Page 55 of Mom Com

I nod, not really trusting myself to push farther. Because right now, this moment is enough.

Wilder and I lace up our skates on the bench next to the small pond in Wilder’s backyard. Snow covers the grass in a sparkly blanket, punctuated by old brambly trees and the occasional shrubbery. The moon is out, casting a luminous glow over the reflective white.

He broke up with Kate when I came home, organized the booth because he knew it would matter to me, and now this. For a second, Kate’s comment about Wilder trying to get me back plays in my head. And the worst part is, I hold onto it, pulling it to my chest like a hot water bottle, clinging to the cozy warmth.

I sneak a glance at Wilder, bent over his skates while he ties the laces, hair tumbling over his forehead, and my stomach does a loop-da-loop.

No.

Just no.

I’m not thinking these things. I REFUSE.

I frown at the glittery pond, attempting to make it less romantic, but the stupid thing is perfect. So, I turn to Wilder, my brain desperately trying to make sense of the situation we’re in. And what if there’s no hidden meaning here? What if he’s just being nice? People are allowed to be nice. Even the ones who I supposedly hate.

“Wilder... why are you doing this?” I ask, only my voice doesn’t embody the unattached quality I was aiming for.

“Why am I doing what?”

“This,” I say, gesturing at the gorgeous scenery that inspires me to throw my arms in the air and sing.

He sits up, his look turning thoughtful. “I thought the reason would be obvious,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting up ever so slightly.

Which apparently is all it takes for my heart to slam against my ribs like a gladiator trying to knock the other guy off his feet. If he says any of the crazy things I’ve been thinking in my head, I will be forced to deck him. Deck him or jump him. NO.Notjump him. Excuse me God, universe, anyone who is listening, I’d like another brain; I’ll pay for express shipping.

“I wanted to apologize,” he continues, and relief floods me in a whoosh. At least I think it’s relief?

Is this who you are now, Maddi? So far out of the dating game that someone takes you to a pretty pond and you think they’re proposing? What kind of special deluded are you? He just wants to apologize—a perfectly normal gesture from yourbusiness partner.

Wilder watches me like he can see that I’m fretting and he wants to fix it. “I regret that Kate said those things to you today. In a way, it’s my fault. I thought it would be easier on her if I let her come to terms with our breakup in her own time. But it doesn’t seem to be playing out that way. Quite the opposite, really. And while that’s not your problem, there’s no reason you should be made to feel uncomfortable. While I can’t control Kate, I can cut contact with her, which is what I’ve done.”

I sit there staring at him. He looks like Wilder. He’s got tousled hair, aristocratic features, and a smirk that makes you want to know his secrets. But seriously, who the fuck is this person?

“Maddi?” he says when I don’t reply.

“Uh, thank you, I think?” I say, and even though I’ve had arms all my life, I have no idea what to do with the things. I stand, hoping movement will help.

He stands with me. “I should be the one thanking you for not cursing me out on the spot.”

“I thought about it, believe me,” I admit, picking my way carefully through the snow on my skates.

“I wouldn’t have blamed you,” he says as we approach the pond, offering me his hand.

Thoughts scrambled, I take the thing, using it to balance as I step onto the ice. And fuck me if I don’t get a whiff of his scent, a delicious blend of fireplace and cinnamon... and lawless sex. What? STOP IT RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT, ASSHOLE BRAIN!

Only in my current state of having a wee mental scramble, I hold onto his hand for two seconds too long.

And when he smiles about my choice, I yank my fingers back, blurting out, “I’m not... it doesn’t mean anything that I took your hand.” Then I die a little bit inside.

I push off and he pushes off with me.

He laughs loudly enough to set my face on fire, both of us gliding in easy strokes. “I didn’t think it meant anything. I know you only accepted it to be polite.”

My embarrassment ratchets up to infinity, and I very diligently study Bob Ross’s landscape for the good sense I seem to have lost, hoping I’ll find it somewhere among the “happy little trees.”

“I’m sorry, am I making you uncomfortable? That wasn’t my intention,” he says, which only makes it a hundred times worse.

At a loss for any believable reply that isn’t the truth, I say, “Honestly? I don’t know how to act around you right now.”