Don’t Poke the Bear-ey And Cream Stuffed Cake—
with a center of crème anglaise and an equally messy temper
“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Liv says, gently pulling my elbow forward, otherwise, I probably wouldn’t move.
While it makes me feel ever so slightly better to have solidarity in wanting to escape the benefit, it doesn’t make walking into the dining room any more appealing. But like in all things, Liv takes charge, flashing me a decisive smile.
I train my eyes forward, once again avoiding eye contact. I hear my name whispered as I follow Liv, but I don’t investigate. Eat dinner. Have a drink. Make an excuse and leave before the socializing starts. That’s the plan, folks.
When we reach the table there’s already a middle-aged couple sitting with Liv’s parents, an elderly woman who must be the woman’s mother, and a teenaged boy who looks like he might die of boredom.
Liv and I take two empty seats next to each other, and her parents are so engrossed in their conversation that Mrs. Buenaventura barely registers our presence from the other end of the table. I exhale audibly and take a sip of my wine as the butler from the front room announces that food will be served. A string quartet plays classical music next to the fireplace and the guests drink and chat happily at their tables. So far so good. But my relief is short-lived because there, entering the dining room, is Wilder.
Wavy dark hair swoops across one side of his forehead as though it were intentionally tousled, lazily framing his large brown eyes and aristocratic features. His clothes are impeccable—a perfectly tailored black suit and shiny black shoes. His mouth is curved in his signature smirk, an expression that makes him look like he’s privately enjoying a joke. He’s devastatingly good-looking, more so than I remember, his shoulders have filled out nicely and his facial structure is more defined since the last time I saw him at seventeen.
For a split second, my heart stumbles over itself. I’m taken aback by how familiar he is. How the kid part of me that fell in love with him feels bolstered, like he’s not just a person, but my person, my other half.
“Smile, you crazy love birds,” Liv says, lifting her camera.
We turn, grinning at her as she snaps a picture, our skin tanned from endless hours outside and our hair salty from the wave that crashed over us one minute prior.
Liv takes a long look at us, shaking her head. “I have to say, this whole dating deal suits you two. You’re kinda perfect in a stupid way.”
Wilder fakes shock. “Liv? You feeling okay? That sounded like admitting that romance is a good thing.”
She rolls her eyes. “Romance is for idiots. But, I’ll admit, you two make it seem not so awful.” Her friends call her name, and she saunters off with a grin before we can reply.
Wilder’s attention shifts back to me. His dark wavy hair drips onto his warm bronze skin and he rubs his hands over his face, shaking out the errant drops. He’s a perfect mixture of his British mother and his Argentinian father, with strikingly elegant bone structure, an infectious laugh, and magnetic eyes.
I smile. “Are you sure you two are related? Liv’s like a rockstar with a studded leather jacket and a lady-killer smile. And you?” I say, reaching out to touch the bare skin on his chest.
“Go on,” Wilder says, winding his hands around my lower back and pulling me into him. “And me, what?”
“You’re like Jane Austen–level period romance. Complete opposites,” I say, as he pushes back my wet hair and plants a kiss on my forehead, basically proving my point.
“So, what you’re saying is that I’m marriage material?” he replies with a smirk, his fingers working their way down my neck, his lips following.
I laugh as shivers radiate from where his warm mouth grazes my skin. “The good news for you is I’ve always found old-timey picnicking men in straw hats impossibly sexy.”
He pulls back, smiling at me, his fingers tracing my collarbone like it were a fascinating discovery. “That is good news because I’ve always found Italian girls with magical baking abilities impossibly irresistible.”
His words move through me like the sun heating me from the inside out. “Is that so?” I muse, our faces now inches apart.
“It really, really is,” he says, his breath on my lips, scented with the Capri Sun we shared not ten minutes earlier. As he presses his mouth to mine, my stomach dips and my heart surges and I wonder how I’ll ever get enough of his touch.
I forcefully shake the memory away, scowling at myself for having thought it in the first place, blaming my lapse in judgment on my unease. And like a calculated assault on my nerves, Kate steps through the door behind Wilder, taking her place by his side. She leans in to tell him something privately and when she places her hand on his arm, he smiles down at her.
