will mangle even the most steadfast parts of our friendship. But I also don’t know how to stop it. It seems to have taken on a life of its own. Him buying Alice stupid thoughtful presents and always rushing from school to meet her. Me talking about Jake’s gorgeous body with my lab partner loud enough for Wilder to hear.

What sucks the most, though, is that it feels like there’s still something unspoken between us, some deeply woven connection that shows up in the still moments, when we accidentally make eye contact from across the room, or when we bump into each other in the hall and we both hesitate before moving on. Maybe I’m overanalyzing it, but my gut tells me that some part of him continues to care about me, not just as his childhood best friend, but as something more. And as much as I try to squash it, the pull toward him—the warmth in my center that makes my pulse race and my stomach jittery—just will not die. I hate us both for it.

As though my brain manifested it, I hear someone say Wilder’s name. Not just someone, but his mother in her unmistakable British accent, and my heart leaps squarely into my throat. I whip toward her voice just in time to catch her long silk cardigan flowing behind her at the other side of the store. And before I can decide it’s a terrible idea, I follow, peeking around the end of the aisle.

“I’m just glad it’s over,” Mrs. Buenaventura says to her husband, a handful of feet away with their backs to me as they pick out yogurt. I’m not certain I’m relieved or disappointed that Wilder isn’t with them.

I’m about to retreat when Mrs. Buenaventura continues: “In the first place, it was far too serious a relationship for seventeen-year-olds.”

I freeze, realizing she’s talking about me and Wilder.

Mr. Buenaventura only shrugs. “They’re teenagers. Of course they’re passionate.”

Mrs. Buenaventura drops Greek yogurts into their basket. “As long as she doesn’t drag Wilder to some culinary school in the middle of nowhere because of that passion, then fine.”

My heart slams so hard against my ribs that I take a step back. Drag Wilder to some culinary school? You mean the Culinary Institute of America that, yes, happens to be only half an hour from Vassar but is also a world-class facility? The accusation is infuriating, and just plain wrong—that choice was his, not mine. Is this how they see me? Like I’m a bad influence on their son?

Mr. Buenaventura sighs like he doesn’t believe it’s a crisis, but also isn’t going to argue with his wife.

“Let me tell you, Francesco,” she continues. “I could not be more grateful that he listened to reason and ended things.”

“You don’t really think I’m—” I start, but as my mother’s eyes meet mine, I clamp my mouth shut, realizing I’m trapped. If I refuse to go to the Buenaventura’s, I’m practically ensuring maximum tension. But if I agree, then I have to spend an entire dreaded evening not only with Wilder but also with his parents.

I glance over Mom’s shoulder in the direction of the living room where I can hear the TV playingElf, and begrudgingly, for the sake of my son, decide that to continue would be unwise. My shoulders slump a little in resignation.

Check effing mate.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a phone call to make,” she says.

And before I can formulate a response, she’s gone, her shoes clicking rhythmically on the hardwood floor. I clench my hands and close my eyes, silently screaming at no one. She finally did it. She got me back here in some wild ruse that once again gives her control over my life. Well, I’m not going to roll over, I decide. I’m leaving after Christmas just like I planned. That gives me a week and a half to figure out how to sidestep the rules in my father’s will. And starting tomorrow morning, I’ll log those required hours, because no matter what, the last thing I’ll ever do is let Wilder take over my dad’s bakery.

CHAPTER9

Morning Grinch Affogato—

eyelid-raising espresso over creamy peppermint gelato that wakes you up and soothes shriveled hearts

Frost dusts the grass in the square and outlines the edges of the store windows illuminated by strands of white lights. In the dark wee morning hours, the stillness is almost complete, no noises of people bustling or families chatting, not even a stray car passing by. The decorated tree and the menorah glow, giving the space an almost magical feel, but it does nothing to take the edge off my nerves about working in the bakery.

I wind my scarf around my neck, the cold tingling my cheeks and erasing the remnants of sleep. I dig in my purse for my father’s bakery key that Mom gave me last night with a knowing (or was it gloating?) smile, telling me Albert starts at 4:00 a.m. At which point I mildly panicked about what she might say to Spence and asked her to please not mention the addendum because I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it yet. She replied with:Haven’t had time or haven’t wanted to?Which it turns out is a damn good question, but not one I was prepared to answer.

As I shut my purse, I catch a glimpse of my phone, which reads 4:01 a.m. While I’m not a morning person by a long shot, I enjoy baking when no one is awake, kneading dough and stirring cream; there is something relaxing and meditative about it. Plus, it’ll give me time to think about how to maintain ownership of the bakery while returning to California. I only hope that Albert doesn’t mind the intrusion as I reacquaint myself with the baking schedule. I figure if I come here in the early mornings, I can be out by eleven or so, giving me the whole day with Spence and avoiding Wilder all in one go.

I step onto the sidewalk but stop in front of the window to admire the display once again. The portrait of Haverberry is exquisite, more art than skill really. And the longer I look, the more details pop out at me: the inclusion of the bench where I always sat to watch the Christmas tree, the car parked in front of the bakery that looks an awful lot like my Prius, the wordsmolten chocolate cake—my favorite dessert—written on the replica of the bakery window.

I straighten so fast you’d think I’d been pinched because I know with certainty who made this display—Wilder—and suddenly the world is spinning off its axis.

I walk away, trying to convince myself it’s meaningless, and instead concentrate on slipping the key into the lock. The bells give a bright jingle as I push open the door and step into the dark café. Only it’s not pitch-black; a faint glow illuminates the round window in the door leading to the kitchen, where I can already smell dough baking to a buttery flake.

For a moment I hesitate, heart hammering at the sight of the familiar bakery, the cover of dark allowing my mind to drift to memories of my father—the way pride made him stand a little taller behind the counter, the careful way he used to tie his apron, tucking and pulling it until it was pristine, and the way he used to hum to himself when he was measuring or cleaning the counters like a joyful dance.

My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh, and I blink away the images before I lose my nerve. I stride across the room, taking off my coat and scarf as I go.Sink into the work and forget everything else, I tell myself.This is temporary. Only temp—

But my thoughts are cut short as I push open the kitchen door, the chocolate-scented air warming my chilled skin, because there—standing at the mixing bowls where Albert should be—is Wilder.

“Shit,” I say before I can consider it. “You’re not supposed to be here.” My bravado from yesterday is distinctly absent.

He looks up from where he shaves a block of baking chocolate. “I’m usually not,” he admits. “But I decided to give Albert the morning off.”