Raspberry Taken by Surprise Cake—
fluffy vanilla mousse filled with raspberry sauce, messy but in a good way
For a moment, Wilder and I walk in silence. I put my gloves on as we make our way from the parking lot onto the sand. The beach is calm and the water laps lazily at the shore. The air smells of smoothed rocks and damp sand while the moon casts a long bright line across the sparkling ocean. It’s so pretty that I don’t mind the cold.
We take a handful of steps before I figure out what I want to say, and he kindly gives me space to do it. “I know you always got along with my father,” I start, figuring it’s the best way to ease into the bakery itself.
“I did,” he says with a happy nod. “Believe it or not I missed the bakery almost immediately when I went away to college.” He pauses a split second like he feels shy. “I actually wrote your dad letters.”
I stop dead in my tracks, and he stops a step later, turning to face me. “You wrote to him?” I repeat, my voice bright with surprise.
His eyes dip momentarily before meeting my gaze. “Actually . . . I wrote him once a month for eight years.”
“What?” I say barely above a whisper, not able to process it. Wilder wrote my father letters for eight years?
Wilder’s shyness doesn’t dissipate, only exacerbating my shock. “It started when I was at university. I was studying business, but I would bake on the weekends, and so I used to write him questions about recipes and ask his advice.”
I stare at Wilder, trying to make sense of it. “But afterward you went to Cordon Bleu . . . if anything, you probably knew techniques he didn’t.”
A nostalgic look appears on his face like he’s remembering. “I did it because I enjoyed it.”
And just like that, the oppressive weight of guilt resumes. But as my initial reaction fades, something softer creeps in—the thought of how much my dad probably enjoyed this correspondence. Wilder knew, like I did, that my father was a relic from a simpler time. He loved his routine and his small circle of people; he didn’t text or make much use of email. I can picture him opening Wilder’s letters at his desk, putting on his reading glasses, and setting about his response enthusiastically. And while part of me wishes I had thought of this, I don’t begrudge them for sharing it without me.
He sighs like he’s debating going on, and I’m grateful when he does. “You know how we used to say that we were born to the wrong parents? That you were much more unapologetically yourself like mine and I more reserved like yours?”
I nod.
He wears a small sad smile. “Your father understood me in a way, maybe because we both kept our feelings too close to the chest, or maybe because we were both rather singular in our focus sometimes. But I always felt close to him. And . . .” He looks briefly out at the ocean and then back at me. “It made me feel like I was still connected to the bakery, among other things.”
Among other things. I break eye contact, my heart thumping. And for the first time, I see Wilder, too, has residual grief over the loss of my father. “You made the window display, didn’t you?” I start, my mouth suddenly dry and my voice quieter.
He smiles. “I took a chocolate course in Switzerland,” he says, like that explains it.
I’ve taken multiple chocolate courses and I couldn’t manage that display with three months and a magic wand. Also, there’s the bit about the display including details of things that are important to me, but I don’t say that. “You did it before you even owned the bakery.”
“I did,” he says like he understands I’m asking for an explanation. “Owning the bakery is an honor. But even when I didn’t, I loved it just the same.”
A lump forms in my throat. Owning the bakery is an honor. The truth of it hits me so hard that I feel a tingle in my throat, working its way up to the bridge of my nose, my chest rising and falling too quickly. I stand there for a long moment, unable to respond.
“Maddi?” he says, searching my face with concern.
I exhale one long breath, desperately trying to pull back my reaction. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“You know it’s okay not to be fine, right?” he says so gently that my chin actually shakes. “That there’s no right way to be when you lose someone.”
And even though I agree with him in the larger, vaguer sense, I absolutely do not agree as far as it relates to this moment. Having a tough conversation is one thing, losing control in front of Wilder is another.
He waits, giving me the space I need to collect myself. And in a way that makes it worse.
“You’re doing that nice thing again,” I say, trying to shift the tone.
But his voice is comforting and steady like he knows I need that. “As opposed to being rude and unfeeling?”
“Exactly,” I agree. “If you were acting like the villain I’ve built you up to be in my head, I’d be able to brush you off right now.” But the moment I say it, I feel bad.
