Page 83 of Mom Com

“I miss him,” I admit, the words tearing out of me, taking a piece of me with them as they go. “I really, really miss him.”

“I miss him, too,” he says, his own sadness an echo of my own.

He rests his cheek against the top of my head, and rubs comforting circles on my back. But he doesn’t try to stop my tears or tell me to look on the bright side by giving some magical piece of advice, he just steadies me, hanging right out in my pain and not flinching from it. And it cracks something inside of me, exposing a long-forgotten vulnerability, one I once worked tirelessly to erase.

Wilder holds me for a long time until my shoulders settle and my cheeks dry. Even when we both know that he could release me, he holds me still. And I don’t try to pull away. I just lean my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, allowing myself to be comforted.

“Thank you,” I say after some time, my voice a little raw.

“No, thank you,” he says into my hair. “For trusting me with it.”

I nod against him, touched by his words, and now I do pull back.

He lets me go, but before I step fully away, he brings his hand to my face, gently brushing my cheek where tears once flowed.

And as our eyes meet, it’s as if something snaps into alignment—an invisible thread that was once severed, rejoins, locking us both in place. The sensation is so intense that I feel it move through me like a pulse of heat, as though some integral part of me just found its way home.

He lowers his hand, his cheeks lightly flushed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “I’ve just never—”

Hearing the tenderness of Wilder’s voice, and the intimacy it suggests, steals the breath from my lungs. My heart sets to hammering in my ribs. But I just stand there, too close.

“Never what?” I ask.

He shakes his head, like whatever he was going to say is so true that it pains him.

But I can’t let it go, caught up in the moment and the way he showed up for me. “Never what, Wilder?” I ask again, barely above a whisper.

Wilder looks into my eyes, his own softening in the dim light. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful,” he finally says, and it hits me hard.

Because I know when Wilder means something, and he means this, and not in the way that people tell you your hair is pretty, or your dress looks nice. For fuck’s sake, I’m certain my cheeks are a blotchy swollen mess. But he says it like he means me, my very person, all that I am.

I don’t move away, don’t brush his comment off with an awkward thank you, telling him it’s late and I need to get home. I just stare up into his eyes, searching them for the longing I saw a moment ago, knowing I’m tempting fate and not really giving a damn.

He smiles a small, sweet look that sends me right over the edge. And now I’m wondering, is it really fair to walk around in the world with a face like that? Just smiling here and there at unsuspecting people who are sure to lose all their good sense in some desperate attempt to gain another?

“Wilder,” I breathe.

“Maddi,” he replies, the invisible tether pulling us closer.

He reaches up to brush the stray hairs back from my forehead and to plant a kiss there like he used to.

But when his gaze returns to mine, he appears torn. “I should probably walk you to your car.”

And for a split second, I don’t think, I just feel. “Is that what you want?”

Wilder gives me an almost sad smile. “To walk away from you? I’ve never wanted that.”

His delivery is so sure that my self-control slips out of my grasp, my mouth running full speed away from my common sense. “Then don’t.”

For a second, he seems surprised, but as he searches my face for understanding, whatever caution he was wrestling with vanishes. He reaches out to caress me once more, his touch gentle but confident, reminding me how many times his skin has met mine, the sensation of him heightened by years of separation and newness.

For just a moment, I second-guess myself, positive I’ve lost hold of my senses, tossed them out to sea with a deranged cackle. Can I actually be the one standing here instigating this, swiping my hand over the flame and telling myself if I do it just right, I won’t get burned? I should turn my face; I should break eye contact. Because I know if I do, he’ll drop his hand, and everything will go back to normal. Except no, nothing is normal between me and Wilder; it never has been. We’ve either been too attached or too separated, coiled lovingly around one another, or snapping like alligators. I know this the same way I know how to write my name, reflexively. It just is. And so are we. And right now, I’m not looking away.

Wilder tilts my chin up toward his, running his fingers through my hair to the nape of my neck, his other arm looping behind my back drawing me closer to his body. And as his lips find mine, there’s no hesitancy. That’s the thing about Wilder, he kisses like he means it, leaning into me, pulling at me with the tips of his fingers like there is no such thing as close enough, only hunger and breath.

My hands move through those soft waves and down his neck to his taut shoulders, over the familiarity of him. His fingers press pleasantly into my hips below my coat and catch under the edge of my sweater, trailing heat and a flurry of tingles where his palms touch my bare skin. And I remember. I remember why the first time I kissed him I knew. Wilder has a pull, a gravity to him that is so intense that you don’t even realize you’re in it until you’re tangled up in his arms, lost in his warmth, utterly mesmerized.

He takes his time, his kisses both sure and gentle, working his hands along my back, generating so much heat that I want to shrug off my winter coat and push him right into the sand. But I don’t and neither does he. Because we both know that we’ve already crossed a line, that the feeling of being locked together is too evocative, and if we don’t pull back, we’re both going to soar right over the cliff happily embracing our own emotional demise. Maybe we already have.