Page 77 of Mom Com

I put my coat on as we make our way through the crowd, my unease growing with every step. By the time we actually make it to the parking lot, I’m not only feeling ridiculous, but I’m disappointed in myself.

“See you tomorrow night?” Wilder says, generously giving me an out, and even though I can see that he wants to say more, he doesn’t push it—another kindness, which only makes me feel worse.

And so, I stand there frozen in place a handful of feet from my car, watching him walk away. I should let him go. Nothing I’m going to say is going to make anything better. I’ll only confuse things more. But his offer to give up the bakery for me rails in my mind, twisting what I thought I knew about him and making me doubt myself. Was Mom right that I’m my own worst enemy? Am I pushing Wilder away for no reason?

Jake picks me up for prom, but we don’t take pictures on my staircase or stand in awkward poses in the backyard next to the rose bushes. There isn’t the bit where my dad puts his arm around me and tells me how beautiful I look. Spoiler: I look like a baby blue chiffon mushroom. And there’s no sweet moment in front of the mirror where my mom gives me her pearls and tells me to enjoy myself. Instead, they both look worried, and Mom asks me if I really want to do this, if it’s a good idea.

Jake honks his horn in my driveway, and I leave without fanfare, nothing like my junior prom when I went with Wilder. Even our arrival at The Black-Eyed Susan is underwhelming. We just pull leisurely into a parking spot and Jake says, “You ready?”

But the moment I slide out of his truck, the air buzzes with energy. The place is already packed, and the swell of music reaches the parking lot. And to tell the truth, I’m not ready. The closer we get to the door, the more I think my mom might have been right. That it’s just going to be another occasion for people to talk about how sad I must be that I screwed up my life. Jake, however, seems relaxed and happy as always.

“You cool?” he asks as we take the stairs toward the door.

“Yup,” I tell him, even though I’m not. I’m highly considering doing the pregnant version of bolting (fast waddling?).

He seems to take my affirmation at face value, his smile never wavering. “Let’s get a picture,” he says as we step inside the Love Under the Sea themed room that shimmers turquoise and has moving water and fish projected on the ceiling. Jake gestures to the blue coral archway encased in twinkle lights and fake bubbles.

“I’m not sure I need to memorialize this moment,” I say, touching my belly that sticks out farther than my boobs.

“Sure you do,” he says. “It’s all part of the fun.”

While I don’t agree, I’m also not about to make a big deal about it. So, we step under the archway and the photographer asks us to smile. Jake puts one arm around my shoulders and uses his other hand to point to my belly, a huge grin on his face. For a split second, it’s nice to have someone look excited about the baby after months of reinforced disappointment. But it’s like too-sweet frosting that hurts your teeth and cracks your tongue; Jake isn’t going to be there, not when it matters. He’ll be off at college doing keg stands while I’ll be up all night with baby drool in my hair. I try to push the thought away, to not resent the fact that he made the same decision I did and yet I’m the one shouldering the burden.

We make our way through the front room into the main dining room, which is centered around a huge dance floor, above which flowing gauzy fabric is suspended in the air, adding to the moving water effect.

I spot Wilder across the room, laughing with friends, and his tux makes him look mature in a flattering way. For a second, I regret our fight this past week, wishing I could just walk up to him and crack a joke or tell him how weird my parents were before I left the house. But I’ve never known how to let things roll off my back; instead, I carry all the slights with me, accumulating pebbles until they become an impossibly heavy boulder.

Which is the exact moment Jake slips his hand into mine. “Should we dance?”

I take a second. “Um,” I say, gently slipping my hand out of his, not sure how to respond. It’s hard not to notice that he moved closer in conjunction with Wilder coming into view. Plus, I’m not trying to reconcile romantically with Jake. Things are complicated enough as it is.

But I’m saved from having to figure it out by Raff, who claps Jake on the back.

“There you are, man. We were waiting for you,” Raff says, all smiles. “Hey, Maddi.”

“Hey,” I say.

And suddenly Matt is there, too. “Are you kidding me with this place? Have you seen what my lady Jenna did with these decorations? She’s a fucking Picasso.”

Raff grunts a laugh. “You know Picasso was an abstract art—” He stops, reconsidering his audience. “You’re right, Matt, fucking Picasso-esque.”

I grin and Matt goes on about how he wishes he could have thrown the after-party, but his dads weren’t convinced. “Speaking of partying,” Matt says to Jake with an obvious elbow nudge. He hands Jake his drink, which is most definitely spiked.

Without hesitation, Jake takes a sip. I know it must be strong the way his mouth puckers. And I have a small sinking feeling. It’s not that I particularly care if Jake wants to drink, it’s that he was the one who said he wasn’t going to, that we’d have solidarity. Plus, he’s driving, which leaves me in the greatly undesirable position of policing him in a way I shouldn’t have to. When did I become categorically unfun? Is this my life now?

Jake hands the drink to Raff, who sips it and passes it back to Matt. In about three seconds flat they’re all making jokes and heckling each other. And while I’m happy Jake’s having a good time, it’s hard not to feel like I don’t belong in that fun, not the way I used to.

“I’ll be back,” I say to Jake, gesturing to the refreshment table across the room.

As I walk away, people follow me with their eyes. I can hear their whispers—Can you believe she and Jake came togetherandIs that a good idea in her condition?I’m immediately exhausted, just worn the heck out by the monotony of it. The worst part is, I half agree with them.

I reach the table and make my way to the bowl of lemonade, where Mr. Pitzer ladles some into a blue paper cup. I nod my thanks, but before I can turn around, the scent of fireplace drifts my way.

“I’d love one, too,” Wilder says to Mr. Pitzer, whose frown remains permanently fixed under his mustache.

My head whips to Wilder, surprised he came right for me. It’s not that we’re not on speaking terms, but ever since our fight on the beach there has been tension and space, like we’re carefully stepping around each other, trying to avoid the bomb we know is hidden somewhere in the dark.

He’s wearing an easy smile, a look I rarely see on him these days. “It’s a shame the decorating committee was underfunded,” he says, sipping his lemonade and glancing at the floor-to-ceiling glittering water décor that is way over-the-top. His dark wavy hair, which looks like it was initially combed, is just this side of tousled, and somehow it makes him appear more dashing than not.