Page 52 of Mom Com

I raise an intrigued eyebrow.

“For instance,” he says, “there’s no magical age where you figure it all out. Even my parents don’t have everything figured out. In fact, I’ve met a lot of adults I’d consider more juvenile than Spence.”

I grunt. “Okay, yeah, I guess you have a point. But whatever problem you have with Jake, you need to keep it in check, especially when my kid is around.”

“You’re right. I apologize,” he says with no resistance whatsoever.

“Okay then. You’re forgiven,” I say, remembering what Spence said about apologies.

“May I ask, though, how many times has Jake visited you in California?”

The question takes me by surprise. “Never, but that’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it? Don’t you think he should do better than that?” Wilder asks, his voice losing its usual calm.

“Um, yes, I do. But I didn’t know you did.”

“He has a beautiful son he never sees. I don’t know how you even stand him.”

I shrug, trying to play it off, even though I’ve said the same thing many times when I was frustrated. But now I’m looking at Wilder a little differently, seeing his conflict with Jake in a new light as being more about Jake as a person and less about their rivalry.

For a couple of long seconds, we fall into silence. And in the absence of conversation, nervousness creeps back in.

“So, where are we going exactly?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” he says with a hint of a smile.

“Okay, just checking, but... we’re not going to your house, are we?” I say, regretting agreeing to this invitation with zero details.

He glances at me with a curious look.

“What?” I say, feeling self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he replies, and I can tell it’s definitely not nothing.

“All I’m saying is that one run-in with Kate is enough for the day.” I feel the need to explain even though I hate that it makes me sound like I’m scared of her. I’m not. Well, maybe I am a little. “I’d rather her not discover me in your living room, where you undoubtedly have a fireplace, and therefore andirons for her to wield against me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you think I’d invite you over if Kate were there?”

I can’t read his tone, and the unknowing makes me frown. “Well, I can’t imagine she’d like it if I was over.”

“No, I imagine she wouldn’t,” he says, and I get the distinct impression he’s amused by something. “But I’m not taking you tomyhouse.”

As he takes the next turn, I realize why he emphasizedmy—we’re not, in fact, headed for his house; we’re headed for his parents’. “Uh, Wilder—” I start, gearing up to tell him that I’m not exactly excited about seeing them, either, and trying to figure out how to phrase it without offending him. It’s bad enough my mom’s insisting we go to their Christmas Eve party.

“Don’t worry. They aren’t home,” he says, anticipating me.

“Oh,” is all I reply, and then proceed to stare at the side of his face. What the hell are you up to, Wilder Buenaventura?

He parks his car in his parents’ giant driveway and gets out. He doesn’t try to fill the silence, and so stubbornly, I stay quiet, too. I just follow him up the steps to the front door as he unlocks it.

“Keep your coat and boots on,” he says and wipes his feet briefly on the mat.

Maybe we’re just picking something up and leaving again? When he doesn’t head for the library or the living room, I assume I must be right.

Instead, we walk down the hall together and pass through the kitchen to the back mudroom. The floor is tiled in a rusty burgundy to hide the debris tracked in from people’s boots. There are rows of cubbies for shoes, a giant hat rack, and a coat closet. He stops, lifting the lid of the old trunk that doubles as a bench, and it instantly dawns on me what he has in mind.

“Ice-skating?” I breathe, a smile forming before I can smother it.