Slinging Some Good Old Mississippi Mud Pie—
three’s a crowd with layers of whipped cream, pudding, and bittersweet chocolate brownie (emphasis on bitter)
All morning I’ve been replaying last night’s events. After dinner, I tried to bring up the bakery with Mom to make sure she was okay, but all she said was, “I understand why they would want him to work for the family company.” And since that was dangerously close to striking at my own guilt, I let the conversation go.
But Wilder? What the heck does he get out of it? I turn around, for what feels like the twentieth time, to stare at his back while he kneads dough. And the worst part is that I’m looking at him a little differently, less death wish, more curiosity.
“You might feel better if you said whatever’s bothering you,” Wilder says, and even though he doesn’t turn around, I snap my head back to my peanut butter and jelly mousse cupcakes, pretending I wasn’t just staring at him.
“Who said anything’s bothering me?” I reply, but my voice winds up sounding like an animated kid’s narrator.
“I’ve lost count,” he says, and I can hear his smile, “but you’ve sighed enough this morning to give a heartbroken high schooler some serious competition.”
My eyes widen. “I have not,” I say, which only makes me sound more immature.
He glances over his shoulder. “The offer still stands, if you’d like to confide in me.”
He sounds so genuine that I hesitate, realizing part of me wants to do just that. I frown.
“Why did you say all that stuff last night about the bakery?” I ask, hoping he can make sense of it for me.
He stops kneading his dough, turning in my direction like he’s prepared to give this his full attention.
“I just don’t get it,” I continue. “You told your family you would work with them. So then why are you here?”
“Because I want to be.” He looks so sure of himself that I only get more confused. “Do you remember when we were kids and we used to have bake-offs here every Sunday?” he asks like there’s any chance I forgot. “I’ve traveled quite a bit since then, studied with world-renowned pastry chefs, I even started a bakery in London, but I gave it up.”
“Why?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
“Because,” he says, and pauses like he’s remembering something, “none of it was this place.”
For a moment, the silence that hangs between us is overwhelming. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect Wilder to answer with such sincerity. It throws me, and in a flash of sentimental stupidity, I feel that same inexplicable pull toward him I used to as a teenager.
I plod across the grassy square toward the bakery, my pom-pomed hat drawn tight over my ears and my hands shoved deep into my coat pockets. Jake tries to hold my hand, but I tell him my fingers are too cold, which is mostly true.
“Almost time for the holiday market. You excited?” he asks, his cheeks lifted in a smile.
I attempt to smile back, but it feels underwhelming. “I’m basically the market’s best customer.”
He chuckles and we’re about to cross the street to the bakery when Jake slips his arm around my waist. “Well, get ready then, because two Sundays from now I’m buying you the biggest fried dough Haverberry has ever seen.” He pulls me in for a kiss.
Before I can consider it, I turn my cheek to him.
He releases me from the embrace, his smile disappearing. “Did I do something I don’t know about?”
“What? No,” I say, embarrassed I rejected him, and not even sure why. I glance toward the bakery as an excuse like Mrs. Varma or my dad might see us through the window.
“Okay,” he says, “then how about we go someplace where I can kiss you. Let’s go to the diner.”
I scrunch up my nose. “The diner has terrible hot chocolate . . . like the worst.”
He nods like he knew I was going to lodge that objection. “Then let’s go to the bakery. We’ll get our hot chocolates to go and take them down to the beach.”
I shake my head. “Too cold.”
He frowns. “Would you rather I dropped you at home?”
“Not at all. Why would you ask that?”
“You just seem . . . I don’t know . . . not too stoked to be hanging out with me?”
I break eye contact. “Everything’s fine.”
He gives me a look like come on. “Is this because of the other night?”
My heart pounds. “No.”
“Because if you weren’t ready—”
“I was ready.” But even as I say the words, my stomach knots up. And suddenly I’m angry at myself. Why am I making things weird? Not to mention that just last week I was actually proud of myself for leaning into something new, finally moving on and doing something for me.
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.
But before I can reply, his phone rings. He stares at it a moment. “Hello?” he says, and turns away from our conversation. After a handful of yesses and nos, he says, “I don’t really think—” but the voice on the other end cuts him off, and as it gets louder, it sounds female.
I don’t find out who it is because he leaves the kitchen. Which makes me wonder if it’s his mom. Are they fighting about the bakery? And while I don’t really care if Wilder fights with his parents, I do worry about what it might mean for my mom. Could this possibly interfere with her friendship with the Buenaventuras? I’d hate to see that happen, especially now that she’s lost my dad.
