Half-Baked Idea Cookie—
a comforting gooey center that I’ll probably regret later
The fireplace in my mom’s living room is freshly lit and I stare at the flames, tucking a throw blanket around my legs.
“You cool?” Spence asks, munching on one of the decorated Christmas cookies we made this afternoon and looking up from the game he’s playing on his laptop. “’Cause you’ve been holding that book for like twenty minutes without turning a page.”
I shift my gaze to him with a reassuring smile. “Just thinking.”
“About baking?”
“Something like that,” I say.
“About Grandpa’s bakery?” he continues, and I exhale.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, wondering if he overheard something or is just being his usual observant self.
He lowers the screen on his laptop. “It must have been weird to go there this morning . . . I mean without Grandpa there.” Only nine and yet he always seems to get to the core of things.
“It was,” I say slowly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve baked at that bakery. I used to do it all the time as a girl, and there were a lot of memories.”
“Good ones?”
“A whole variety, but yes, definitely good ones among them.”
Spence nods and when he doesn’t immediately go back to his game, I realize that even though I haven’t made up my mind about what to do, he’s sensing my discomfort and I owe him an explanation.
I close my book and put it on the coffee table next to my phone. “So, you know how your grandmother and I were talking the other day about your Grandpa’s—”
But I don’t get my sentence out before our phones ding simultaneously.
His face instantly brightens. “Dad!” he exclaims, and one glance at my screen tells me he’s right.
“Can I?” Spence asks, his voice elevated with excitement.
“Definitely,” I confirm. It’s a relief that Jake’s taking the initiative and I don’t have to hunt him down and coerce him—it’s the one thing about this trip that’s actually easier than expected.
Spence rapid-fires a response to our group text telling Jake he’s getting ready, and then jumps up from the couch.
“What do you think?” I ask Spence, not opposed.
“Uh, yeah, I mean, you can come,” he says, but his tone tells me everything I need to know. He’s been waiting for this dude bonding time for weeks and I’m not going to intrude on it unless he really wants me there.
“You know what?” I say, “Would it be okay if I skipped this one? Maybe went on the next one?”
He looks a little too happy about it. “For sure!” And then he bounces out of the room to get ready.
I lean back on the pillows while Spence runs around the house gelling his hair and putting on his camo earmuffs. He gives me a fast peck on the cheek and barrels outside the instant Jake’s truck enters the driveway. I watch from the living room window to make sure he gets in safely.
Then everything returns to quiet once more, and my thoughts return to the memory of the party that had occupied my mind this morning with Wilder.
The light of the bonfire doesn’t reach me and Wilder down by the break, and between the dim reflective glow and the rhythmic crashing of the waves, it suddenly feels far too intimate. I glance back at the party and at Jake who’s doubled over laughing with his buddy Benny. But when I look at Wilder, he’s entirely focused on me.
“I hate that I can’t tell you things,” he says, so serious that my breath hitches.
“What things?” I ask even though I know I’m pushing where I shouldn’t.
He pauses a second like he’s debating his answer. “For one, I miss calling you at night, talking to you before I go to bed.”
I know I should end the conversation here, trample it into the sand, but my idiotic feet aren’t moving. Instead, I’m just staring up at him not saying a word.
“And I know this sounds stupid,” Wilder continues, hooking one hand behind his neck, “but sometimes at night I let myself imagine you snuck into my house like you used to, and that you’re lying next to me, with my arm curled around your waist.”
My heart catapults itself against my ribs like a spooked horse. I’m terrified he’s going to continue and also terrified he’s not. Wilder isn’t an open book, far from it. I don’t know whether it’s the aloof Brit in his DNA or simply that he just overthinks everything into oblivion, but when he says something emotional, it’s specific and he means it.
And he’s not done. “Some days I even succeed in fooling myself that I never screwed things up between us.”
“You don’t mean that,” I breathe, because I need to believe what he’s saying is nothing more than drunken ramblings. “You’re just—”
“You’re right that I’m drunk,” he says, anticipating me the way he always has. “But—” He pushes his hair off his forehead. “Shit,” he says under his breath more to himself than to me, a rare lapse in his always-polite speech. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I still want to be near you so damn bad.”
I try to break eye contact, to shift in some way that might break the force that holds us in place, but it’s no use. The more intensely he looks at me, the more intensely I look at him.
Wilder steps closer, reaching up and pushing a stray piece of hair from my ponytail off my face; his touch is so gentle that my stomach dips and my heart thrums. At this proximity, I know that if I lean forward even a millimeter, he’ll pull me into his arms; I can feel him wanting to, emotion radiating off him like a heat lamp. And that goddamn pull kicks into high throttle. For a split second, I almost forget myself and move closer.
But then I remember. I remember the months of heartache trying to work past my feelings for him. “You’re dating Alice and I’m dating Jake,” I say, plain and simple. Only I can’t keep myself from quietly adding, “You were the one who wanted it this way.” And while I realize I’m revealing it isn’t my first choice, some part of me hopes he’ll admit that it isn’t his, either. But I can already see the conflict forming in his expression. And I can feel my cheeks flushing hot from embarrassment, angry at us both that some part of me actually believed him.
