Page 41 of Mom Com

mini-pie cookies stuffed with strawberry goodness that embody the childlike nostalgia of ridiculous fights

Wilder isn’t at the bakery when I show up in the morning. Albert is, which is disappointing because I just spent half an hour figuring out how I was going to breach the conversation about looking at Wilder’s copy of the will (plan B as it were). I realize it’s no use being frustrated when I can just ask Wilder tomorrow, but I was really hoping to have Liv take a look at it before we all have dinner at their parents’ house tonight. Because if there’s a way out, then I can just ignore whatever frustrations arise. And if there isn’t... well then, I don’t know what, yank the tablecloth as hard as I can and make a run for it amid the chaos?

The morning passes slowly, as I count down the hours until I can text Liv without waking her up. I repeatedly reprimand myself for not being firmer with Mom yesterday and just insisting on seeing the will. If I had done it then, I realize, it wouldn’t have been a disaster, but bringing it up a second time is out of the question. She’ll call me out, and I’ll fold under her cold scrutinizing glare.

Me: You up?

Two and a half hours later I get a response.

Liv: Sorry. Slammed today with meetings. Friday before the holidays, ya know? Trying to be done in time for dinner.

Me: Speaking of dinner...

Liv: You’re going to wear your Grinch onesie and make me the happiest woman alive?

Me: Lol. I was thinking something more like hiding under your dining room table.

But I don’t get a response for another hour.

Liv: Ugh. Sorry again! Truth be told, I’m not looking forward to this, either.

I ask her why, but either she gets caught up at work or she somehow misses it, because by the time Jake arrives (half an hour late) to pick up Spence, I still don’t have a response. My mother’s miffed, claiming Spence should come with us, but I’m not explaining in front of Spence how I don’t want him there for a long dinner with hostiles. I’d just sweat through the whole thing, worrying Wilder’s parents might say something about me in front of him that would force me to throw cutlery at them. Or worse yet, bring up the possibility of us staying in Haverberry. I know I should have spoken to Spence about it already, but I’d love a solid-ish plan in place first. Once Liv goes over the will and I’ve heard from a few of the places I applied to, I’ll know what my options are, and it’ll make it easier to communicate.

But even though I don’t voice my objections, Mom still says, “You always think everything is going to be some big drama. It’s just dinner, Madeline.”

To which I sigh, and we continue our dance of pretending away the things neither of us wants to look at. But half an hour into socializing in the Buenaventura living room sipping wine, I concede that Mom was right. It’s just the Buenaventuras giving a lively rendition of their latest trip to South America interspersed with a discussion of international markets. I can participate by simply nodding my head and saying, “Of course. Yes. And that sounds lovely.” Even Mrs. Buenaventura, after a quasi-stiff hello, seems to have lightened up.

Wilder, however, is nowhere to be seen, his parents claiming he had some unexpected obligation, which I’m now really wondering about—he’s everywhere I go for a week straight and then I come to his parents’ house and he’s not here?

Liv joins us an hour late, moments after we sit down at the dinner table.

“Shit, sorry guys,” she says, taking the seat across from my mom like she’s been moving a hundred miles an hour and just screeched to a stop. “Work was a beast today.”

“Really, must you use that language, Olivia?” Mrs. Buenaventura says in her British accent, which is a phrase she has been uttering in repetition since Liv turned eighteen and declared that if she could legally fight in a war, she could damn well motherfucking curse.

“Liv’s grown quite the burgeoning company these past few years, Madeline,” Mr. Buenaventura says with pride. “Has she told you about it?”

“It’s all very interesting,” my mother agrees, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.

Liv winks at me, pouring herself a glass of wine. “I’m very successful and important,” she says, which of course is a joke, but has her mom sighing all the same.

“I wouldn’t have phrased it quite so bluntly,” Mr. Buenaventura says with a light laugh in his Argentinian accent. “But yes, my daughter is a firecracker.”

Liv chuckles. “Truth is, it’s a lot of work, half of which is absolutely tedious. It’s also not expanding quite as fast as I’d like. But I enjoy it, especially the creative aspects.”

“I get that,” I say. “And even if it’s not expanding as fast as you’d like, your reach is great. I constantly see ads for your beauty products in LA.”

Liv smiles, but there’s something about it that seems conflicted. Only I don’t have time to wonder why because the front door closes.

Mrs. Buenaventura leans toward my mom, briefly placing her hand on her arm. “My children enjoy seeing how close they can cut it for dinner. I believe they’ve made a game out of giving me ulcers.”

Wilder walks into the room and gives his mom a fast kiss on the cheek. For a moment the image of him takes me by surprise, the ease with which he moves through a room, the way he’s stately but not stuffy, and his smile that somehow makes his jaw more angled and his eyes brighten. Despite the fact that I have no love for Wilder, he really is something to look at.

“Mrs. DeLuca, Maddi,” he says nodding his head at us, his smile still present. “It’s nice to see you both.”

My mother puts down her wine glass. “I’m just glad we were able to arrange this. It’s been too long since we were all together.”

I glance at her, wondering if the wine is making her fuzzy. She’s not remotely the sentimental type.