Page 43 of Mom Com

“You can always start a bakery later if you wish,” his mother says like she’s only being reasonable. “Oh, do forgive us, Eleanor, I so didn’t intend for this to be a topic at dinner.”

Mr. Buenaventura chews his food with his eyebrows pushed together. Meanwhile, Liv’s eyes bounce from one person to the next like she’s watching a tense Ping-Pong match. She’s also the only person still committed to eating her salad.

Wilder sighs. “No, Mom, I asked you not to bring this up at dinner. But you clearly had no intention of respecting that.”

Liv chokes on her food and chases it with wine. She nods at me likesee what I mean about our bet?

I, however, look away, not willing to admit Wilder’s words mean what she thinks they mean. Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little impressed by his determination.

His mom appears flustered. And this time it’s Mr. Buenaventura who steps in to answer. “Your mother is attempting to clear the air, especially since others are affected by your choices. You should understand this,” he says it like it’s the family code to air disagreements, which I suppose it is.

“If you try to do both, Wilder,” his mother says, “everyone will lose. There simply isn’t enough of you to go around.”

“You don’t want me to choose, Mother; you won’t like my answer,” he says calmly.

My eyes double. NowthatI did not expect.

“So, you’re just going to betray your father? Are you trying to break his heart?” she says, taking the conversation to a whole new level.

“I fear we’ve intruded on a personal conversation,” my mom says, attempting to dispel the tension, but it has absolutely no effect.

Part of me wants to run for the door, but the other part cannot look away.

“It’s hardly a betrayal if I do both,” Wilder says, not taking his mother’s emotional bait.

“Stubborn,” his mom says like an accusation. “Stubborn and willful.” Then she turns to my mom. “Eleanor, please tell my son he can no longer work for you.”

I bristle, defensive of my mother and annoyed that Mrs. Buenaventura’s putting her on the spot. “Mom can’t tell him that because Wilder’s not working for her. He owns half the bakery, and the decision is his.” I don’t know why I say it, why I’m getting involved at all.

Wilder looks at me then, clearly shocked. Liv suppresses a laugh into her wine glass. Wilder’s mother, however, shoots me a death glare.

My mom opens her mouth, but this time Wilder answers. “Maddi’s correct. As much as Mrs. DeLuca may agree with you as your friend, she has no power in this situation.”

The gratitude I feel toward Wilder for removing my mom from the line of fire catches me by surprise.

Mr. Buenaventura sighs like this conversation is taking a toll on him. “I think it best we shelve this for now. Unless we all want our food to get cold and our evening to spoil.”

Mrs. Buenaventura hesitates, then resigns with a sigh. “I suppose you’re right, Francesco.” She shifts her gaze to my mother. “Again, I do apologize for all of this.”

“No need to apologize,” my mother says, and even though she’s witnessed many Buenaventura spats, her tone tells me this one is different.

Mrs. Buenaventura’s smile reappears. “Right... now who needs more wine?”

And just like that, the conversation shifts back to its usual tales of Buenaventura adventures. Wilder excuses himself right after dinner and Liv wags her eyebrows at me and sends me a text that reads,I WON. While I want to tell her she’s categorically wrong, Wilder’s behavior tonight threw me, made me see his commitment to the bakery in a whole new light, and I’d be lying if I said I knew what to make of it.

CHAPTER15

Slinging Some Good Old Mississippi Mud Pie—

three’s a crowd with layers of whipped cream, pudding, and bittersweet chocolate brownie (emphasis on bitter)

All morning I’ve been replaying last night’s events. After dinner, I tried to bring up the bakery with Mom to make sure she was okay, but all she said was, “I understand why they would want him to work for the family company.” And since that was dangerously close to striking at my own guilt, I let the conversation go.

But Wilder? What the heck does he get out of it? I turn around, for what feels like the twentieth time, to stare at his back while he kneads dough. And the worst part is that I’m looking at him a little differently, less death wish, more curiosity.

“You might feel better if you said whatever’s bothering you,” Wilder says, and even though he doesn’t turn around, I snap my head back to my peanut butter and jelly mousse cupcakes, pretending I wasn’t just staring at him.

“Who said anything’s bothering me?” I reply, but my voice winds up sounding like an animated kid’s narrator.