Page 54 of Mom Com

I give him the side-eye. “You, Wilder Buenaventura, want to watch the tree?”

His smirk appears. “I hear that’s a fun thing to do.”

I laugh as we enter the square. “Liar. I legit have to drag you here every year.”

He grins as we cross into the green. “So that’s a no then?”

I purse my lips. “It’s not a no. But only because I haven’t done it yet this year.”

He chuckles and holds his hand out toward the bench. As we sit, I get a whiff of his firewood scent.

The tree of course is magnificent, with sparkling white lights and garlands of red, big glittery ornaments, and a huge glowing star. It never fails to lift my spirits.

“I got into Vassar,” I say.

“Wait, what?” he replies, his face lighting up. “When did you find out?”

I look at my gloved hands. “Two days ago. Early decision.”

“You know that’s a huge deal, right?”

“My parents are excited.”

“Obviously. As they should be. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” he says, but stops short.

We’re both quiet for a second.

“No, I know why you didn’t tell me. And I know that’s on me.”

My eyes flit to his, but he looks away, almost like he’s angry with himself.

“Are you still thinking about going to the Culinary Institute?” I hate that I ask, and even more so, I hate the hopefulness in my tone like I’m trying to prove to myself that his mother was wrong that day in the supermarket, that he wasn’t applying because of me but because it was his choice.

“Actually,” he says, looking at his hands. “I’m aiming for Oxford. If not, then LSE.”

“England?” I say, almost choking on the word.

“Yes,” is all he says, still not meeting my eyes.

I look away, hurt bubbling up in me again as I realize Mrs. Buenaventura was right that my dream wasn’t his dream. He must sense the tension, because he shifts the conversation to easier things, like Matt Mazzeo asking Jenna out with a striptease in the cafeteria that included the words “Now that you’ve seen the goods, you know the man is from the woods,” which is so dumb it’s actually kinda good. We smile, we laugh, and for the first time in forever, we do not fight.

“Where would you live, if you could live anywhere in the world?” he asks, after we’ve sat on that bench for so long our butts are numb and our cheeks are bright red, both of us aware it’s well past time to go home.

“Right here,” I say.

“Nowhere else? Not even Alaska where you could live in winter most of the year?”

I laugh. “While I do actually think that sounds amazing, I’d still choose here. But if the sky’s the limit, I’d transplant one of those cozy English cottages, the romantic ones with the old stone walls and the thatched roofs.”

He smiles. “Not some big estate?”

I shake my head. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t want my cottage to be teeny tiny, but I also don’t love the idea of all that open space. Feels cold, ya know? Like those big echoey foyers, or your parents’ formal living room where the furniture is pristine and spaced out. No one is ever really comfortable in places like that.”

He nods. “One of the many reasons I’m always in our library.”

And in a rare moment of no bullshit, I say, “What do you think, Wilder, do you think we can actually get past this? Or is it all too fucked up?”

He looks at me then with so much intensity that I hold my breath. “I’m counting on it, Mads. I don’t know what I’ll do if we don’t.”