Page 88 of Mom Com

My heart forms long reverberating beats as my fingers catch the edges of the paper and unfold it. I want to respond, but my thoughts are swimming, suspended in the ether and not forming into words. I look down at the note, his handwriting a perfect reflection of him—elegant and messy—and I read.

Mads,

I’ve written you so many notes that this one shouldn’t be any different, but somehow it’s nearly impossible to get out. I just need to tell you that you’ve been right about everything—that I didn’t say enough, that I wasn’t being totally honest with you, that there were pieces of our story you were missing. And that when I told you that I wanted you, that I thought of you every night before I fell asleep, I was actually underplaying it. You are and probably always will be the most pervasive thought in my mind. And while I know this note isn’t enough, I can never seem to tell you these things in person. It’s like there’s some barrier between us now, one I know I’m responsible for and I don’t know how to break through.

Forever yours,

Wilder

I look up at him, my hand unsteady and my pulse thrumming, scanning my memories like a hazy dream, picking out moments here and there. “Why did you never give me this?” I ask, my voice barely audible above the general din.

“I’ve wondered the same thing more times than I can tell you.”

But in a way, I understand perfectly. I, too, was overly aware of our divide with no idea how to breach it. While part of me is turning to molten liquid at the fierce sentiment his words invoke, the other part is searching, trying to make sense of what he’s sharing. “You said there were pieces of our story I was missing?”

“Yes,” he says, his face taking on a more serious expression, and even though there are other people in the room, laughing and socializing, it’s like we exist in a vacuum, he and I, our world crystal clear and everyone else a blur on the periphery.

“That day on the beach,” I say, remembering the piece of our conversation that broke things in a way we never recovered from. “I accused you of breaking up with me because your mother told you to.”

“You did,” he replies, and I can see the sadness on his face like a neon sign. “And you were correct.”

I stand there, feeling both vindicated and gutted, knowing that I was right and that there was something else going on, something playing behind the scenes that he was keeping from me.

“And you listened?” I hear the discord in my voice, the old rejection bubbling up. Because even after all these years, what happened with Wilder doesn’t feel like history, but something alive that merely fell into a deep slumber like a fairy-tale princess, surrounded by thorns so thick it was impossible to get to.

“I felt I had no choice,” he says, opening his mouth to continue, but I’m faster.

“No choice but to shut me out and never explain the truth?” I say before I can consider it, bringing us back to the starting point, to the first flood that slowly eroded the landscape of our relationship.

He pauses, but not because we’re wading through old arguments; it’s something else. “Actually,” he says, looking more unsure than he did a second ago. “Yes.”

I stand there trying to understand, drenched in uncertainty. I feel my face tightening, my eyebrows pushing together.

He shakes his head at himself. “In some youth-driven logic, I thought I was making things easier for us both with a clean break, if you can imagine.”

“But why Wilder? Why would you listen to your mother?” I reply more forcefully than I intend, probably catching the attention of people around us, but I don’t bother to check, still singularly focused on him.

He opens his mouth, but before he responds, his eyes flick to the side, momentarily popping the bubble we created. And when I follow his gaze, I see what he’s looking at, or rather who is standing not six feet away from us, and I instantly feel ill.

Mrs. Buenaventura trails off at the end of her sentence, which is something about how Wilder is always tucking himself away in this library. And I have no doubt in my mind that she heard what I just said because her mouth pinches shut.

When I arrive home from the bakery, I head for the living room, where my mother is mid-phone call. So I make myself quiet, something I’ve grown good at these past few months, as I pluck my notebook off the coffee table.

“No, I didn’t know that,” my mother says with an edge in her voice, catching sight of me and signaling for me to sit down on the couch. “I really do apologize. I can’t imagine how put out you must be.” Pause. “Yes, yes, I know... Of course... I’ll tell her.”

It’s theI’ll tell herpart that stops me short.

My mother clicks the phone onto its receiver on the end table and turns to face me. The disconcerted look on her face combined with her compensating tone only leads me to one conclusion as to the subject matter.

“Do you know who that was?” she asks.

“Mrs. Buenaventura,” I say, not as a question but a statement of fact, because she wouldn’t look this put out if it were anyone else. “Jake and Wilder got into a fight last night at prom.”

“Maddi,” my mom says like she’s exhausted, brushing her perfect waves back from her face. “How could you not tell me this? Why am I always being blindsided by the things you do?”

“ThingsIdo?” I repeat back, confused. “You mean things Wilder and Jake do?”

“The fight wasn’t about you?”