They walk toward us, chatting, but as they near the table, Wilder looks up, seeing me for the first time, the simple act of eye contact enough to make my pulse pound in my ears.
He stops dead in his tracks a couple of feet from the table. “Maddi?” he says, shocked.
“Hey, baby brother,” Liv says, thankfully saving me from having to reply.
Wilder frowns at the diminutive greeting but doesn’t take his eyes off me. Which of course makes Kate frown in turn. And there’s something about his look, something weighted and meaningful that makes it all the more uncomfortable.
I swallow, and even though it feels impossible, like I’m attempting to tear space-time itself, I look away. I do not care about Wilder Buenaventura, I repeat like a mantra—in fact, I actively dislike him.
They take their seats, Wilder across from me and Kate across from Liv. Kate keeps her gaze trained on Wilder, and by the way her eyes tighten at the corners and her jaw tenses ever so slightly, I can tell she’s more than aware of the way Wilder’s looking at me. There is nothing I would like more right now than to slide directly off my chair and under this table, followed by an army crawl out of the inn, Haverberry, and the state of Massachusetts.
My heart beats roughly in my chest and I take a big gulp of wine. I glance up at the podium, but there’s nothing to see. I’ve been a pastry chef in a friggin’ Michelin-starred restaurant, I remind myself. I supported myself as a new mom at seventeen, for God’s sake. I can handle one simple dinner with Wilder. Buck the fuck up, Maddi, you’re better than this.
Wilder looks from me to Liv, his frown turning into an accusation.
But Liv only smiles and places her hand on my shoulder. “Look who I bumped into on her way into town. Or maybe she bumped into me?” Liv laughs lightly and glances in my direction. “Maddi’s home for the holidays for the first time in ten years; can you believe it? And I thought we should give her the old Buenaventura welcome—you know, stodgy banquet with droning speeches and mediocre wine.”
Wilder stares at his sister and I find myself reading his expression the way I used to—the dent between his eyebrows representing his frustration, and his jaw tensed the way it always is when he’s holding himself back from saying something. But the more I register his emotions, the more I simmer in embarrassment. He has no right to be mad that I’m here; I have dibs on all the pissed-off-ness from here to eternity.
I raise my almost empty glass, now emboldened by my indignity. “You might want to snag yourself some of that mediocre wine, Wilder, it might help you look less horrified.” I know it’s not a way to start. I know. But I refuse to feel small and unwanted again.
Wilder meets my eyes and Liv chuckles.
But it’s Kate who speaks. “How nice you decided to come home after all these years,” she says, drawing out her words as though our previous conversation near the coat check never happened.
I blink at her.
Kate nods thoughtfully. “Tell us, what have you been up to? And don’t leave out Ultimate Bake Off. I swear I don’t know anyone who didn’t watch it. You’ve been quite the gossip here. I do hope you sorted everything out with your job . . . and your rent?”
And perfect. Now I’m on Kate’s kill list, the girl who has a talent for finding peoples’ insecurities the same way those nose strips magically pull out the tiniest of blackheads. My cheeks warm, my unease increasing tenfold.
“Kate’s right, you were a total boss on that show,” Liv says, shifting Kate’s intended slight to a compliment. “I can’t believe you didn’t win. Highway robbery.”
Wilder and Liv look at each other, and I swear there is something more to their gaze. Wilder leans back in his chair, shaking his head ever so slightly at his sister.
Which is when Mrs. Buenaventura pulls away from her conversation to look up at us. I can tell, she too, is shocked to see me, although she hides it much better than Wilder did. “You all know the Floreses,” she says in her British accent, faded through many years of living in the states. “Except maybe Madeline.” She says my name in an underwhelming tone that tells me everything I need to know. And while I don’t expect her to jump for joy that I’m here, the disapproval sucks. She’s known me since I was born.
She moves through introductions smoothly, while Mr. Buenaventura sips his drink and says hello in his slight Argentinian accent. And for a brief moment, I think this might be the answer to all the tension—a long conversation with them about their recent trip abroad or the new apartment building they bought. The Buenaventuras have a chatty and engaging quality to them, placing their hand on your arm as they talk, making it easy to just listen and blend into the background. But unfortunately, we only say polite hellos and they continue their previous conversation without us, leaving Liv, Wilder, Kate, and me to fend for ourselves.
