Page 37 of Mom Com

I set to baking, gently and methodically pulling down ingredients and measuring them out. The only sound in the room is the clinking of spoons. Wilder and I work at our separate stations with our backs to each other. And slowly, after three glasses of water and about ten bathroom trips, the pain eases. At which point I deem it safe to speak.

“Thank you,” I say, turning away from my mixing bowl and the words feel odd. “I think that stuff actually helped.”

“Not a problem,” he says facing me. “Charcoal. It works wonders on hangovers.”

I reply with fake shock. “Am I to understand that Wilder Buenaventura has actually experienced the uncouth state of being hungover?” Besides the fact that he was an anti-teenager for the most part, (I’m pretty sure he popped out a mature thirtysomething?) not one to revel in bad alcohol mixtures or keg stands, he also seemed to just digest the stuff well. Even if he dared to get drunk, he woke up the next morning like it never happened. Deeply unfair.

“Awful things, really,” he agrees. “I believe I swore off drinking the last time.”

I grunt. “Yeah, that seems to be a thing... a thing that happened to me on my way here. I even considered burning down the town as retribution.”

“Well, now I’m doubly glad I brought the charcoal. I quite like this place.”

“Of course you do.”

He seems surprised by that. “And you don’t?”

I shrug, quasi-regretting starting this conversation; in a way, it feels too easy, even my attempt at distancing myself from him feels familiar in a way that makes me nervous. “I’m looking forward to leaving, if that answers your question.”

He watches me for a long second. “I remember you once told me that there was no place better. That traveling was great, and having experiences was everything, but that you’d always feel compelled to come back.”

Now it’s my turn at surprise; that was practically verbatim. “A lot has happened since then.”

“Maybe,” he says like he’s not sure he believes it.

“And I’m not convinced you love it as much as you claim,” I continue, even though I know I could fall back into silence and he’d do the same. “Haven’t you spent most of your adult life in Europe?”

His eyebrow lifts like he’s pleasantly intrigued. “Been keeping tabs on me, DeLuca? Seems like an odd thing to do with someone you dislike so much.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, but it comes out more like a joking dig than a real one. “My parents gave me updates on you whether I wanted them or not.”

“Ah, forced updates,” he says with a light chuckle. “I’m certain that you told them you didn’t want to hear about me, and they just kept forgetting.”

My mouth opens because there is no way to refute that without looking foolish. “And what about you? First a ride home and now charcoal? Better be careful, Wilder, or I’ll think you’re actually trying to be nice to me.”

“And what if I am?” Wilder pauses like something just occurred to him. “Does that mean you or my sister won that bet?”

“Oh God,” I blurt out, feeling the acute pain of embarrassment all over again. “That’s not... I was drunk.”

He looks much too happy about my reaction. “So it would seem.”

I scowl at him. “You know what? I take back my thank you.”

“Noted.” But his eyes still smile, and despite my better sense, I feel drawn to them, like the mouse that dove greedily into the pudding and perished.

“At least one of us is amused,” I say, trying to regain my footing.

“I would venture to say both of us are.”

I stare at him, hesitating to continue this conversation that feels far too close to the banter and rapport we once shared as teens. But even sober, part of me is curious. “Okay, that’s it. Are you being friendly because you plan on poisoning my coffee later?”

His laugh is so real that we’re both caught off guard by it. “We’re working together—long hours and early mornings. I’m just trying to ensure you don’t stab me with a cookie cutter when I’m not looking.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve considered it.”

“See,” he replies, holding his hands out. “As I said.”

“Hmmph,” is all I say, and after a beat, we both silently agree to go back to our work. But every once in a while, I feel him looking at me, and I catch myself looking at him, too.