I glance through the round window in the kitchen door and catch a glimpse of Wilder frowning. But he quickly moves out of view and so I return to my frosting. When he comes in ten minutes later, he doesn’t say a word and even though I want to ask, I don’t—it’s none of my business after all.
The rest of the morning passes quietly, each of us consumed with our tasks. I almost bring up Dad’s will a dozen times, but every time I’m about to, I feel crappy that I’m trying to get out of the agreement he’s fighting so hard to keep. I’m working up to it again as I take off my apron, only before I get the words out, Wilder speaks.
“Are you in a rush?” he asks.
I consider telling him yes, but instead, I shake my head.
He smiles. “Glad to hear it because I’d really like to show you something.”
“What kind of something?”
“The kind I think you’ll like.”
I hesitate, about to say no simply because he’s being so vague, but reconsider—it might give me an opportunity to have the will conversation. “Yeah, okay.”
His smile lights up his face and he takes off his apron, trading it for his coat.
“Wait, where is this thing?” I say, realizing it’s not as simple as I supposed it to be.
“In town,” he replies, and I reflexively reject the idea. His gaze shifts to amusement. “Unless walking a couple of blocks with me makes you nervous?”
I roll my eyes. “You don’t scare me, Wilder.”
His mouth pulls up a little farther. “Funny, because you scare me.”
My eyes flit to his, and for just a second, I find myself enjoying the way he’s looking at me. He doesn’t wait for my response, he just pushes the door open for me. We say a quick goodbye to Albert in the front of the bakery, and as I get my fingers in my soft white gloves, we walk outside.
The sun is out, the snow is glittering across the square, and the sidewalks are packed with enthusiastic holiday shoppers. There’s an electricity to the air—the first day of Hanukkah and the Saturday before Christmas—a giddy feeling that magic might be real, and the possibilities are endless.
I breathe in deeply, the scent of fresh snow filling my lungs, a little woodsy like the damp bark of a pine forest and slightly metallic like the frost that forms on the outside of a drink shaker.
I glance at Wilder as we weave our way around the square and I’m surprised to find him watching me. “What?” I say, a twinge embarrassed by the grin I know is on my face.
“Nothing . . . I just forgot how much you love winter.”
“Nobody loves winter, Wilder,” I correct him, but I can’t keep the happiness out of my voice. “I live in perpetual summer in LA . . . it’s ideal.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, not buying it for a second. “You once woke me up at 2:00 a.m. and dragged me outside in my pajamas because it was snowing. And not even the first snow of the year, it was at least the third.”
“True,” I say, not losing my grin, “but only because the pond in your backyard was finally frozen and I wanted to ice-skate on it.”
He lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head, and I find myself laughing with him.
Only my laugh gets cut short as we round the corner toward the park. It suddenly occurs to me where we’re going. “The thing you want to show me is in the holiday market?” I say, my breath coming up short as the memories of that place wash over me.
His gaze turns questioning. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Oh, no, I mean, that’s fine,” I say, trying to cover my reaction, not wanting to explain what I’m feeling or why.
“You sure?” he asks again because unlike most people, Wilder never let anything go. He called me out on even the stupidest of white lies, pressed me when it was clear I was shutting down and folding in on myself. And for a long time, I relied on him for that, to draw me out and talk away whatever was bothering me. It was one of the things I missed most about him when things fell apart; I hated being alone in my head with no one to scare away the bad.
And in a moment of reckless honesty, I say, “The holiday market just has . . . a lot of memories.”
His expression turns thoughtful. “I understand,” he says in a way that makes me think he really does; he knew my father better than almost anyone. “If you want—”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, now feeling a little silly, and walking forward once more. “I want to go.” And as I say the words, I realize they’re true. I’ve been here a week and a half, and I’ve been so worried about what people might say or do that I haven’t gone to the one place I love the most. And as we cross through the wrought iron archway onto the snow-laden green bustling with stalls, I lift my chin.
Fried dough and warm chocolate scent the air, making my stomach rumble and my mouth water. The market is abuzz with people and laughter and there is so much wintry goodness that I fear my heart might actually explode.
“Follow me,” Wilder says, as he leads me past the spiced apple cider booth and through the crowd.
I look everywhere at once, trying to soak it all in and store it away like a pretty dream for later. But as Wilder slows, I look ahead and come to a stop so fast that I actually hear brakes screeching in my head.
There, in front of me is the Nothing Batter Bakery booth, and for once in my life, I don’t know what to say. I move forward, slowly, carefully, like I might blink and find out it’s just an illusion, an alluring memory from my childhood that’s come to haunt me with its joy.
