Page 8 of Mom Com

“They really are,” I agree. I’m about to ask her about her life, but she’s too quick.

“How’d you do it, Mads?” she says, not looking at the road as much as I think she should. “How’d you move to LA pregnant and make it work at seventeen?” While her tone is as direct as before, I swear I catch a little bit of something else, almost like awe.

I sigh. “I think I’m in for this question a lot tonight.”

A small laugh escapes her matte red lips. “Damn. You’re right. The gossip hounds will be out in full force. Consider my question officially stricken from the record.”

“Nah,” I say. “It’s fine. You’re Liv—you get a pass.”

“I really am her. And yes, I deserve all the passes. Please and thank you.”

I take a moment to consider it. “Honestly? I don’t know how I did it. I was deeply stubborn and pretty pissed off that everyone was either telling me what to do or telling me what I’d done wrong. I had my college fund, the one my parents saved for me since I was born—”

“Vassar?” she says, and hearing it out loud makes my chest tighten.

Choosing to use that money to set up a new life instead of going to school was the single hardest decision I’ve ever made. Not moving to LA pregnant, not going to culinary school on the nights and weekends while simultaneously working behind the counter in a bagel shop. Letting go of Vassarhurt. I even deferred for a year, convinced that once I got on my feet that I’d find a way to make it work. But by the end of that year, I couldn’t manage the expense, my work, and an infant all at once. My parents did show up briefly when Spence was eight months old. But their trip took the form of an ultimatum—either I moved home or my life would inevitably descend into ruins. To which I told them I had proudly taken up the DeLuca torch of resentment and preferred to suffer in silence the way only a true New Englander could. They didn’t think it was funny.

I sigh again, big and heavy.

“Okay, that’s it. We’re changing the subject,” she says. “I know this sounds unbelievably stupid, but I hadn’t thought my question through properly or the serious territory it might lead to. I half expected you to say, ‘I’m a goddamn mommy superhero, so suck it.’ And while I’m all for serious conversations, they should be had over expensive whiskey and not when we’re beholden to the extra depressing obligation of sitting through a long dinner with my family.”

I smile at her, happy for the out. “Okay, then, what about you?” I say, following her lead. “Are you dating anyone?”

“There you go. That’s the kind of fluff I’m here for,” she says with a sparkling smile. “As it so happens, I’m dating a model from New York. But I mostly just see her on weekends and it’s not that serious.”

I smile. Of course she’s dating a model. “It’s Saturday. You didn’t want to bring her with you?”

She chuckles. “Not if I want to keep seeing her. You know as well as I do that my parents’ idea of small talk consists of alma maters and real estate fluctuations.” She rolls her eyes. “Be honest, would you have come if you didn’t feel obligated?”

Her straightforwardness catches me by surprise and I half-laugh half-choke. And once again I have the urge to tell her the truth: that I’m nervous about seeing her family after all these years, and slightly ill over the possibility of seeing Wilder. I desperately want to ask her if he’ll be there, but before I work up the nerve, her car jerks to a stop in front of The Black-Eyed Susan, a sprawling historic inn on the edge of town.

She’s immediately out of the car and headed around the side of the inn instead of up the front porch. I follow as she speeds along the stone path, her long dress in hand, and through a side door. She walks the way she drives, fast and with enviable confidence. We step into a large kitchen and the scent of cherry pie in browned buttered crust wafts my way. Maybe she didn’t want to get slowed down by having to say a million hellos at the front door?

Liv stops and turns to me, shrugging her coat off. “Would you mind terribly hanging this up for me? I need to find Mom before she hyperventilates.”

For a second, I hesitate. She’s leaving me already? No regret or bolstering words about how I’ll do great out there on my own (I won’t). But there’s no way to refuse, and if I’m honest, she’s always been like this—full steam ahead. As a teen, she once told me she could never do what Wilder and I did. How we were never apart, how even when we were together, we went out of our way to check in with one another. She vastly preferred when people did their own thing and let her run free.

“Yeah, of course. No problem,” I say.

With a quick thanks and a promise of a forthcoming drink, she speeds off through the kitchen and out the far door that leads to the party. For a split second, I consider spending the rest of the night right here, offering up my baking skills in exchange for refuge. It’s with great reluctance that I weave my way around racks of hors d’oeuvres and push through the same door Liv did, trading the delicious scents of the kitchen for a warm elegant dining room full of small-town sharks.

A stage is set up to my right and a crackling fireplace lights the far wall, whose mantel is draped with pine garlands interspersed with festive candles. The guests mill about with their glasses of wine, many of whom I recognize from school, from my mom’s clubs, or as business owners in town. Whatever courage I gleaned from Liv’s vivaciousness, fizzles out. It’s not that I’m a wuss; I’m categorically not. In LA I’m outspoken and outgoing, equally happy to jump on a field trip bus and wrangle elementary school kids as I am designing a catering menu for a posh event. But right now, I feel like I’m back on that baking show, fingers crossed and heart pounding, hoping everything will work out for once.

“It’s been an exhilarating couple of months,” theUltimate Bake Offhost says in his perky camera-ready voice. “Twelve contestants, jumping through impossible baking hoops, with lots of sugar and more than a few tears.”

I glance into the wings of the stage as a crew member repositions a light. Spence gives me a thumbs-up, but despite his enthusiasm, he looks just as nervous as I feel. I pull a face in response, grabbing my mouth and pretending to gag to erase the concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows. Spence rolls his eyes like I’m super embarrassing but laughs all the same. The director calls for action and I straighten my posture and readjust my eyes forward.

“Here we are with our three amazing finalists...” the host continues, “who have made everything from patisserie to four-tiered cakes. And, now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” He pauses dramatically, my stomach growling as I swallow down stomach acid. “The winner...” The table of judges stares at the three of us with frozen smiles, the cameras panning across their faces and ours. “OfUltimate Bake Offis...”

My chest squeezes. I cross my fingers behind my back.Please, please, please.

“Cindy!” the host exclaims, and my heart constricts as the woman to my right lights up. My stomach flips aggressively, and the room blurs, people moving around me and possibly talking to me, not that I hear them.

I don’t know if Cindy yells in victory or cries from overwhelm. Or even if the director calls cut. All I know is that in short order I’m seated on a pink plush armchair in the “commenting room” for a one-on-one.

“Tell us, Maddi,” thehost says, “how do you feel now that it’s all over?”

I swallow. “I don’t know,” I reply, my voice unfamiliar and quiet.