Page 71 of Mom Com

Liv puts down her drink like she’s preparing for something that’s going to require her full attention.

“I was just wondering,” I say, a little embarrassed by how needy this all sounds; I’ve never been good at asking for help. “Do you think I’m doing the wrong thing here?”

“In trying to leave?” she asks, and I nod. Liv goes quiet for a moment, giving it some thought. “Truth? I don’t know.”

And even though her response is gentle, it hits me hard. Liv wouldn’t lie to me, that much I know.

I sip my drink, embracing the tingly burn it creates in the back of my throat. “I’m telling you, I woke up yesterday feeling like I knew exactly what I wanted and who I was, and now I feel like I have no idea, like maybe I can’t see myself clearly at all.”

She pushes her silky sheet of hair behind her ear. “Shit, Mads, I feel that way at least once a week.”

My eyes whip to her in surprise, ready to call bullshit.

“What?” she says. “It’s true.”

“Liv, you display more decisive confidence in five minutes than most people do in a lifetime.”

She purses her lips, debating whatever she’s going to say next and leaning her elbows on the table to level me in her gaze. “Exhibit A: You know my company? That very very challenging company that takes all my time? The one I built from the ground up and still doesn’t do the things I want it to? Well, as you might imagine, I have trouble allocating responsibility, preferring instead to micromanage the shit out of everything. And while that never bothered me before, lately I’ve been feeling like I’m missing out on something.”

“Missing out on what?” I ask, grasping at her candor and the camaraderie she’s offering.

Liv swishes her drink. “Like maaaybe I want more of a personal life than I let on. Maybe I care more about my relationship with Claudette than I admitted the other day.” She shakes her head like hearing it out loud only makes it more confounding. “And I don’t know why I’m even telling you this. Either the cheer of the holidays finally thawed my scrooge soul, or I really am desperate as fuck. Hard to tell.”

I flash her an understanding smile, ready as always to support everyone’s vulnerability except my own. “I’m glad you told me. And it’s a good thing, Liv, not a bad one.”

“The same way people keep telling you inheriting the bakery is a good thing, not a confusing pile of emotional shit?” she replies.

“Okay, I see your point,” I admit, and give her a sympathetic look. “You want my opinion?”

“No, but I know you’re going to give it to me anyway.”

“You’re right. I am,” I say, aware that even though she’s protesting, she wouldn’t have brought it up unless she wanted feedback. “I think you have way, way too much to offer not to share it with another person.”

“Yeah, well, love has never been easy for me. Even saying the word makes me feel itchy. Maybe it’s the fact that our parents employed nannies to raise us for the first thirteen years of our lives, or maybe it’s just something faulty in my wiring. But fuck if it doesn’t make me want to run.”

“Are you in love with Claudette?” I ask.

Her eyes meet mine. “I have no idea what to do with that question,” she says, which is all the affirmation I need.

“You make time for her,” I say with a small smile. “You make time for people who are important to you.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I agree, once again feeling like this conversation is edging against something I don’t want to look at.

Wilder finds me perched on a boulder at the very end of the beach. The waves lap at the multitude of small rocks congregated on the shore. The town doesn’t sweep the sand this far down the main drag and so the winter rocks pile into heaps, making it impossible to walk on barefoot. Good for finding beach glass and even better for being alone.

“Hey,” he says. “Can we talk?”

While some part of me reflexively warms that Wilder came to find me, I know I’m still too revved up and wish he’d given me space so that I could come to the conversation with some semblance of calm. But I don’t say that, because now that he’s here, I don’t want him to go. Instead, I just nod at the ocean as he sits on the boulder next to me.

“So, Jake...” he starts.

My stomach clenches, knowing there’s no way to have this conversation without teetering on the edge of all the things we’ve been ignoring these past months in favor of peace.

“I just want to make sure you’re not going to prom with him because you’re mad at me,” he continues.

“Wait, what?” This isn’t about Wilder lying to me, it’s about his rivalry with Jake? And now that I look at him, I see his usual calm is absent.