“Maddi, I . . .” he says, opening and then closing his mouth, suddenly at a loss for words.
I take a step back, hurt rising in my chest like a tsunami, furious he put me in this position in the first place.
My frustration spikes that I’ve once again been put in an untenable position with Wilder. What on earth was my dad thinking? And just like when I was a teen, there is no easy solution that doesn’t involve loss—either Spence and I give up our LA life/school/friends/apartment (and most importantly) independence from my mother, or I give up my dad’s bakery to the one person who doesn’t deserve it. But as I start down that rabbit hole, my phone dings.
I laugh despite my murky mood and type a response.
Tony’s—pizza joint by day and bar by night, also the place most likely to be filled with people I went to school with, especially around the holidays when everyone is off work or embracing their give-no-fucks celebratory attitudes.
I sigh. Yes, she put me in a bad spot, but I also had no intention of digging my heels in. I was just too embarrassed and hurt at the benefit to deal with it.
I’m off the couch in a second, freshening up and telling Mom I’m headed out, weirdly enthused to be doing something that isn’t bakery related or an uncomfortable Haverberry social event.
My mother of course looks a little too pleased when she hears my plans are with Liv, but doesn’t say anything except that she’ll put Spence to bed if he gets home before me. For just a second, a bit of the heaviness lifts, like someone opened a window to let in the fresh air. And while I’m not deluded enough to think it’ll last, I also plan on enjoying the lack of conflict for this brief moment.
* * *
I pull the heavy wooden door open to The Corner Bar—an old-school bistro filled with dark wood and a single chandelier located on the periphery of the square. It was always a popular spot for the forty-plus crowd to grab a glass of wine and an overly expensive burger. Loud enough to not have people listening in on your conversation, but quiet enough that you don’t have to raise your voice to have a conversation.
Liv sits at the bar, shiny dark hair in a high ponytail, wearing a black blazer with a hot pink blouse underneath, black skintight jeans, and high heels that give me vertigo just looking at them.
She slides off her barstool to kiss me on the cheek. “Damn it’s good to see you. You had me sweating there for a second. I thought you were going to tell me to go fuck myself, not that you would have been out of line for holding a grudge,” she says with a smile.
I slide onto the empty barstool next to her with a shrug, my feet lifting off the ground and balancing on the rung. I smile, too. “Don’t flatter yourself; that wasn’t nearly grudge-worthy.”
“Wow, tell it like it is Mads,” she says and laughs. “You wound me.”
“Like I believe that for a second. Aren’t you the one who told me you had a heart made of ice?”
“Fuck, you’re right. That is me. But like, way to blow my cover.”
She waves down the bartender, ordering two fig-infused whiskey drinks. And as I watch him prepare them in his shaker, I realize the ingredients are just alcohol upon alcohol—basically the elegant adult version of a Long Island Iced Tea.
The bartender sets them down in front of us and despite my skepticism, I actually say Mmmm as I sip it. “Okay, you were right. These things are dangerously good.”
“Let it be known that I always deliver on my promises.” Liv takes a generous sip herself. “Now, apologies . . . but since I screwed myself the other night by not being forthcoming, I’m just going to bring up the behemoth in the room and ask you what the hell is going on with this inheritance rumor I keep hearing about?”
My good mood deflates, and I lean into my cocktail for support. It’s only been a handful of days and already everyone knows—not that Liv is everyone, but still. “Honestly? I wish I knew.”
“So this thing is real? Your dad actually left the bakery to you and my brother? Did you know anything about this or—”
The look I give her stops her short.
“Got it. Blindsided. Wow,” she says, knocking her glass against mine like even she needs a drink from the stress of it. “So, you just show up here and bam, your mom tells you that you have to share your inheritance? You must have shit yourself.”
“Yup,” I say, taking a swig. “And you know my mom. She says exactly what she wants and nothing more. I’ve basically gotten no information out of her besides a heavy guilt trip about gratitude. Plus, we’ve been fighting, which doesn’t help with the question asking.”
“Ooph. Any idea why your dad set it up that way?”
“None whatsoever,” I admit. “But that addendum was like a bear trap. Apparently, if Wilder and I don’t work at the bakery full-time for the next year, we lose our stake.”
“No shit.”
I nod and the motion feels a little like being underwater. I look at my half-drained glass accusingly. “You wanna hear shitty? I got caught off guard in my Grinch onesie the morning after I yelled at Wilder at the banquet.”
Liv chuckles. “Sorry, that’s not funny, but it is kind of amazing. And I want to bet that in comparison, my brother looked like he just came from visiting the queen.” She laughs again, and despite my horror over the whole thing, I find myself laughing, too.
“You should have seen my mom’s face when she realized I wasn’t going to change out of my neon green.”
