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.
And that’s all it takes, one smile and my heart starts pounding like a lovestruck teen. In self-defense, I shrink an inch in my chair.
“That’s my cue,” Liv says just as Wilder approaches. She stands, giving me a fast kiss on the cheek and then pats her brother’s arm. “Take care of our girl.”
Wilder looks at me and then back at his sister. “You weren’t kidding about being in a rush,” he says. “What’s this emergency?”
Liv gathers up her coat and purse. “Ask me tomorrow when I get back from the city. And wish me luck!”
Wilder’s expression turns knowing like he can sense something important must be happening with Claudette, but Liv doesn’t see it because she’s already carving a path through the crowd.
Wilder’s gaze returns to me. “Maddi,” he says with a hint of a smile, making my name sound important.
“Wilder,” I manage, now deeply regretting finishing my cocktail.
He notes my empty glass. “Can I get you anything from the bar?”
I’m about to say “yes and please” to the liquid confidence, but then think better of it, considering I drove here. But the idea of sitting in this cheery seashelled room staring into his well-constructed face and baring my soul with no alcohol also sounds impossible. “Not sure I should,” I say with deep regret.
“Dare I ask what you and my sister are up to this time?” Wilder takes the seat across from mine, focusing in a way that assures me I have his full attention. He doesn’t scan the room to see who he knows, or glance at the menu. He just stares directly into my eyes, his scent drifting toward me like a fishhook.
I shake my head, searching for the wits I once possessed. “Believe me, I wish I knew. I think Liv and I have lost our minds.”
A smile turns up the corners of his mouth. “I seem to remember that was a common occurrence growing up, you two concocting some absolutely terrible idea that was sure to give one or all of our parents a stroke.”
“Remind me again,” I say, elongating the words, happy for the diversion into easier subjects. “Who it was that decided to borrow his dad’s boat without asking and without checking the fuel tank before we left, marooning us on White Sands Island for eight hours before your parents realized what happened and sent out the National Guard?”
He chuckles. “Liv?”
Now I laugh, too, the sound catching me off guard.
A guy with a black waiter’s apron stops at our table. I instantly recognize him—Benny, one of Jake’s old football buddies. I guess I’d been so consumed with my conversation with Liv that I hadn’t noticed him earlier.
“Hey man,” Benny says, clapping Wilder on the shoulder, and as his eyes drift to me, they widen. “No way! Maddi DeLuca? I heard you were home.”
“I’m here all right,” I say, not sure if that’s a good thing.
“It’s been what? Like a decade? That’s wild,” he says, but before I can respond, he continues. “Hey, how did everything work out? I mean with your kid and everything? Last time I saw you, you were close to popping.”
I take a breath. It’s not that I’m surprised by the idiocy of this question or the enthusiasm with which he asked it, but it’s just been a long day. And while I feel like I have a better tolerance for this type of thing than I did two weeks ago, it exhausts me just the same.
Wilder’s face goes stone-cold. “Hey, Benny?” he asks before I get a chance to formulate a response. “How did everything work out with your divorce? The last time I saw you, you were moving out.”
I steal a very surprised look at Wilder. He didn’t just say that, did he?
Benny’s face falls. “Shit, sorry man,” he says, giving Wilder a defeated look. “I get your point, but way harsh.”
“I’m not the one you should apologize to,” Wilder replies, and my shock deepens.
Benny looks at me. “Sorry, Maddi. No offense meant.”
“No offense taken,” I say, actually feeling a little bad for him. I haven’t seen Wilder lash out like that since seventh grade when Max Westman told me I’d be prettier if I had bigger boobs. “And to answer your question, my son is wonderful. The best, really.”
Benny perks up, fully on board with rerouting the conversation. “You should bring him down to the beach this summer. I’ll give him a surfing lesson,” he offers, and something about it gets me. Yes, Benny started in an off-putting way, but in retrospect, I think it was more out of curiosity than malice. And it gives me pause, making me wonder how many other interactions I may have misinterpreted for judgment since I’ve been back.
“I think he would love that,” I say.
Benny grins. “Then it’s a plan.” He pulls a pen from behind his ear. “So, what can I get you guys?”
