Page 49 of Mom Com

Wilder: I got your number from Liv. I hope you don’t mind.

I stare at the texts. Is this really what he thinks he should be doing? Texting me right after his girlfriend tore him a new one?

Wilder: I’d really like to talk to you.

I exhale audibly, typing outThen talk, my thumb poised over the send button without actually pressing it. And as if he could read my mind, he says:

Wilder: In person, if that’s okay. I’m not a phone guy. Truth be told, I hate text.

Of course you do; I’m surprised you even own a cell phone because it clashes with your European aristocratic vibe. I purse my lips together, erasing my text and pushing my hair back from my forehead. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in dangerous waters. If everyone has a destiny, ours is to have the most complicated relationship of all time, one that can only end in disaster and somehow include very public humiliation on my end.

I should say no. I’ll see him at the bakery in the morning anyway. What difference will half a day make? But at the same time, I understand his urgency to clear the air; it’s something we failed at spectacularly when we were teens.

Me: What are you thinking?

Wilder: I could pick you up around eight if you’re free?

“Mom?” Spence says, popping his head in the room. I whip around so fast you’d think I got caught eating his candy.

“Yeah?” I say, my voice a little too high-pitched.

“Wanna come play a board game with me and Grandma? I keep telling her that there are lots of digital games we can play, but she’s insisting on finding Balderdash.”

I smile. Balderdash was my favorite as a kid. She actively disliked it as I remember, which makes it just a little bit cute that she’s digging it out now.

“Let’s do it,” I say enthusiastically.

I quickly type a response to Wilder and toss my phone on my bed, leaving it there while I join Spence.

Me: See you then.

Please, please don’t let me regret this.

The morning after the conversation with my dad, I wake up early, still feeling the safety of his reassurance wrapped around me like a hug. I grab the water glass on my bedside table and chug it, remembering the Advil Wilder left me five weeks ago. I haven’t drank since. Truth is, I haven’t been to a party since or any social event, really. And in a moment of clarity, I realize how stupid that is.

I swing my legs out of bed, feeling lighter than I have in months. It’s Sunday, which means booth day, and I’m actually starting to wonder if my dad is right, if maybe things aren’t as bleak as I thought they were. It’s funny how one small thing, like a well-timed hug or an understanding comment, can change a person’s perspective. It makes me wonder how many things could shift if we were more generous with one another.

And in a moment of true optimism, I pluck the portable phone off my nightstand. Before I can psych myself out, I dial Wilder’s number, the landline that only rings in his room, and when I hear his sleepy voice on the other end, my stomach drops to my toes.

“Wilder?” I say, even though it’s obviously him.

“Maddi?” he replies, his blankets rustling like he just sat straight up in bed. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, staring out my window and digging my toes into the rug. “Everything’s fine. Or at least I think it will be. I was just wondering... do you want to come help at the booth today?”

“Wait, really?”

For a flash of an instant, I feel silly. “I mean, only if you want—”

“I want to,” he says so assuredly that some of my doubt drops away.

“Okay then, see you there?” I say, cutting the conversation short so neither of us has the chance to change our minds.

CHAPTER17

Every Rose Cheesecake Truffle Has Its Thorn—

a finicky flavor that can either be breathtaking or an epic disaster