Page 45 of Mom Com

I scratch my forehead under the edge of my hat. “I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t ready.”

Jake exhales. “I get it. We don’t have to rush.”

“Thanks,” I say, but somehow, I don’t feel any better.

And by the way he’s staring at me, he knows it. “Just tell me what to do here. You know I’m not great at all the emotional stuff.”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m just...” I bring my hands up and drop them again. “I’m confused, ya know?”

His eyebrows push together. “Confused in general, or confused about me?”

“In general,” I say, and for a brief second, I consider telling him the uncomfortable truth that when I lost Wilder, I lost a piece of myself, and I never really found it again. And that I feel the hole acutely—a constant ache that shifts the moment I try to locate it, like an electron in light. It’s always there with me, following me like my shadow, showing back up just when I think it’s finally disappeared.

But I can’t say those things, so instead, I slip my hand into his. “You know what? How about we drive over to Middleton and eat Mexican food until we pop?”

“I’m so in,” he says, his smile finally returning.

And this time when he kisses me, I kiss him back, shoving my doubts into the back of my mind, trying to ignore the prickling sensation of nervous energy that tells me something is still wrong. But the feeling doesn’t go away. It seeps out around the edges, spilling into my body language and turning my reasons into excuses. I find myself doing bizarre things like ducking around the corner when I spot him in the hall or intentionally lagging behind in class so I don’t cross paths with him. And three weeks later, for reasons neither of us understand, I break up with him.

I stare at Wilder, aware that I should end this conversation. I’ve spent a lot of years closing Wilder off in my mind, locking him in a drawer with my old love letters. But instead, I just stare at him, waiting for him to finish his thought.

“It’s actually funny,” he says, laughing at himself, “how much time I’ve invested in trying to recreate the feeling I had when I was baking here.”

Don’t, Maddi. Keep it business only—“Then why did you stay in Europe for so long?”

He sighs. “Denial? Avoidance? Bettering myself? Take your pick.”

I break eye contact, his answer veering too close to my own truth.

“And you?” he asks. “What kept you away?”

“I just didn’t want to be here,” I say, adopting the shrugging act a beat too late.

He watches me, reading my expressions the way he used to. “You always loved this town.”

“I changed my mind.”

“I don’t believe that.”

We stare at each other, neither of us conceding, my heart smacking against my rib cage uncomfortably.

“What are you doing, Wilder?” I ask.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Right now, I mean, why are you talking about these things?”

He waits a beat like he’s trying to figure out his delivery. “I thought it might be easier working here if we attempted to be friends.”

I almost laugh, except it’s decidedly unfunny. “Friends?”

“Yes,” he says with confidence. “I’d really like it if we were.”

I blink at him. And for a split second, my body betrays me and delights in the idea. I scowl at us both. “I’ll think about it.”

His smile is so genuine that I deeply regret starting this conversation.

“Fair enough,” he says, far too happy about it.