Page 46 of Mom Com

But before I can reply, his phone rings. He stares at it a moment. “Hello?” he says, and turns away from our conversation. After a handful of yesses and nos, he says, “I don’t really think—” but the voice on the other end cuts him off, and as it gets louder, it sounds female.

I don’t find out who it is because he leaves the kitchen. Which makes me wonder if it’s his mom. Are they fighting about the bakery? And while I don’t really care if Wilder fights with his parents, I do worry about what it might mean for my mom. Could this possibly interfere with her friendship with the Buenaventuras? I’d hate to see that happen, especially now that she’s lost my dad.

I glance through the round window in the kitchen door and catch a glimpse of Wilder frowning. But he quickly moves out of view and so I return to my frosting. When he comes in ten minutes later, he doesn’t say a word and even though I want to ask, I don’t—it’s none of my business after all.

The rest of the morning passes quietly, each of us consumed with our tasks. I almost bring up Dad’s will a dozen times, but every time I’m about to, I feel crappy that I’m trying to get out of the agreement he’s fighting so hard to keep. I’m working up to it again as I take off my apron, only before I get the words out, Wilder speaks.

“Are you in a rush?” he asks.

I consider telling him yes, but instead, I shake my head.

He smiles. “Glad to hear it because I’d really like to show you something.”

“What kind of something?”

“The kind I think you’ll like.”

I hesitate, about to saynosimply because he’s being so vague, but reconsider—it might give me an opportunity to have the will conversation. “Yeah, okay.”

His smile lights up his face and he takes off his apron, trading it for his coat.

“Wait, where is this thing?” I say, realizing it’s not as simple as I supposed it to be.

“In town,” he replies, and I reflexively reject the idea. His gaze shifts to amusement. “Unless walking a couple of blocks with me makes you nervous?”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t scare me, Wilder.”

His mouth pulls up a little farther. “Funny, because you scare me.”

My eyes flit to his, and for just a second, I find myself enjoying the way he’s looking at me. He doesn’t wait for my response, he just pushes the door open for me. We say a quick goodbye to Albert in the front of the bakery, and as I get my fingers in my soft white gloves, we walk outside.

The sun is out, the snow is glittering across the square, and the sidewalks are packed with enthusiastic holiday shoppers. There’s an electricity to the air—the first day of Hanukkah and the Saturday before Christmas—a giddy feeling that magic might be real, and the possibilities are endless.

I breathe in deeply, the scent of fresh snow filling my lungs, a little woodsy like the damp bark of a pine forest and slightly metallic like the frost that forms on the outside of a drink shaker.

I glance at Wilder as we weave our way around the square and I’m surprised to find him watching me. “What?” I say, a twinge embarrassed by the grin I know is on my face.

“Nothing... I just forgot how much you love winter.”

“Nobody loves winter, Wilder,” I correct him, but I can’t keep the happiness out of my voice. “I live in perpetual summer in LA... it’s ideal.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, not buying it for a second. “You once woke me up at 2:00 a.m. and dragged me outside in my pajamas because it was snowing. And not even the first snow of the year, it was at least the third.”

“True,” I say, not losing my grin, “but only because the pond in your backyard was finally frozen and I wanted to ice-skate on it.”

He lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head, and I find myself laughing with him.

Only my laugh gets cut short as we round the corner toward the park. It suddenly occurs to me where we’re going. “The thing you want to show me is in the holiday market?” I say, my breath coming up short as the memories of that place wash over me.

His gaze turns questioning. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Oh, no, I mean, that’s fine,” I say, trying to cover my reaction, not wanting to explain what I’m feeling or why.

“You sure?” he asks again because unlike most people, Wilder never let anything go. He called me out on even the stupidest of white lies, pressed me when it was clear I was shutting down and folding in on myself. And for a long time, I relied on him for that, to draw me out and talk away whatever was bothering me. It was one of the things I missed most about him when things fell apart; I hated being alone in my head with no one to scare away the bad.

And in a moment of reckless honesty, I say, “The holiday market just has... a lot of memories.”

His expression turns thoughtful. “I understand,” he says in a way that makes me think he really does; he knew my father better than almost anyone. “If you want—”