Wilder nods like I’m confirming what he always suspected.
“It’s not that you’re a villain . . .” I say, trying to step it back. “It’s just,” I pause, not actually sure anymore who Wilder is in my life.
“Complicated?” he offers.
“Definitely that,” I say, but it still feels stingy. Here he is showing up for me in exactly the way I need and I’m trying to write it off as a fluke, just waiting until he does something terrible so I can be right about him. I tuck a few stray hairs behind my ear. “I’m being unfair.”
“You’re being honest.”
I shake my head. “See there you go again. Stop being so generous with me,” I say, unsure what to make of either of us.
“What if I don’t want to stop?” he says.
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
Unlike me, he doesn’t shy away from the conversation. “What if I think you got the raw end of a very bad deal all those years ago, and that you deserve as much generosity as I can give you?”
It’s getting increasingly hard to look at him. “Wilder,” I start and stop. “It wasn’t your . . .” I’m about to say fault, but isn’t that what I’ve been telling myself all these years, that without my bond with Wilder that this town became unbearable, an oppressive weight of rejection and loneliness? I rub my hands over my face, suddenly flustered. “You’re doing that thing . . .” I say, exasperated. “That Wilder thing, where you show up at the perfect moment and say exactly what I need to hear. The thing that always pulled me back from the metaphorical edge when we were teens. The thing that—” I stop abruptly, realizing I was about to say made me fall in love with you.
I think he must get the idea, though, because he goes still like he needs a moment to consider his response.
But something in me doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to hold back the things I’ve so carefully hidden. Some part of me is just plain exhausted. And I’m suddenly seeing my agreement with Liv differently, not so much as an opportunity to hash things out, but as a way to voice the things in my past that I don’t have the strength to carry anymore.
Returning from my umpteenth bathroom trip, I spot Jake on the edge of the dance floor with Benny.
“Hey,” I say, figuring this is as good a time as any to tell him I’m going home and will (not so) regretfully miss the after-party. I’ll just blame it on being pregnant and tired and he won’t take it personally. It’s not that Jake has been a great date, but in a way, I get it. I can’t have the kind of fun he wants to, jumping all over the dance floor and sneaking drinks from Matt’s flask.
But the moment I walk up to him, the music changes to a slow song and the DJ says, “This one is for all you couples out there, the last one of the night.”
We both look up at the DJ booth, now perfectly stuck in the awkward gray area of do or don’t.
“Shall we?” Jake says after a beat. He holds his hand out to me.
For a second, I hesitate, remembering my promise to Wilder. But it’s not like I can bring that up now; it’d be a disaster. Plus, I’ve barely danced with Jake at all, and to deny him this would be unkind. So, I place my hand in his and walk onto the dance floor. I’m sure Wilder is dancing with Elaina anyway. It’s definitely less awkward this way, I think, trying to convince myself that some small part of me isn’t disappointed.
Jake eyes me as he puts one hand on my nonexistent waist. “Everything okay?”
“Definitely,” I say, as we sway back and forth at a distance because of my belly. Even so, at this proximity, I catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath and it’s stronger than I expected. For a flash of a second, I get frustrated, but I let it go. I’m leaving anyway, so it doesn’t matter. Let him have fun.
Jake doesn’t look convinced. “If you say so.”
I give him a questioning look. “Huh?”
Jake shrugs. “Nothing,” he says, but after another full rotation, he continues anyway. “It’s just that you’ve been out of sorts since we got here.”
For a second, I’m confused. I actually thought I was doing a pretty good job of being pleasant and trying not to cramp his night. “Jake, I’m pregnant. I can’t do—”
“No, I know,” he says. “I don’t mean that. You’ve just been sort of . . . well, sulky.”
I press my lips together, trying to suppress the flare of hormones that makes me take that the wrong way. But considering the looseness in his voice, and his whiskey-scented breath, I decide once again to let it go.
“Now you’re mad?” he asks like I’m just proving his point. “I just meant that you’ve been so quiet, ya know? Not like your usual self.”
And this gets me, stings disproportionately, because he’s right. I stop dancing. “No, I haven’t been my usual self,” I say, matter-of-factly. “But it isn’t just tonight. And you’d know that if you’d spent any time with me these past few months.”
