Page 9 of Mom Com

“Are you disappointed with how things ended?” he asks and despite his understanding tone, I bristle.

My discomfort must be obvious because he tries again, “You told us on week three that if you had won you wanted to use the money to start your own dessert truck in LA?”

My eyes find his, not really in the best control of myself, worry seeping through my frayed edges over the mistakes I made on my final piece, upset by the hope I allowed this show to represent, and just plain frustrated that I’m finding it impossible to plaster a smile on my face and say something like, “Yes, but I’ll get there one way or another. This show has been a ride and I learned a lot. Onward and upward.”

Instead, I stare at the host, my chest tight, searching for words.

The host sighs, dropping some of his stage voice. “You were a great contestant, Maddi. Take it from someone who’s been part of seven seasons. And you’re driven. That’s obvious to anyone who saw you bake.”

But instead of comforting me, the praise stings. I find myself shaking my head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

I know I shouldn’t answer, that he doesn’t need anything more than a sound bite, but some part of me feels reckless—emotions jumbled and stretched after a long day of filming. And my mouth opens, the truth sneaking out past my defenses, “I was recently let go from my job,” I admit. “And, this money? It meant rent. So there’s that.” I take a breath. “It was also a way for me and my son to get a leg up; it meant independence, not shifting from restaurant to restaurant as the LA market and tourist season forever changes. And it proved that...” I trail off, my throat taut with the words I never say aloud. “My father was an award-winning baker... back home, on the East Coast, I mean. He had a bakery my entire life.” My voice has gone quiet again. “And well, he recently died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the host says, but I don’t register his words. I’m too ensnared in my emotions.

And then I feel my chin wobble. I try desperately to stop it, to rein in the messy sadness I’ve spent a lot of time burying, but as if to spite me, a tingle works its way up my throat and into the bridge of my nose, dampening my eyes and making it hard to breathe. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or that this is just one in a long line of disappointments, but my chest tightens, my ribs pressing in on me like an unforgiving weight.

A tear falls. I bat at it with my fingers, disbelieving. But another follows. “I’m not a crier. I never cry.” My words are not only wholly unconvincing but interrupted by a tight inhale that rattles them. “I swear,” I continue, tears now falling more readily down my cheeks, my control all but gone. Then I hear myself say the words I swore I wouldn’t: “I just really wanted to make my dad proud. And once again, I’ve failed.”

That’s the moment I lose it. Big heavy sobs and makeup streak down my face. And a snot bubble. A goddamn snot bubble that, as it so happens, the network did not edit out later.

A few heads turn my way followed by looks of surprise and gasped comments. I’m not sure if it’s my mortifying breakdown onBake Offthat’s got them going or if it’s my messy teen years a decade earlier. And while I know I shouldn’t feel shame, that if it were my friend going through this, I would be adamant that there was nothing to shrink from, I suddenly feel like I lost a few inches just the same. I avert my eyes and make my way along the wall of the dining area to the front room, where a tasteful Christmas tree decked in blue ribbons and white lights stands next to a wrought iron menorah on an elegant stand. Guests peruse silent auction tables and I circle the crowd, heading straight for the coat check.

I slip off my peacoat and hand it along with Liv’s to the man behind the table. “Two tickets, please,” I say and he obliges.

Wine, I think.I need lots of wine. But as I tuck the tickets into my clutch, a familiar voice trills behind me.

“Maddi DeLuca? You’rehere?”

I glance at the front door, an easy five steps away. But my coat has already disappeared into the coatroom, and I have no desire to end up like a frozen Jack Nicholson inThe Shining.

I turn around, my body resisting the motion. “Kate,” I say with a tight smile. Kate Van Doran was a year ahead of me in school and a force to be reckoned with—a dancer’s body, perfect hair, and an ability to make you feel uncool just by looking at you.

“I’m just so shocked,” she says, one hand touching her chest.

“That I’m in the town I grew up in, or that I was invited to this benefit?” I ask and immediately regret my defensiveness, guilt springing up before I finish my sentence.

She sizes me up, her lips pulling up at the corners. “I just had no idea you still knew the Buenaventuras,” she says. “You and Wilder were friends as kids; am I right?” I know full well she remembers. Everyone who knew Wilder and me (and many who didn’t) knew that we were inseparable. And when we started dating at fifteen, no one was surprised; the town gossip mill was practically planning our wedding.

But with happy thoughts of Wilder, also comes the bitter—a flash of the last fight we ever had—Wilder and I standing in Tony’s Pizza, both of us fired up and irascibly stubborn, the bond we once shared ground down until it was no longer recognizable.

I weigh my options, wanting to respond, but aware it’ll only extend this unpleasantness. “I was just about to go grab a drink, do you need—” I glance at her full glass of red.

“All good here,” she says, tapping a French manicured nail on the glass, and I move around her with a strained smile. I can feel her eyes on my back as I leave.

It’s fine, I tell myself as I beeline it to the drinks table, I’ll just avoid Kate and pretend the silent auction is super interesting until Liv comes back.

“A glass of white, please,” I say to the bartender, who obligingly pours.

A bell rings and I glance over my shoulder. “If you’ll all kindly make your way to your tables, we’ll begin dinner service,” a butler says in baritone.

I sigh in relief. Liv wasn’t kidding about our well-timed arrival. I accept the wine from the bartender with thanks and take a couple of sips while the guests head for the dining room.

When the front room is three-quarters empty, I follow suit, lingering in the doorway and scanning the crowd for Liv and her velvet blue dress. While I don’t see her, I do see Mr. and Mrs. Buenaventura claiming seats at a rectangular table that tees off with the center stage. All the other tables are round, marking this one as special, like the bride and groom’s table at a wedding.

The idea of being on display like that with the Buenaventuras makes me itchy. But then another thought strikes me, specifically what might happen if Liv doesn’t show up for another ten minutes or so? Am I supposed to walk to that table by myself and slide in with a nonchalant “Hey guys, remember me? I’m the one who screamed in public that the only people more shitty than Wilder were his parents? So lovely to see you all again.” No fucking way.