Page 57 of Mom Com

I clear my throat. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, still standing in front of me like a wall of pheromones with a hint of smokiness.

I take a sip, licking the excess foam off my mouth, and his eyes immediately move to my lips. A warning sounds in my head followed by naughty images of whipped cream.

I skirt around him, grabbing my apron, and hoping like hell he can’t tell what I’m thinking by looking at me. “Mocha?” I ask.

“Indeed.”

To my great relief, he doesn’t call me on my weirdness or try to talk about what happened last night. Instead, he returns to his pecan pie. But even though his back is to me, I can feel him over there.

So I dive into my work, hypervigilant and committed to concentrating on anything that isn’t him. And for the next couple of hours, he gives me space. Albert comes in and opens the front of the bakery, and still Wilder and I continue our quiet rhythms, which is great. Except it’s not, because I find myself looking at him more and more, his normalcy now driving me nuts.

“Wilder?” I say, when it feels like one more second of silence is going to make my head explode.

“Yes, Maddi,” he says, turning to face me, a hint of hopefulness in his tone.

“I was wondering if... you wanted to go over some of the accounting soon, just to, you know, see where we stand?” Just me bringing our relationship back to business, I think, mentally patting myself on the back.

“I’d be happy to,” he says. “I’m actually in the process of getting everything digitized so it’s easier.”

“Right. Good,” I say, realizing that he’s already thought of this and that I’m ten steps behind. He’s embracing the bakery while I’m still acting like I’m a guest in it.

“I think I should have it all converted shortly after the holidays if you want to go over it then?” he offers, and while it sounds perfectly reasonable, I hesitate, because it brings to light the one thing I haven’t dealt with—am I leaving after Christmas or am I staying? And if I’m staying, for how long?

“Works for me,” I say, and turn back around, now consumed with a whole other slew of worries, aware that I’m running out of time to make a decision.

As the hours wind down toward eleven, Wilder’s phone buzzes relentlessly. And when I find him frowning at it, I want to ask:Is it your mom? Is it Kate?Is it your ex-fiancée from France deciding to pop in to make things even more interesting?

The last half hour seems to stretch forever. I keep starting to say something, convinced that I should clear the air, only to conclude that any attempt I make is going to increase the awkwardness. When we finally hang up our aprons, I’m bathed with relief.

Although now that I’m faced with separating from him, our interaction feels incomplete, all the things neither of us said hanging in the air like specters.

But before I can open my mouth, he says, “I won’t be in tomorrow.”

My stomach drops like a lead weight. “Oh,” I say, pretty sure my disappointment is showing on my face.

He pulls down his coat, slipping his arms into it. “I have to help my family set up for the party.” But his reasonable explanation doesn’t make me feel better. He’s out tomorrow. And then we’re both out for the holidays. So, the next time I see him will be at his parents’ Christmas Eve party.

“Sounds good,” I lie. “Have a good one.” Whatever the hell that means.

“You, too,” he says, and for a second, it seems like he’s going to say something more but decides against it.

And he’s gone.

I stand there staring at the door he just walked through, dumbfounded at how we could go from the booth and ice-skating yesterday to polite colleagues today. I know this is what I wanted, hoped for even, so why do I feel like I’m sinking?

The Monday morning after the holiday market, I wake up sick. Maybe it was staying out too late in the cold with Wilder, or just overdoing it with sweets, but I’m so nauseated that I throw up my breakfast. Twice.

So, I stay home from school, my mom bringing me juice in bed. But the weird part is that I don’t have a fever or muscle aches. And even though I’m queasy, I’m also hungry. Very hungry.

I make my way into the bathroom for the umpteenth time this morning and stare at myself in the mirror, trying to decide whether I’m actually sick or if there was just something wrong with my eggs when I catch a glimpse of my tampon box in the reflection. I turn, frowning at it, trying to remember when I last had my period. I’m certain I had it sometime recently, didn’t I? Why don’t I know this?

My frown deepens and my nausea turns to a different kind of uneasiness. I’m sure it’s nothing, I tell myself. I only had sex with Jake once, and we used a condom. The chances are slim to none. But I can’t stop staring at that box and the longer I stand there the more unsure I become. And now that the question’s in my head, it floods my thoughts, seeping into the crevices of doubt.

“Screw this,” I say in a huff and exit my bathroom, grabbing my sweatshirt off my vanity chair and pulling it over my pajamas. I tell Mom I’m going to CVS to get some stuff to help my stomach. To which she tells me nothing helps the stomach flu, and I tell her I’m going anyway.

I’m relieved to find CVS mostly empty, but still, I don’t linger in the aisles. I grab a box of saltines, a couple of bottles of coconut water, and two pregnancy tests. But as I near the cash register and old Mrs. Lambert behind it, I start to panic. Why didn’t I drive a town over where no one knows me; why didn’t I just shove the tests down my pants and make a run for it? It’s too late, though. She sees me and I see her see me, and so I place my stuff on the counter, feeling much sicker than I did a minute ago.