Jake rubs his hand over his face. “Okay, Maddi, you’re probably right,” he says like I’m being unreasonable but he’s too magnanimous to point it out, which really fires me up. Doesn’t he know how hard it is for me to even be here like this, how alone I’ve felt these past few months, how I can’t ever just be anymore? Maybe he doesn’t know the extent of it, but he can’t be totally oblivious, either. Not to mention that I’ve been doing my damnedest to not interfere with his good time tonight. But even though I want to stomp on his foot, I don’t.
“Look, I know this isn’t the perfect situation,” I say, keeping my voice calm, trying to factor in that he’s probably saying half of this because of the whiskey. “I’ll admit that I’m not the best prom date. And to be truthful, I’m exhausted. So, I think it’ll just be easier on everyone if I go home and let you go to the after-party with your friends.”
Jake takes a breath like he should have expected this. “Fine. I’ll drive you home if that’s what you want.”
“Thanks, but no need to give me a ride,” I say, relieved that we’re going to call it quits instead of trying to press on with this failed experiment. I’m about to tell him I’ll just grab a taxi, but he responds before I get the chance.
“I guess Wilder beat me to it, huh,” he says like it was inevitable. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
I open my mouth, taken aback. Suddenly his off mood and all his comments about me not having fun take on a new light. He thinks this is about Wilder? But I don’t want to get into the weeds with him on that one while he’s tipsy; all I can do at this point is be honest. “It’s not that. I’m not accepting the ride because you’ve been drinking.”
He stares at me. “Seriously?” He laughs. “I only had a few sips.”
And here we are, exactly where I don’t want to be.
Which is the moment Wilder appears next to us, and by the look on his face I get the sense he overheard the last part of that conversation.
“Can I cut in?” he asks, even though we’re not dancing.
“No, you can’t,” Jake says before I can get out a response.
“Good thing I wasn’t asking you,” Wilder fires back.
“Don’t you have a date somewhere that you should be paying attention to instead of talking mine up?” Jake says, and I can feel this situation unraveling, both of them pulling the loose strings with all their might.
Wilder doesn’t hesitate. “Not my problem you’re insecure. You want Maddi’s attention? Earn it.”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from the guy who likes to pretend he’s perfect, but then screws Maddi over at every turn.”
And whatever hope I had of getting out of this place without incident, begins to slip away. The people around us are starting to take notice.
Something changes in Wilder’s face then, and his calm façade splinters, anger spiking in its place. “You want to talk about screwing people over? What about that baby, Jake?” he says, pointing at my belly. “Are you going to step up and be a man or are you going to run to Florida next year like a little bitch?”
All the blood rushes to my head and for a second, I see spots. Their voices have gotten louder and the people near us have all but stopped dancing to watch.
Jake’s fury is plain on his face, and it feels like a line has been crossed, one there’s no retreating from. Can’t they see they’re making it worse? That when this all shakes out it’ll be me who bears the social weight of it.
“Guys—” I start, but Jake is much louder.
“Go fuck yourself, Wilder. You think I’m the only one responsible for all of this? Maddi didn’t even ask me if I wanted to keep it, you know that? She just made the decision by herself.”
I blanch, my eyes involuntarily watering. And even though I know his anger is directed at Wilder, it feels like a shot at me.
But Jake’s not done, whether it’s the alcohol or pent-up frustration from tonight and the months before it (probably both), I don’t know. “Let’s be honest. This isn’t about the baby or college or anything else. What has always pissed you off is that Maddi chose me over you. And the part you can’t get over? She loved it.”
To say his words are humiliating is a vast understatement. He took me out at the knees without warning, a clean shot, demeaning whatever affection we shared and transmuting it into rivalry. Look everyone, it’s pregnant Maddi, the girl both Wilder and Jake screwed.
Only Jake doesn’t get another word out because Wilder punches him right in the face, a loud crack that sends Jake stumbling backward and splits his lip.
My hands fly up, palms out. “Stop!” I yell, but they’re not listening to me.
