Page 74 of Mom Com

“Oh,” I say, instantly realizing that what I thought was nothing more than a thoughtful gesture is something much bigger, and worse still—I’m the one setting the bar for Liv’s rebuttal. “If you want me to pick something else—”

“I do,” Liv says.

“Okay,” I say, ready to oblige and get us both out of the hot seat. But something stops me. Maybe it’s the conflicted look on Liv’s face or the way she seemed so sad when she talked about loving Claudette. “If you’re really sure.”

“Are you trying to reverse psychology me? Because I invented that game.”

“Actually, no,” I say. “Hand to heart. I’m just making sure that you’re not going to spend the holidays thinking about her and wishing she were here but are just too scared to actually tell her that.”

Liv opens her mouth and closes it again.

“Liv?”

She purses her lips, clearly warring with herself. “Fuck you, Madeline DeLuca. I’ll do it. But I want to be clear that it’s under duress and also that I’m taking responsibility for being the imbecile who came up with this plan.”

“You don’t have to—” I start.

“No, the fact that I don’t want to is exactly why I have to. In fact, I’m going to drive to the city tonight, ask her in person,” she says, and I can’t help but admire her resolve.

“Tonight? But it’s nearly ten.”

“Yup, which is why I’m going to have to cut this evening short,” she says, and takes the last sip of her drink. “But not before I give you your assignment.”

I wince, deeply regretting picking something so big for Liv. What kind of stupid am I?

She assesses me. “Here’s the thing... I was thinking about having you write a letter to your dad about the bakery, something that would be just for you, to sort out your feelings.”

“That actually sounds—” I don’t get to sayreasonablebefore she continues.

“But now I’m thinking that’s not quite right, that like me, you’re happy enough to keep your emotions in your head where you can manage the living hell out of them. So instead, I want you to have an honest conversation about the bakery... with my brother.”

I gulp. “I don’t think—”

“I want you to tell him how you really feel about the place, lay it all out in the open. No one loves that bakery more than you two. He’ll understand better than anyone. And maybe you’ll get that clarity you’re after, or at least put your decision about leaving in perspective.”

I take a beat, feeling all kinds of uncomfortable. I can barely talk to Wilder about little things much less bare complicated feelings I don’t understand myself. I’m about to tell her no, that she has to pick something else, but before I can formulate a response, she’s typing into her phone.

“Tonight,” she adds, and I just about slide off my chair. “I’m texting him to come here now. That way we both get this done before we come to our senses and call the whole thing off.”

I rub my hands down my face, hoping Wilder’s busy or maybe his phone fell in the toilet. “Liv, this really isn’t a good—”

“He’s on his way,” she says, and looks up at me. “And yeah, it turns out this was a shit idea of the highest caliber, but there you have it. We’re in it now and who knows, maybe it’s exactly what we both need.”

“While I love that you’re trying to look at the bright side here, I’m just not there yet. I’m pretty sure I’d like to hide under this table.”

She laughs. “Give me a couple of hours and I’ll be right there with you, cursing us both.”

CHAPTER23

Heart Racing like a Hummingbird Cake—

layers of coconut, pineapple, and bananas, cream cheese frosting over cinnamon-scented cake, not sure if I’m in love or having a heart attack

Wilder takes no time at all to show up at the Beach Shack, either that or my sense of time is warped because my adrenaline is pumping like a burst water main. And as he walks in the door, I know I’m not up to this task. Vague references to wrongs disguised as biting wit? That I can do. Straightforward communication about my true feelings and insecurities? Fuck outta here with that. Especially considering everything that’s happened recently, which I’ve spent more time analyzing than I’ll ever admit.

I watch Wilder cross the room. Actually, everyone does. His dark wavy hair outlines his face in a tragically beautiful way, like a painting of some grand duke in a museum come to life. He wears a gray sweater over a black-and-white pinstriped button-down that’s rolled up at the cuffs, his wool coat and scarf thrown over his arm. But under the polished getup, there is also something softer, something around the eyes and the way he holds his mouth that makes you feel like he was thinking specifically about you.

Wilder, seemingly not noticing the attention, heads straight for us. And when his gaze meets mine, he smiles.