Page 84 of Mom Com

So, when it feels impossible to stop, we do, looking at each other for a long painful moment that makes my breath come fast and his stare intensify.

“You should probably walk me to my car now,” I say, the words sticking as I force them out in an attempt to sever the connection.

He exhales like he feels the loss of me viscerally. “Of course.”

When we return to the parking lot, he opens my car door, flashing me an uninhibited smile, one I haven’t seen since we were kids. It makes me doubt my decision to go even more.

“Goodnight, Maddi,” he says, and the mere sound of his voice, slow and intentional, makes my thighs burn.

Just like that, I know I’m in trouble, that I’m not going to be able to forget our conversation or the way he felt pressed against my body. That it’s becoming clear that Liv was right, that Wilder still cares about me more than I ever thought possible, and that maybe I care about him more than I ever dared to admit, and I have no fucking idea what to do with that.

CHAPTER25

Feeling All Ooey Gooey Butter Cake—

fluffy goodness served with a butter caramel glaze, there’s no such thing as too much

The late morning sun filters through the lace curtains, drenching my bedroom in diffused warmth. I stretch under the fluffy comforter, dragging the backs of my hands across my eyes and readjusting my pillow under my head. Spence is already downstairs, too amped about Christmas Eve to stay asleep. But after a whole week of 3:30 wake-ups, I’m luxuriating in rubbing my legs under the fluffy comforter like a cricket.

Maybe it’s getting a proper night’s sleep, or maybe it’s what happened last night with Wilder, but things don’t feel so heavy this morning. And as my thoughts drift to the bakery, the crushing weight of emotions that were tied up in a big fat bow of grief are noticeably diminished. Instead, the ache is replaced with a tentative curiosity, like extending a hand to a wild dog, hoping it will lick your fingers but not totally convinced it won’t bite your head off. I find myself wondering if I did decide to stay, if maybe Wilder was right, if I could reclaim some of my joy baking here. And maybe, just maybe, I could reclaim some of my joy with him. Just the thought sends my stomach tumbling over itself, my cheeks warming and my fingers touching my lips as I remember the feeling of his kiss.

Maybe I could just stay for a little while and test it out? I don’t even have to commit to a full year, maybe just a trial period to see if I could make it work?

My God. Who even am I? Did someone drug me with optimism? For a flash of a second, the old fear seeps in, the voice that tells me that it’ll all crumble into a steaming pile of shit that will break everything I love, but I’m too cozy in my bed and drunk on the memory of our embrace to allow it to bear any real weight.

Instead, I reach for my phone, ready to text Liv and find out how her night went. But when I see my front screen, there’s already a text waiting from Wilder. And maybe it’s just the hopefulness of the holiday morning, but a flutter arises in my chest.

Wilder: Making breakfast for the cousins. Thought you might need to see this.

Below his words is a picture of him holding a plate of croissant French toast. If the croissant bit weren’t decadent enough, it’s stuffed with whipped cannoli filling replete with mini melting chocolate chips, topped with fresh raspberries and a raspberry reduction syrup. My stomach growls right on cue, as though it were wailing in longing.

Also in the picture is the signet ring he’s worn since his sixteenth birthday with a Buenaventura B embossed on it. And for a split second, I remember how I secretly thought one day I might have a piece of jewelry with a B on it, too.

Me: I’m not sure if I hate you for teasing me like that or if I’m in awe of you. Maybe both.

And to my delight, it only takes him seconds to respond.

Wilder: I’ll make it for you anytime. Just say the word.

I stare at his text for a long moment, smiling at the offer like a goon.

Me: Be careful. If all your cooking is that glorious, you might never get rid of me.

It feels a little reckless, but good reckless, and safer than last night because it’s text banter, not soul-searching looks and carefully articulated references to past heartbreaks.

Wilder: That’s the idea.

My heart thumps so hard that I sit up, heat spreading through my middle like hot tea on a cold night. My eyes flit to my vanity drawer, in which there are many notes of me and Wilder talking to each other this way. And even though I’m old enough to know that it doesn’t fix everything, maybe things don’t need to be fixed the way I once thought. Maybe they need to be healed, and maybe that healing isn’t a solitary action the way I’ve always imagined.

Also, flirting is good for the soul. That’s got to be a truism, right?

Me: Okay, Wilder. Show me what you can do.

For about thirty seconds, there’s no chat bubble and no response. I’m about to close out of the text when his reply pops up.

Wilder: With pleasure, Madeline DeLuca.

My pulse goes haywire. Does he know those are the same words he used in that note when we were teens; is that why he said them; is that why he hesitated? I immediately dismiss the idea. Of course not. It was a million years ago. I almost laugh at myself for thinking it, but a wisp of worry seeps in as I realize once again that my feelings for Wilder aren’t neatly contained, that I’m not driving this emotional bus, rather I’m a reckless passenger balanced precariously on a seat, halfway out the sunroof with a drink I’m hoping not to spill.