Jake is running at Wilder, and when they collide, they slam onto the dance floor, scattering the couples around them and alerting the teachers on the periphery. I feel the tears on my cheeks before I even know I’m crying, and I turn around, running from the room.
I stare at Wilder, my chest buzzing like an imbalanced washing machine. “Here’s the thing, Wilder,” I say, my voice shockingly normal for how upside down I feel. “I’ve spent a lot of years blocking you out. Many, many years. Because whether I want to admit it or not, you and the bakery were my touchstones when I lived here; I knew that if I had you both that—” I cut myself off, realizing I’m entering uncharted territory, that I’m about to say things I can’t unsay. But in a moment of Liv-inspired bravery, I throw my caution into the ocean, letting the tide carry it far, far away. “That as long as I had you both, I’d be okay. And while I’m moved that you remained so close to my father, I’m not sure I’m capable of opening up like that again, of really loving the bakery again. It feels . . .”
Wilder’s chest rises and falls. “Scary,” he says, not as a question but a statement.
“Terrifying,” I agree.
“I understand,” he says, and I can tell he feels it, too. We both go quiet for a moment. “But is that a good enough reason?”
I stare at him, unsure how to respond. “Are you asking me if my fear is justified?” I say, a little confused.
“I’m asking if you’re going to let it stop you from doing something that might bring you joy.”
His question rattles me, but before I can sort out why, he’s speaking again.
“You used to rotate around that bakery like it was the sun, Maddi. I would argue that half the reason I love it is because your love was so strong that it was impossible not to.”
I push against his words as though I could somehow shove them back in his direction like an unwanted plate of food.
But he’s not done. “If I’m being honest, there is no bakery without you.” He pauses weightily like he knows that whatever he says next is going to matter. “You and Charles were the heart of that place, the thing that gave it its magic.”
The day after prom passes excruciatingly slowly. Thankfully the bakery’s plentiful Easter business leaves me so busy that I can’t obsess over what happened. Dad and I move around each other in familiar patterns, trading ingredients, stopping periodically so he can teach me a new piping technique.
“You’re really getting good at that,” he says, leaning over my shoulder where I create a buttercream rose on top of a lemon curd-filled cupcake. “I’m proud of you.”
His approval hits me hard, the word proud lodging a lump in my throat that constricts my chest. I nod at my cupcake, not wanting him to see how much it affects me.
He pats me on the shoulder before returning to his coffee-flavored panna cotta drizzled with bittersweet chocolate, and my thoughts drift to the day he held me while I cried. I can’t help but wonder if he would do the same now; if I showed him how much I’ve been struggling, would he rub my back and tell me things will work out?
“Dad?” I say, desperately wanting to find my way back to him.
“Yes, Maddi?” he says, pausing his work.
“Do you want me here? In the bakery?” It’s the only thing I can think to ask because I have no idea how to ask him if he still loves me the way he used to.
He turns around to face me, his forehead creasing slightly.
“I mean, I know I’ve been spending a lot of time here. I just wanted to make sure that was okay.” And I instantly hate myself for modifying my question, for downplaying even that.
He runs his hand over his short beard. “Of course,” he says, his voice quieter than normal. “You’re always welcome here.”
But that doesn’t feel like enough, doesn’t dull the ache of my larger fear. If anything, it makes it worse, the promise of reassurance that never fully comes to pass.
For a moment we stare at each other, both of us clearly out of our element, the seconds expanding like millennia. My heart pounds long, sad beats in my chest, my piping bag limp in my hand. And when it seems he won’t continue, I turn back around, my hope burning out, like the supernova of a dying star.
Hearing my dad’s name coupled with my own sends me spinning. My throat tingles and I look toward the ocean, refusing to allow moisture to build in my eyes. Maybe there was a time when I believed the bakery was magic, that it could make anything better, but I was wrong and so is Wilder. “It’s been fine without me all these years; I’m sure it will continue to be so.”
Wilder shakes his head like I’m missing the point. “But will you be fine?”
My eyes whip to his face, ready to tell him I most certainly will, but he’s faster.
“I’m not saying you won’t be okay. You’re the strongest person I know. What I’m asking is, will you regret not giving it a second chance?”