I adjust my gaze back across the table and find Wilder staring at me.
When his eyeline doesn’t shift, I reach for my wine, only to discover it’s empty. And in my peripheral vision, I see Mrs. Buenaventura steal another look at me, one that is followed by a frown.
Liv grabs a carafe from her parents’ portion of the table. She refills my glass and pours one for Wilder. “I think Maddi was right about that drink.”
Wilder’s eyes flash from me to Liv. “My problem isn’t lack of alcohol,” he says and even though his tone is perfectly pleasant, my stomach drops.
Liv sighs. “Think, baby brother. Do you really want to do this? Have a not-so-veiled conversation that’s going to make this night a million times more uncomfortable than it needs to be?”
“If you didn’t want the night to be uncomfortable, Liv,” he says smoothly, but his tensed jaw gives him away, “then you shouldn’t have orchestrated it that way.”
Liv frowns, but before she can respond, my defenses flare. The only thing worse than realizing Wilder is disappointed to see me (while it occurs to me this is a double standard, I do not have the bandwidth to analyze it right now) is that he’s vocalizing it. “You know I can hear you, right? That I’m sitting right here?”
Kate spears her salad in uniform bites, a small smile of satisfaction on her lips.
But Liv remains focused on her brother. “First of all, I invited Maddi because I wanted to spend time with her.” An opinion it’s clear Wilder doesn’t share, not that I want to spend time with him, but still. There’s something primitively satisfying about your ex seeing you and feeling remorse for his crappy actions like you won some small life prize. Today is not that day.
Blood rushes to my cheeks in a prickly flush and I have a deep desire to shut the whole conversation down. “It’s like Liv said, she ran into me in town,” I interject, attempting to imbue my voice with nonchalance. “Everything isn’t about you, Wilder.”
“No, it’s not. But you can ask Liv yourself,” he says so confidently that I now regret chiming in. “Ask my sister why she brought you here without warning me or our parents?”
And that’s it. That’s the very last straw. My already fanned embarrassment explodes like a firework finale, my heart trying to make a speedy getaway in my chest. I sit there for what feels like ten years but is probably only four seconds, trapped in the amber of unease. And for just a hair of a moment, I think I see regret on Wilder’s face. Only I don’t care. It’s as though every fear I had tonight is being actualized in this moment, heightened by the fact that it’s with Liv and Wilder, people I once considered family. I don’t even realize I’m speaking until I feel my voice like the base of a too-loud stereo, vibrating in my chest.
“Warning?” I breathe the word back at him, now full-on warrior-porcupine. “I was unaware that my mere presence came with a warning. But you want one? Fine, you’re getting one. Warning, Wilder, I’m back in town for two weeks. Warning, you should stay out of my way. Warning, if you do try to talk to me again, I’ll only tell you that you’re a self-righteous jerk who can take his attitude and shove it right up his pampered asshole.”
As I finish my sentence, I realize my mistake—the room must have fallen silent just as my voice raised in volume. A woman stands at the podium and clears her throat into the mic. “Good evening,” she says to the audience, looking away from me in a deliberate way that tells me she heard everything I said.
I glance at the crowd, only to find I’m right—people lean into each other whispering and shooting glances our way. And in a desperate attempt to flee, I push my chair back. But instead of sliding smoothly, it collides hard with something and I stop short, catching sight of the food stand the waiter behind me must have just set up. I don’t upend it, thank God, but the change in motion has me falter and I grab the table to steady myself, managing to knock over my now full glass of wine.
Humiliation rages inside me as I search for my napkin, which appears to have vanished. My chest tightens and I know if I don’t get out of here that I’m in serious danger of crying, the type that comes from feeling trapped in misunderstanding. And to make matters a million times worse, Wilder gets up, fast as lightning, and starts helping me clean up the mess.
As though the universe were aware that I was having a terrible day and decided to pile on, the paper plate I was using as a palette crashes to the art room floor, sending splatters of color across the tile, in what is arguably a much prettier piece of art than the portrait on my canvas. But the mess isn’t contained to the floor, it’s also on the legs of the art easel, my new sneakers, my bare calves, and my backpack that sits propped against my stool.
