Page 78 of Mom Com

I find myself comforted by his joke and its nod to normalcy. “I’m deeply regretting wearing blue. I feel like a prop. A baby whale or maybe a bloated dolphin?”

“First, no. You’re beautiful. And second, so is that baby,” he says, never dropping his smile.

My eyes widen. I could hug him. He can’t know how much I needed that boost, or maybe he does and that’s why he said it. A warm feeling pools in my stomach. And instead of brushing him off or rolling my eyes the way I normally would, I say, “Thanks, Wilder,” in a way that lets him know I mean it.

“Always, Maddi,” he says, and as if we were the leads in an ’80s movie, a slow song starts. And when he doesn’t break eye contact, my stomach dips in a way it hasn’t in many months, just as the baby kicks, like the baby is responding favorably to his presence.

I look down, reflexively touching my belly.

Wilder looks down, too.

“The baby’s kicking,” I explain.

“May I?” he asks, holding his hand out.

I nod, taking his wrist and placing his hand where mine just was. And with luck, the little one kicks right into his palm.

He looks up, wonderment in his eyes. “That’s incredible,” he says, and I know it’s the hormones, but I get a little misty-eyed.

Wilder leaves his hand on my stomach until the kicks die down, and for a long second, we just stare at each other. And I’m not sure why, but it feels like we’re both thinking about how things might have been different.

“Hey, Mads?” he starts with a weighted tone, and it almost seems like he’s nervous, an emotion so rare for Wilder that it gives me pause. “Will you dance with me?”

For a second, I don’t know how to react, unsure what he’s actually asking. Is this a friend dance, or a “hey let’s squash this fight” dance, or is it something more?

But as if fate were conspiring against us, the slow song ends. We both glance at the DJ, and I say, “Next one?”

“Most definitely,” he agrees.

But the next one I’m in the bathroom with my baby-squished bladder. And the one after that? Well, let’s just say I wish I’d made my exit fifteen minutes prior.

Wilder grabs the handle of his car door, and a surge of panic jolts through me. If I let him walk away, everything will be unsaid and unfinished the way it always is. We’ll be right back in our holding pattern of missed connections.

“Wilder, wait,” I say, the panic edging into my voice. “Don’t go.”

He looks up, and as his eyes find mine, time stretches before me like pulled taffy. He opens his mouth to respond, but I stop him as I walk closer.

“Wait. Let me get this out or I’m going to lose my nerve,” I say, wading through my fear to get to something true. “You’re not just here randomly tonight because Liv needed to rush to the city.”

Wilder’s eyebrows push together.

“Liv and I made a deal.”

“A deal?” he asks, unsure.

I nod. “That I would talk to you about the bakery.”

His perplexed expression doesn’t waver.

“And I’m probably going to say this wrong,” I start, in an attempt to acknowledge my terrible communication skills. “But as you may have noticed, I’ve been confused about the bakery lately. And I got into a terrible fight with my mom about leaving during which she told me that if I hate this place so much that I should just move back to California. Liv suggested that I ask you—” I stop short because what should be a simple request to hash things out feels like an uphill trek sans oxygen. I haven’t asked Wilder for help, haven’t confided in him in any real way since we were teens. I swallow, breaking eye contact and rubbing my eyebrow even though it doesn’t itch. “I think you might be the only person who understands how complicated my relationship with the bakery is.”

When I venture a look at him, his expression has softened. “I’d love to talk to you about the bakery,” he says, and I can tell he really means it, that he’s flattered.

“Great,” I say, even though my instinct is to run.

“Would you like to take a walk?” he asks, and I follow his eyeline to the beach.

I nod. Movement sounds far better than standing next to our cars.