Wilder gestures to me.
“Just water, please,” I say.
“Same,” Wilder agrees. “And a big basket of fries, with all the dipping sauces.”
I give him a look, wondering if he simply wanted a snack or if he’s appealing to my love of condiments.
Benny takes leave of us with a nod, and once again it’s just me and Wilder. For a moment we’re both quiet.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“The fries? They really are amazing, and they hand make all their sauces, so.”
I give him a look like you know what I mean.
A small knowing smile appears on his lips, and he scratches the back of his neck. “Truth? I just didn’t want you to think Benny’s attitude was a shared one.”
“Oh,” I say, shifting in my seat, not expecting him to explain.
But he doesn’t stop there. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I know you care what the people in this town think,” he says, and I can feel my shoulders rise an inch.
“I think you’re confusing me with my mother,” I say, trying to exit the conversation as fast as possible.
Wilder shakes his head. “I don’t mean the way your mother does. I mean that you’re sensitive when it comes to this place. That you care. And I didn’t want you to feel like people think badly of you here, because they don’t. Everyone’s just excited you’re back, even if they express it badly.”
I stare at him, my heart thumping like a persistent headache, as he casually voices my insecurity. “That’s not . . . I don’t—” I stop, drawing in air and releasing it again. “Don’t do that,” I say instead, feeling exposed. “Don’t act like you know what I’m thinking.”
Benny shows back up then, placing the water and two cups on the table, filling them both as we say a quick thank you.
Benny walks away and Wilder picks up where we left off. “I’m not your enemy, Maddi. At least I don’t want to be.”
It’s so close to what my mother said yesterday that I balk, my impossibly fast pulse sounding all the alarms. And I can’t understand how we got back here, how five minutes with Wilder and I’m on the defensive like I was a career footballer.
“I don’t think you’re my enemy,” I manage, my voice less confident.
“Don’t you?” he asks, and it sounds so genuine that I hesitate. Because he’s not exactly wrong.
“It’s just . . .” I start. “When I saw you in my dad’s bakery. I don’t know. I . . .” I trail off, not sure I can vocalize how jarring that was, how it was something I once wished for so badly that seeing it all these years later in this distorted context felt like a betrayal.
The worry line between his eyebrows appears. “Is that the problem?” he asks. “Is that what you want? For me to give up the bakery?”
My eyes find his, more shocked than anything. I know I haven’t exactly hidden how annoyed I was that he was in my father’s will, but that was when I was angry, cut to the core that Wilder somehow became favored over me with my own parents. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”
He looks briefly out the window and then back to me. “If it’s what you really want, if it meant you would stay, then yes . . . I would,” he says, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I hear his words, but I don’t understand them. Didn’t he tell me just the other day that the bakery was and is his dream, that no matter what he did or where he went in the world that it didn’t make him happy the way Nothing Batter does?
“Wilder—” I say, barely managing his name. I rub my forehead, unable to ignore the huge sacrifice he’s willing to make for me. And the longer I look at him, the worse my overwhelm gets. My breath comes unevenly and everything feels tight, like someone placed a giant anvil directly on my chest. “I don’t want you to give up the bakery. You love it.” I swallow. “And the bakery should be loved. My dad—” I stop, unable to get out the words would have wanted it that way.
The look of worry on his face only fans the flames of my shame. The awful truth now hangs between us, that Wilder loved the bakery when I couldn’t, that even now he’s willing to disappoint his family and fight them tooth and nail just to run it. That is probably why my dad left him half of it because Wilder was right that day in my dining room when he said the difference between us was that he wanted it.
I shake my head, unable to look at him, terrified my thoughts are showing on my face and that I’ll break down in the middle of the goddamn Beach Shack. “I’m sorry,” I say, leaving becoming a visceral need. “But I don’t think I can do this. I think I need to go.” I’ll just tell Liv I didn’t have it in me, that I decided a long time ago to shut all this out. And that to bear that kind of weight again, to risk shattering my heart a second time, is not something I’m capable of.
“Maddi,” Wilder says, but I’m already out of my chair gathering my things.