Liv touches my arm. “Please promise me you’ll wear it to my parents’ Christmas Eve party this year. I feel like I missed out on something really special.”
We both grin like idiots.
“You know, Liv, you’re really easy to talk to. I forgot that about you,” I say, mildly aware that it isn’t something I would normally say out loud.
“And you, my friend, are the breath of fresh air Haverberry desperately needed. I forgot how much this town sucks without you. No wonder my brother is all in a twist.”
I shoot her a look like she can’t be serious. “Wilder is never in a twist. Wilder would be the single human calmly drinking his morning coffee during an alien invasion.”
Liv snorts and waves over the bartender. “Chris, please continue to make love to my cold heart by serving us two more of these drinks.” She fiddles with the tiny charm on her necklace that features a Buenaventura “B,” a beloved symbol they all sport with pride, and the nostalgia of it hits me hard, remembering how as a teen I always wished my family had a similar kind of solidarity.
“I really shouldn’t—” I start, but Liv is having none of it.
“You really actually should. You just found out your life is upside down and you have an ultimatum to move back to Haverberry. I think a barrel full might not be enough.”
Well, I can’t argue with that. “I just don’t drink much these days. I mean I have a glass of wine here and there, but being a single mom, it’s not something I normally do. Makes me a lightweight among other things.”
“And where is my favorite child tonight?” she asks.
“With his dad and then headed back to my mom’s.”
She raises a mischievous eyebrow. “So, what you’re saying is that there are not one, but two adults caring for him and this is a rare opportunity to live a little?”
The bartender trades out our empties for a second round, the glasses looking suspiciously fuller than the last.
“Well, when you put it that way . . .”
Liv slaps a sizable tip on the bar. “So, what’s the deal with Jake anyway?”
“Jake?” I repeat as I sip my drink.
“Still pretty hot if you ask me,” she says, and I choke on my whiskey.
“Uh, yeah, I guess. But honestly, his wishy-washy parenting is a turnoff.” And then I find myself saying something I absolutely do not mean to say. “What did you mean when you said Wilder was all twisty, by the way?”
Liv smirks, thoroughly amused, an expression she shares with her brother. “What I mean is that every time I’ve seen him since you’ve arrived, he’s acted like he’s late to a meeting, all edgy and flustered. You’d think he never saw a gorgeous woman before.”
I frown. “I really don’t think that’s the reason.”
“So, you believe your showing up here had no effect on him?”
I shrug. “Not no effect, just more one of annoyance that I invaded his beloved Haverberry.”
Liv clucks her tongue off the top of her mouth. “While I enjoy the image of Wilder as a grumpy dog defending his chew toy, I think you know that’s not true. Why on earth would he be working at your father’s bakery if you annoyed him?”
I hesitate. “To get me back for beaning him with that Cherry Coke ten years ago?”
She smiles into her glass. “You two should just bone and get it over with. You know you want to.”
And for reasons unknown to me, a laugh bursts out of me that is so violent that I start coughing. “You did not just say that,” I manage, trying to regain my composure. “That is not . . . you’re way off.”
“Am I though?”
“First of all, there’s Kate,” I say, not sure why I’m even justifying this with a response.
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” she says. “Actually, if you could somehow scare her off, that would be amazing. Thanks.”
“Uh . . . no,” I say, shaking my head like I could unhear this whole thing. “But I get it, she sucks.”
“Like a viper in Chanel,” she agrees. “But don’t think I didn’t notice that your reason was Kate and not that you didn’t secretly want to.”
I try to glare at her, but I’m halfway through my second cocktail and I wind up looking more like I have something in my eye. “I’m not sure if it escaped your notice, but Wilder and I hate each other.”
“Wilder does not hate you,” she says, so sure of herself that for the briefest of seconds, I waver. “If you ask me, my brother never got over you.”
I grunt. “Bullshit.”
“You wanna bet?” she says.
“If you like losing,” I say with a too-big grin.
Liv laughs. “You’re on. Loser buys dinner.”
“I mean, sure, that’s not even really a consequence, but okay.”
“My God, you’re a reckless bitch and I love it. Okay, scratch dinner, the winner gets a prize of their choice. Open-ended.”
“That is . . . oh man. Okay,” I say, knowing I should be much more worried about this than I currently am.
Liv swishes the last of her drink and downs it. “Then I’m sorry to inform you, Mads, but if we’re going to resolve this bet, we need to venture down the road to Tony’s.”
I stare at her, my brain not forming the connections it needs in order to understand.
“It’s pool night,” she explains, handing her credit card to the bartender. “Otherwise known as Haverberry bros drinking together. And while that isn’t usually Wilder’s jam, it’s Matt Mazzeo’s birthday.”
“So, your plan is that we go to Tony’s and do what exactly?”
I should be nervous about the grin that appears on her face, but my defense grid is currently short-circuited by whiskey. Instead, I find myself sliding off my stool, my body made of sloshy warm liquid and false confidence, flicking my hair over my shoulder and saying, “Fuck it, lead the way.”