My gaze flits along the edge of the booth wound with sprigs of berries, branches of pine, and fairy lights up to the handmade fabric awning my mother custom ordered in Paris when I was seven. There are bags of peppermint bark tied with bows, sweet ricotta filled zeppole dusted with powdered sugar, and cannoli decorated with snowflake sprinkles—all the things Dad and I used to make.
Wilder says something to Jenna, who’s currently manning the booth dressed like a sexy elf, while I attempt to remember how to breathe.
“My dad—” I say, and stop, taken by surprise by the flood of emotion. “He would have loved this.”
Wilder smiles a slow, sad smile. “He always talked about starting the booth again when you came home, and I just thought . . .” Now he stops, realizing what he implied. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”
“No,” I say, a little too firmly, my eyes watering of their own accord. “I know it’s my fault he discontinued the booth. I know—” I swallow, trying to regain control of the wobble that is seeping into my voice.
Wilder shakes his head. “It’s not your fault, Maddi. You have every right to live your own life.”
I look away. While it’s a nice thing to say, it’s only words. It can’t undo what’s done. “This was really thoughtful, Wilder. And I’m sure it was no easy task getting a booth on such short notice.”
He smiles. “You’re telling me. I practically promised the market committee my firstborn child to convince them to give it to me for the day. Albert and I spent all of yesterday and most of last night baking to pull it off.”
My eyes widen. The big mysterious obligation Wilder had yesterday was the booth? But I thought his parents said it was his anniversary with Kate?
“Here ya go!” Jenna says with an extra dash of pep and a big wink as she hands me a small plate. On it is a steaming hot lava cake drizzled with what smells like a mulled wine reduction—my favorite dessert since always and one the booth has never carried before.
“No way!” I say in utter disbelief.
He grins. “Thanks, Jenna.”
“Yes, thank you. Seriously,” I parrot.
“Not a prob,” she says before she returns to the line of customers.
I stare gluttonously at my dessert, not hesitating to scoop up a bite of the deliciousness.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I groan. “Okay fine, you keep these beauties coming and maaaybe we can be friends.”
He laughs. “You should grab an extra one for Spence.”
I perk up at the sound of his name. “Holy shit. Spence is going to love this booth. We have to go—” I stop, realizing that I was just including Wilder in my life like that were normal.
“Pick him up?” Wilder asks. “I think that’s a great idea.”
I give him the side-eye. “You do?”
“Yes, I do. You and I went mad over this place when we were nine. And I’d really like the chance to meet him properly.”
I don’t know whether it’s Wilder’s kindness or being drunk on chocolate, but it actually sounds fun. “Okay, fuck it, let’s go get—” Only I don’t finish my sentence because as we turn around, Kate’s standing behind us in her camel peacoat and beret, looking just shy of livid.
“Really?” she says to Wilder, readjusting her bag on her shoulder. “This is what you had to do this afternoon that was so important you canceled our plans?” She flicks her hand in my direction and I flinch.
Wilder sighs like he’s exhausted. “Kate, I really don’t think—”
“Don’t you dare try to diminish this,” Kate snaps, her voice raising and catching the attention of the people around us. “We’ve been dating for a year; I know you, Wilder. Don’t think I didn’t just see the way you were looking at Maddi!”
Oh shit. No, no, no. There is a very long list of reasons that cannot be true. I take a step back, the crowd around us now definitely listening to Kate’s tirade.
Wilder’s face has gone stone-cold, calm in a way only he can muster. “I’m not certain what you think you saw, but I’m also not having this discussion with you here. This bakery is my business and whether you like it or not, Maddi is my business partner.”
“I’m just gonna—” I start to say I’m leaving, but Kate steamrolls right over me with an angry laugh.
“Business? You call some small-town nothing bakery your business? Your family owns half the town, Wilder. You’re a Buenaventura. Don’t pretend this matters. Call it what it is—dumping way too much energy into trying to fuck the one girl who got away. Watch out, Maddi, because as soon as he gets what he wants, he’ll move on. Oh wait, you already know that, don’t you?”
The blood drains from my cheeks and I open my mouth to tell her she can go screw herself, but I don’t. Because I’m not standing in the middle of the holiday market fighting over Wilder. I refuse. So, I walk away. I walk past them both and into the crowd.
Wilder calls my name, but I don’t turn around, all the joy I felt a moment ago trampled by what I always knew to be true, that whatever good this place holds, it holds more shit than it’s worth. My only regret is not asking Wilder for the will earlier in the day.