“I don’t want to ruin your night,” I say, barely able to look at him, trying to escape before my emotions get the better of me. “You ordered fries. You should enjoy them.”
But he’s standing with me, pulling money out of his wallet, and placing it on the table with what appears to be a very generous tip for Benny.
I hadn’t even considered the check. “Let me pay—”
But he shakes his head. “I got this one,” he says, still being way too generous about the fact that I’m bolting. “I’ll walk you out.”
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 together and Is 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.
I find myself comforted by his joke and its nod to normalcy. “I’m deeply regretting wearing blue. I feel like a prop. A baby whale or maybe a bloated dolphin?”
“First, no. You’re beautiful. And second, so is that baby,” he says, never dropping his smile.
My eyes widen. I could hug him. He can’t know how much I needed that boost, or maybe he does and that’s why he said it. A warm feeling pools in my stomach. And instead of brushing him off or rolling my eyes the way I normally would, I say, “Thanks, Wilder,” in a way that lets him know I mean it.
“Always, Maddi,” he says, and as if we were the leads in an ’80s movie, a slow song starts. And when he doesn’t break eye contact, my stomach dips in a way it hasn’t in many months, just as the baby kicks, like the baby is responding favorably to his presence.
I look down, reflexively touching my belly.
Wilder looks down, too.
“The baby’s kicking,” I explain.
“May I?” he asks, holding his hand out.
I nod, taking his wrist and placing his hand where mine just was. And with luck, the little one kicks right into his palm.
He looks up, wonderment in his eyes. “That’s incredible,” he says, and I know it’s the hormones, but I get a little misty-eyed.
Wilder leaves his hand on my stomach until the kicks die down, and for a long second, we just stare at each other. And I’m not sure why, but it feels like we’re both thinking about how things might have been different.
“Hey, Mads?” he starts with a weighted tone, and it almost seems like he’s nervous, an emotion so rare for Wilder that it gives me pause. “Will you dance with me?”
For a second, I don’t know how to react, unsure what he’s actually asking. Is this a friend dance, or a “hey let’s squash this fight” dance, or is it something more?
But as if fate were conspiring against us, the slow song ends. We both glance at the DJ, and I say, “Next one?”
“Most definitely,” he agrees.
But the next one I’m in the bathroom with my baby-squished bladder. And the one after that? Well, let’s just say I wish I’d made my exit fifteen minutes prior.
Wilder grabs the handle of his car door, and a surge of panic jolts through me. If I let him walk away, everything will be unsaid and unfinished the way it always is. We’ll be right back in our holding pattern of missed connections.
“Wilder, wait,” I say, the panic edging into my voice. “Don’t go.”
He looks up, and as his eyes find mine, time stretches before me like pulled taffy. He opens his mouth to respond, but I stop him as I walk closer.
“Wait. Let me get this out or I’m going to lose my nerve,” I say, wading through my fear to get to something true. “You’re not just here randomly tonight because Liv needed to rush to the city.”
Wilder’s eyebrows push together.
“Liv and I made a deal.”
“A deal?” he asks, unsure.
I nod. “That I would talk to you about the bakery.”
His perplexed expression doesn’t waver.
“And I’m probably going to say this wrong,” I start, in an attempt to acknowledge my terrible communication skills. “But as you may have noticed, I’ve been confused about the bakery lately. And I got into a terrible fight with my mom about leaving during which she told me that if I hate this place so much that I should just move back to California. Liv suggested that I ask you—” I stop short because what should be a simple request to hash things out feels like an uphill trek sans oxygen. I haven’t asked Wilder for help, haven’t confided in him in any real way since we were teens. I swallow, breaking eye contact and rubbing my eyebrow even though it doesn’t itch. “I think you might be the only person who understands how complicated my relationship with the bakery is.”
When I venture a look at him, his expression has softened. “I’d love to talk to you about the bakery,” he says, and I can tell he really means it, that he’s flattered.
“Great,” I say, even though my instinct is to run.
“Would you like to take a walk?” he asks, and I follow his eyeline to the beach.
I nod. Movement sounds far better than standing next to our cars.