Page 82 of Mom Com

His question rattles me, but before I can sort out why, he’s speaking again.

“You used to rotate around that bakery like it was the sun, Maddi. I would argue that half the reason I love it is because your love was so strong that it was impossible not to.”

I push against his words as though I could somehow shove them back in his direction like an unwanted plate of food.

But he’s not done. “If I’m being honest, there is no bakery without you.” He pauses weightily like he knows that whatever he says next is going to matter. “You and Charles were the heart of that place, the thing that gave it its magic.”

The day after prom passes excruciatingly slowly. Thankfully the bakery’s plentiful Easter business leaves me so busy that I can’t obsess over what happened. Dad and I move around each other in familiar patterns, trading ingredients, stopping periodically so he can teach me a new piping technique.

“You’re really getting good at that,” he says, leaning over my shoulder where I create a buttercream rose on top of a lemon curd-filled cupcake. “I’m proud of you.”

His approval hits me hard, the wordproudlodging a lump in my throat that constricts my chest. I nod at my cupcake, not wanting him to see how much it affects me.

He pats me on the shoulder before returning to his coffee-flavored panna cotta drizzled with bittersweet chocolate, and my thoughts drift to the day he held me while I cried. I can’t help but wonder if he would do the same now; if I showed him how much I’ve been struggling, would he rub my back and tell me things will work out?

“Dad?” I say, desperately wanting to find my way back to him.

“Yes, Maddi?” he says, pausing his work.

“Do you want me here? In the bakery?” It’s the only thing I can think to ask because I have no idea how to ask him if he still loves me the way he used to.

He turns around to face me, his forehead creasing slightly.

“I mean, I know I’ve been spending a lot of time here. I just wanted to make sure that was okay.” And I instantly hate myself for modifying my question, for downplaying even that.

He runs his hand over his short beard. “Of course,” he says, his voice quieter than normal. “You’re always welcome here.”

But that doesn’t feel like enough, doesn’t dull the ache of my larger fear. If anything, it makes it worse, the promise of reassurance that never fully comes to pass.

For a moment we stare at each other, both of us clearly out of our element, the seconds expanding like millennia. My heart pounds long, sad beats in my chest, my piping bag limp in my hand. And when it seems he won’t continue, I turn back around, my hope burning out, like the supernova of a dying star.

Hearing my dad’s name coupled with my own sends me spinning. My throat tingles and I look toward the ocean, refusing to allow moisture to build in my eyes. Maybe there was a time when I believed the bakery was magic, that it could make anything better, but I was wrong and so is Wilder. “It’s been fine without me all these years; I’m sure it will continue to be so.”

Wilder shakes his head like I’m missing the point. “But will you be fine?”

My eyes whip to his face, ready to tell him I most certainly will, but he’s faster.

“I’m not saying you won’t be okay. You’re the strongest person I know. What I’m asking is, will you regret not giving it a second chance?”

My chest clenches, like I’m trying to physically block his words with an invisible force field. “I know you’re doing what I asked you to—talking to me about the bakery, asking the hard questions. But the thing is, I’m not the same girl I once was. And you’re here now. Dad obviously thought you were just as capable of running it as I was, probably more so.”

For a second, he looks surprised. “Is that what you think? That your dad somehow doubted you? Because I can promise you, Maddi, he never did. You were in every letter he ever wrote me. Updates on the progress you made in LA, how he looked forward to you bringing those skills back to the bakery eventually, how he was glad that when he was gone that he would have something to give you that mattered.”

All of a sudden, there’s no air—a giant beach and not one drop of oxygen. The tightness in my chest transforms into a thudding ache. I can’t look at him. “I doubt that,” I say, trying to convince us both.

His eyebrows push together. “Why would I lie to you?”

I throw my arms to the side, overarticulating and hiding behind my bluster. “Because you’re being nice. Because my dad never wrote to me about those things. He never wrote to me, full stop. Because he didn’t—” I cut myself off before I saylove me that way, not the way he loved my mother with that unconditional grace he always afforded her.

Wilder’s expression softens, and I kind of hate him for the gentleness and the way it starts to erode my shield. “For someone so smart, you don’t see yourself clearly.”

“Are you saying I don’t know how my father felt about me?” I say, desperately clutching to my perceived rightness in order to fend off my unsteady chin. “Because I remember his disappointment. I remember he didn’t stand up for me. Not once. And I very much remember that neither of my parents came after me when I left for California. They just let me go. I’m pretty sure they were relieved.”

“Yes, he failed you then. We all did.” His persistent gentleness pokes at my weak spot, and his admission tightens my throat so acutely that my eyes brim. “And I can only guess at the hurts and struggles you’ve endured since. But this is it, Mads. Right here, right now is the moment in your life where you get to make peace with some of it. And it’s not perfect. It never will be. And maybe it’s not enough, but your father loved you. I can tell you that as a fact. He loved you fiercely and he wanted more than anything for you to be happy.”

His words work their way into my chest, clutching at my heart. The tears in my eyes spill over and I can’t stop them.

Wilder wraps his arms around me then, pulling me into him, and his kindness only makes me cry harder. Chest rattling sobs and messy tears spill out of me with such ferocity that my breath hitches and my eyes squeeze shut. I vibrate in his arms with the force of my grief—grief for my dad, for what will never be, for the time I can’t get back, for all the things I can never make right.