My chest clenches, like I’m trying to physically block his words with an invisible force field. “I know you’re doing what I asked you to—talking to me about the bakery, asking the hard questions. But the thing is, I’m not the same girl I once was. And you’re here now. Dad obviously thought you were just as capable of running it as I was, probably more so.”
For a second, he looks surprised. “Is that what you think? That your dad somehow doubted you? Because I can promise you, Maddi, he never did. You were in every letter he ever wrote me. Updates on the progress you made in LA, how he looked forward to you bringing those skills back to the bakery eventually, how he was glad that when he was gone that he would have something to give you that mattered.”
All of a sudden, there’s no air—a giant beach and not one drop of oxygen. The tightness in my chest transforms into a thudding ache. I can’t look at him. “I doubt that,” I say, trying to convince us both.
His eyebrows push together. “Why would I lie to you?”
I throw my arms to the side, overarticulating and hiding behind my bluster. “Because you’re being nice. Because my dad never wrote to me about those things. He never wrote to me, full stop. Because he didn’t—” I cut myself off before I say love me that way, not the way he loved my mother with that unconditional grace he always afforded her.
Wilder’s expression softens, and I kind of hate him for the gentleness and the way it starts to erode my shield. “For someone so smart, you don’t see yourself clearly.”
“Are you saying I don’t know how my father felt about me?” I say, desperately clutching to my perceived rightness in order to fend off my unsteady chin. “Because I remember his disappointment. I remember he didn’t stand up for me. Not once. And I very much remember that neither of my parents came after me when I left for California. They just let me go. I’m pretty sure they were relieved.”
“Yes, he failed you then. We all did.” His persistent gentleness pokes at my weak spot, and his admission tightens my throat so acutely that my eyes brim. “And I can only guess at the hurts and struggles you’ve endured since. But this is it, Mads. Right here, right now is the moment in your life where you get to make peace with some of it. And it’s not perfect. It never will be. And maybe it’s not enough, but your father loved you. I can tell you that as a fact. He loved you fiercely and he wanted more than anything for you to be happy.”
His words work their way into my chest, clutching at my heart. The tears in my eyes spill over and I can’t stop them.
Wilder wraps his arms around me then, pulling me into him, and his kindness only makes me cry harder. Chest rattling sobs and messy tears spill out of me with such ferocity that my breath hitches and my eyes squeeze shut. I vibrate in his arms with the force of my grief—grief for my dad, for what will never be, for the time I can’t get back, for all the things I can never make right.
“I miss him,” I admit, the words tearing out of me, taking a piece of me with them as they go. “I really, really miss him.”
“I miss him, too,” he says, his own sadness an echo of my own.
He rests his cheek against the top of my head, and rubs comforting circles on my back. But he doesn’t try to stop my tears or tell me to look on the bright side by giving some magical piece of advice, he just steadies me, hanging right out in my pain and not flinching from it. And it cracks something inside of me, exposing a long-forgotten vulnerability, one I once worked tirelessly to erase.
Wilder holds me for a long time until my shoulders settle and my cheeks dry. Even when we both know that he could release me, he holds me still. And I don’t try to pull away. I just lean my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, allowing myself to be comforted.
“Thank you,” I say after some time, my voice a little raw.
“No, thank you,” he says into my hair. “For trusting me with it.”
I nod against him, touched by his words, and now I do pull back.
He lets me go, but before I step fully away, he brings his hand to my face, gently brushing my cheek where tears once flowed.
And as our eyes meet, it’s as if something snaps into alignment—an invisible thread that was once severed, rejoins, locking us both in place. The sensation is so intense that I feel it move through me like a pulse of heat, as though some integral part of me just found its way home.
He lowers his hand, his cheeks lightly flushed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “I’ve just never—”
Hearing the tenderness of Wilder’s voice, and the intimacy it suggests, steals the breath from my lungs. My heart sets to hammering in my ribs. But I just stand there, too close.
“Never what?” I ask.
He shakes his head, like whatever he was going to say is so true that it pains him.
But I can’t let it go, caught up in the moment and the way he showed up for me. “Never what, Wilder?” I ask again, barely above a whisper.