My eyes flit to Wilder, who’s perched next to me in this godforsaken elective that I mistakenly thought would be so romantic. The instant our eyes meet, I know he knows, that this isn’t one of those moments I can laugh off, not after my Murphy’s Law morning, and in about one point five seconds, tears are about to happen. The thought only winds me tighter. I hate crying in public. Maybe it’s stodgy New England’s influence or maybe I just wasn’t blessed with that emotionally-in-touch-and-accepting gene, but either way, it feels like humiliation.
Only before I get the chance, Wilder is off his stool, bending down to pick up the plate and getting it on himself in the process.
“Don’t,” I say, my churning emotions seeping into my voice. “You’ll get paint all over yourself. I’ll only feel worse if I drag you into my shit day.”
For a split second his eyebrows push together like he’s considering it. Then slowly a grin spreads across his face. “Maddi,” he says, now placing his hand directly into the globs of paint on the tile. “Whatever day you’re having, I’d like to have it, too.” Then he wipes his hand right across his pristine white T-shirt.
I’m so taken aback that I have trouble forming a response. “Wilder,” I say slowly, disbelievingly. The only thing about him that is ever out of place is his hair, but in a way that makes him look relatable and sexy, not messy like the rest of us. “What are you doing?”
But he only shrugs. “I’m painting,” he says and pulls his finger across his forehead, giving himself a rainbow unibrow.
And somehow the ridiculousness of Wilder Buenaventura painting his own face does it, a true kindness, which lifts the weight that was grinding me into the ground. I laugh. Bright and loud, my upset evaporated like a puddle in direct sunlight. I dip my hands in the paint, too. And I lean in to kiss him, right there in the middle of class, me getting paint on his cheek, him getting it on my neck as he pulls me into him, smiling against my mouth. Of course, Mrs. Mehta gives us both detention and mumbles something about this being fine art class, not Burning Man. But it doesn’t matter, because at that moment I have everything I need.
I stare at Wilder, who’s patting the table dry, horrified that he’s the one helping me after I just cursed him out publicly. I search around me, locating my napkin on the floor next to my chair.
“I don’t need your help,” I breathe, wishing he would sit down.
“It’s fine, guys,” Liv assures us as I furiously pat the tablecloth. “Don’t worry about it.”
But it’s not fine, it feels like a marker for all that has gone wrong, both this night and in the past. When the pool of wine on the table is sopped up, I mumble something that resembles an apology and I flee, a handful of guests following me with their eyes as I go. I don’t dare look at Mrs. Buenaventura, not wanting to know what she must think.
My hand shakes as I dig through my purse for my coat check ticket, speeding through the front room as fast as my heels allow.
“Maddi, wait,” Liv says, jogging to catch up with me just as I hand my ticket to the man.
I can barely make eye contact with her. I’ve eclipsed humiliated and moved into uncharted territory, where my mouth is no longer working in partnership with my brain. “Just tell me, Liv,” I say, hoping her brother was wrong. “Was Wilder right? Did you invite me here to get at him in some way?”
She closes her eyes for a brief second. “It’s not that simple,” she admits.
I wait.
She sighs. “Look, I want to explain, I really do, but—”
“Right,” I say, cutting her off, willing my chin to remain steady, not wanting to believe that the person I looked up to for so long would use me in a sibling rivalry tit for tat. I lower my eyes to my purse, pulling out her coat check ticket and handing it to her.
“Listen—” she says, taking it reluctantly.
“Don’t,” I reply, unable to mask the hurt in my voice.
“Shit, Maddi,” she says, “I didn’t realize it would play out like this . . . I’m sorry. Can I at least give you a ride—”
I shake my head.
She opens her mouth, but I don’t wait to hear her objection. I take my coat and walk out the door into the cold. She doesn’t follow and I don’t look back. On top of everything else, I realize I just lost my ride home and I don’t have money for a taxi. And it’s not like I can call my mom; she’ll hear about this soon enough as it is. In fact, there’s only one person I can call. I curse under my breath, feeling seventeen all over again.