Page 4 of Mom Com

“While you guys do that,” I start, “I’d love to take a quick—”

“You can sit with us, Madeline, even if you’re not hungry,” my mother says in a tone that leaves no room for disagreement.

“Sounds good,” I reply, resisting the urge to engage in our usual verbal chess.

* * *

I wheel my cupcake luggage into my little bedroom, exhausted from the drive, the worry, and the hour-long second dinner with my mother. Spence is still downstairs, giving Mom a detailed account of our recent trip to the aquarium. I figured it was best to exit before he got to the part where we reenactedJawsso convincingly in the gift shop that one of the employees asked if we needed a medic.

I collapse onto the striped navy duvet, shoving a velvet accent pillow under my head. My room is like a time capsule of my life as a teen—outwardly perfect, a reflection of my mother’s good taste with antique furniture and a spotless beige area rug, the sentimental things hidden away, shoved in a box in the closet or closed away in a drawer, the only exception being the picture frame on my vanity. It’s one of me and my dad covered in flour in his bakery kitchen when I was eleven, our eyes practically squeezed shut from laughing so hard. As I stare at it, the memory hits me like an unseen wave, surprisingly forceful and disorienting. And before I realize I’ve made the decision to get up, I’m gravitating toward it, lifting the gold frame, my fingers grazing the velvet backing.

As reserved as my dad always was, he came alive in the bakery. Mostly, he was a man of few words; he’d state his piece and when he was done, he was done, so much so that I always wondered if his friends even knew him that well. But when he was teaching me the trick to pâte à choux or telling me the secret of his crème anglaise he could talk for hours, passionately rambling off the history of tarts and which piping tips yield the best flowers. And this was and is hands down my favorite picture of us, not posed like the others around the house, but real and messy. I immediately wonder if my dad saw it here, and if he thought about the fact that I didn’t take it with me, the realization pricking me with unease.

I put the frame back in its place, about to turn away. But the hook of nostalgia keeps me planted there, staring at my vanity where I once stashed my most precious things.

And despite my knowing it’s folly, a pang of anticipation zings through me. I carefully ease out the drawer with my stationery in it, and slide my hand to the back, popping out the false bottom. There, just where I left it ten years ago is my journal, chronicling my teen years with Wilder, the good and the bad. The leather cover is worn from being clutched to my chest in moments of high drama, and the pages are stuffed with pictures. When I left it, I cried big heavy hormonal tears. I even considered turning my Prius around halfway across the state and going back for it. But in time, I was glad I didn’t have it. Reading it in California would have been excruciating. It was hard enough that first year without a detailed reminder of all that I’d lost.

But now? It feels a bit like an old movie, the kind that people’s grandparents project onto their living room wall, flashes of compelling images from another lifetime.

I flip open to a page stuffed with notes, the ones that were once folded in elaborate shapes, and pull one out with a satisfying crinkle, edges rough from being torn from a spiral notebook. At the top of the page is Wilder’s handwriting and the sight of his familiar script sends off warning bells in my mind. Warning bells I do not listen to.

W:Go with me to the apple orchard this weekend?

I smile stupidly (aware that I’ll regret this later, much like the temptation of a second piece of cheesecake that is sure to sit like a rock of doom in your stomach) remembering when I got this in Mrs. Lemon’s math class in the fall of sophomore year—she was a notorious note shark, famous for catching them and reading them aloud, making it all the more fun to slip one past her. And on this particular day, we tossed this thing back and forth until we literally ran out of space, deeply impressed with our stealth.

M:You wasted a whole note on a question you know the answer to? On a day when Mrs. Lemon is clearly under-caffeinated???

W:Does passing notes with me make you nervous?

M:Are you flirting with me right now? Cause you can save that shit for your admirers.

W:Are you trying to tell me you’re not one of them? Ouch.

M:Pride goeth before a dick becometh, or whatever that expression is.

W:Pride? Nah. It’s actually super important I know where you stand on my admiration. Critical really. Can’t proceed without that info.

M:Nice baiting.

W:No worries. Silence is golden and all that. I guess I just won’t ask you what I wanted to ask you.

M: I will hurt you in all the ways.

W: It’s probably for the best anyway. Lets me off the hook from that big speech I was going to give.

M: I’m this close to kicking you from across the aisle.

W: Temper temper

M: It’s hard not to have one when your best friend is a sly fuck.

W:You heard I was sly in bed? Which of my admirers have you been talking to exactly?

M: Don’t get too worked up over there. We all know you haven’t made it past first base. Or at least I do. My God I hope Mrs. Lemon finds this note.

W:Go ahead. Throw it in her path. I’m not even a little embarrassed. I’ll hook up with someone when it means something, not before.

M: Okay now you’re just setting yourself up as the romantic. Can you feel me rolling my eyes right now? Cause I really really am.