Wilder looks into my eyes, his own softening in the dim light. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful,” he finally says, and it hits me hard.
Because I know when Wilder means something, and he means this, and not in the way that people tell you your hair is pretty, or your dress looks nice. For fuck’s sake, I’m certain my cheeks are a blotchy swollen mess. But he says it like he means me, my very person, all that I am.
I don’t move away, don’t brush his comment off with an awkward thank you, telling him it’s late and I need to get home. I just stare up into his eyes, searching them for the longing I saw a moment ago, knowing I’m tempting fate and not really giving a damn.
He smiles a small, sweet look that sends me right over the edge. And now I’m wondering, is it really fair to walk around in the world with a face like that? Just smiling here and there at unsuspecting people who are sure to lose all their good sense in some desperate attempt to gain another?
“Wilder,” I breathe.
“Maddi,” he replies, the invisible tether pulling us closer.
He reaches up to brush the stray hairs back from my forehead and to plant a kiss there like he used to.
But when his gaze returns to mine, he appears torn. “I should probably walk you to your car.”
And for a split second, I don’t think, I just feel. “Is that what you want?”
Wilder gives me an almost sad smile. “To walk away from you? I’ve never wanted that.”
His delivery is so sure that my self-control slips out of my grasp, my mouth running full speed away from my common sense. “Then don’t.”
For a second, he seems surprised, but as he searches my face for understanding, whatever caution he was wrestling with vanishes. He reaches out to caress me once more, his touch gentle but confident, reminding me how many times his skin has met mine, the sensation of him heightened by years of separation and newness.
For just a moment, I second-guess myself, positive I’ve lost hold of my senses, tossed them out to sea with a deranged cackle. Can I actually be the one standing here instigating this, swiping my hand over the flame and telling myself if I do it just right, I won’t get burned? I should turn my face; I should break eye contact. Because I know if I do, he’ll drop his hand, and everything will go back to normal. Except no, nothing is normal between me and Wilder; it never has been. We’ve either been too attached or too separated, coiled lovingly around one another, or snapping like alligators. I know this the same way I know how to write my name, reflexively. It just is. And so are we. And right now, I’m not looking away.
Wilder tilts my chin up toward his, running his fingers through my hair to the nape of my neck, his other arm looping behind my back drawing me closer to his body. And as his lips find mine, there’s no hesitancy. That’s the thing about Wilder, he kisses like he means it, leaning into me, pulling at me with the tips of his fingers like there is no such thing as close enough, only hunger and breath.
My hands move through those soft waves and down his neck to his taut shoulders, over the familiarity of him. His fingers press pleasantly into my hips below my coat and catch under the edge of my sweater, trailing heat and a flurry of tingles where his palms touch my bare skin. And I remember. I remember why the first time I kissed him I knew. Wilder has a pull, a gravity to him that is so intense that you don’t even realize you’re in it until you’re tangled up in his arms, lost in his warmth, utterly mesmerized.
He takes his time, his kisses both sure and gentle, working his hands along my back, generating so much heat that I want to shrug off my winter coat and push him right into the sand. But I don’t and neither does he. Because we both know that we’ve already crossed a line, that the feeling of being locked together is too evocative, and if we don’t pull back, we’re both going to soar right over the cliff happily embracing our own emotional demise. Maybe we already have.
So, when it feels impossible to stop, we do, looking at each other for a long painful moment that makes my breath come fast and his stare intensify.
“You should probably walk me to my car now,” I say, the words sticking as I force them out in an attempt to sever the connection.
He exhales like he feels the loss of me viscerally. “Of course.”
When we return to the parking lot, he opens my car door, flashing me an uninhibited smile, one I haven’t seen since we were kids. It makes me doubt my decision to go even more.
“Goodnight, Maddi,” he says, and the mere sound of his voice, slow and intentional, makes my thighs burn.
Just like that, I know I’m in trouble, that I’m not going to be able to forget our conversation or the way he felt pressed against my body. That it’s becoming clear that Liv was right, that Wilder still cares about me more than I ever thought possible, and that maybe I care about him more than I ever dared to admit, and I have no fucking idea what to do with that.