Page 26 of Mom Com

I lean back on the pillows while Spence runs around the house gelling his hair and putting on his camo earmuffs. He gives me a fast peck on the cheek and barrels outside the instant Jake’s truck enters the driveway. I watch from the living room window to make sure he gets in safely.

Then everything returns to quiet once more, and my thoughts return to the memory of the party that had occupied my mind this morning with Wilder.

The light of the bonfire doesn’t reach me and Wilder down by the break, and between the dim reflective glow and the rhythmic crashing of the waves, it suddenly feels far too intimate. I glance back at the party and at Jake who’s doubled over laughing with his buddy Benny. But when I look at Wilder, he’s entirely focused on me.

“I hate that I can’t tell you things,” he says, so serious that my breath hitches.

“What things?” I ask even though I know I’m pushing where I shouldn’t.

He pauses a second like he’s debating his answer. “For one, I miss calling you at night, talking to you before I go to bed.”

I know I should end the conversation here, trample it into the sand, but my idiotic feet aren’t moving. Instead, I’m just staring up at him not saying a word.

“And I know this sounds stupid,” Wilder continues, hooking one hand behind his neck, “but sometimes at night I let myself imagine you snuck into my house like you used to, and that you’re lying next to me, with my arm curled around your waist.”

My heart catapults itself against my ribs like a spooked horse. I’m terrified he’s going to continue and also terrified he’s not. Wilder isn’t an open book, far from it. I don’t know whether it’s the aloof Brit in his DNA or simply that he just overthinks everything into oblivion, but when he says something emotional, it’s specific and he means it.

And he’s not done. “Some days I even succeed in fooling myself that I never screwed things up between us.”

“You don’t mean that,” I breathe, because I need to believe what he’s saying is nothing more than drunken ramblings. “You’re just—”

“You’re right that I’m drunk,” he says, anticipating me the way he always has. “But—” He pushes his hair off his forehead. “Shit,” he says under his breath more to himself than to me, a rare lapse in his always-polite speech. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I still want to be near you so damn bad.”

I try to break eye contact, to shift in some way that might break the force that holds us in place, but it’s no use. The more intensely he looks at me, the more intensely I look at him.

Wilder steps closer, reaching up and pushing a stray piece of hair from my ponytail off my face; his touch is so gentle that my stomach dips and my heart thrums. At this proximity, I know that if I lean forward even a millimeter, he’ll pull me into his arms; I can feel him wanting to, emotion radiating off him like a heat lamp. And that goddamn pull kicks into high throttle. For a split second, I almost forget myself and move closer.

But then I remember. I remember the months of heartache trying to work past my feelings for him. “You’re dating Alice and I’m dating Jake,” I say, plain and simple. Only I can’t keep myself from quietly adding, “You were the one who wanted it this way.” And while I realize I’m revealing it isn’t my first choice, some part of me hopes he’ll admit that it isn’t his, either. But I can already see the conflict forming in his expression. And I can feel my cheeks flushing hot from embarrassment, angry at us both that some part of me actually believed him.

“Maddi, I...” he says, opening and then closing his mouth, suddenly at a loss for words.

I take a step back, hurt rising in my chest like a tsunami, furious he put me in this position in the first place.

My frustration spikes that I’ve once again been put in an untenable position with Wilder. What on earth was my dad thinking? And just like when I was a teen, there is no easy solution that doesn’t involve loss—either Spence and I give up our LA life/school/friends/apartment (and most importantly) independence from my mother, or I give up my dad’s bakery to the one person who doesn’t deserve it. But as I start down that rabbit hole, my phone dings.

Liv: Hey gorgeous... I know I’m not your fav Buenaventura right now (which is to say I’m so far in the doghouse that I might as well start forwarding my mail) but I was hoping you were around for a drink?

Liv: A delicious drink of the whiskey persuasion? On me, of course.

Liv: And not just one, as many as it takes before you’re so drunk that you forget what I did.

Liv: Not that I’m diminishing it!

Liv: I’m also not above groveling. In public.

I laugh despite my murky mood and type a response.

Me: Appreciate the offer, but not sure I’m into the idea of going to Tony’s, no offense.

Tony’s—pizza joint by day and bar by night, also the place most likely to be filled with people I went to school with, especially around the holidays when everyone is off work or embracing their give-no-fucks celebratory attitudes.

Liv: NEVER. You think I want to watch our classmates dance off beat and paw each other? I mean... kinda. The situation is always rife with cringe. But not tonight! Tonight is all about classy lady cocktails.

Me: In that case... I feel like maaaybe I could be convinced.

Liv: Hand to heart, Mads, I didn’t know it would go down like that the other night. I mean I know Wilder can be obtuse, but that was something else. And I feel just awful for putting you in that position. Not that I’m gonna lie and say I didn’t enjoy watching you tell him off. Plus there was my mother’s face, which was goddamn priceless. But for real, I’m sorry. VERY VERY SORRY.

I sigh. Yes, she put me in a bad spot, but I also had no intention of digging my heels in. I was just too embarrassed and hurt at the benefit to deal with it.