Page 95 of Mismatched

“We can pick something up on the way,” I mutter, checking the time on my phone.

“Cool. I’ll buy, since I’m the one being picky.” He hesitates a moment, watching Bruno weave around my ankles. “Anything else going on?”

My shoulders slump. I pick up the cat and set him on my lap, where he immediately curls up and starts purring, the way he’s done since I was in high school. It’s surprisingly comforting. “Do you remember Mom staying home with us when we were little?”

A line forms between Seth’s brows. “Uh, I guess so? I mean, she went back to work when I started preschool, but sure, I have a few memories of like, finger-painting with her and stuff.”

I press my lips together. That’s not really where my thoughts were.

“Is Lydia thinking of staying home?” he asks, clearly confused.

I shake my head, straightening, resting my fists in my lap. “No.” I sigh. “But do you think it would be weird if... I did?”

He pauses a moment, catching up in his head. Finally, he looks at me and grins. “Naw, man. You’d probably be freaking great at that.”

I look at his face, trying to gauge if he’s just humoring me, but if he is, he’s doing a hell of a job.

“Seriously, remember when we were kids and you spent a whole week helping me learn to tie my shoes? You never got impatient, just kept telling me to try again. You already like to cook. You’re organized. And you’ll look adorable pushing a stroller with all the mommies at the park.”

I glare at him and he laughs. But when I look down, stroking Bruno’s ears, I can’t really argue about any of those things. Well, except the stroller part. “I don’t know, it’s just something I’m considering. Things have been changing at work, and I haven’t loved the idea of leaving the baby in daycare.”

“If screening childcare is even half as bad as trying to find good cat-sitters, I don’t blame you.” He pauses. “And I’m assuming you of all people know if you can afford it?”

“I actually haven’t gotten that far. I only started considering it today.” I shrug. “I just needed to talk about it before bringing it up to Lydia. In case it sounded crazy.”

He looks at me thoughtfully. “Honestly, maybe it’s exactly what you need, Anton.”

I sit, ruminating on that while Bruno purrs loudly my lap.

Seth stands, pocketing his phone. “C’mon, let’s grab food. I just finished unpacking today and I’m starving.”

I rise from the couch, gently transferring the still sleeping cat onto the cushion next to me before following Seth to the door. He looks back at me, grabbing his keys.

“Just to be clear though, you don’t want me spilling the beans on this over dinner?”

I roll my eyes. “That would be correct.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Thanks so much, everything looks great. We’ll be in touch,” Anton says as we duck out the door of Orchard School For Early Childhood, the facility where Paloma now attends daycare.

“Marisol’s instincts continue to impress. That was the best one yet,” I say, clutching a few brochures on our way down the sidewalk. This was the fourth tour of the fourth daycare facility on our list, and while most of them have seemed like perfectly adequate childcare facilities to my untrained eye, this one left me with a slightly shinier overall impression. “The last one was okay. The staff were friendlier, at least. But this one had a nice atmosphere, and the whole place felt like a well-oiled machine.”

“Mmm hmm.” Anton nods, holding my hand firmly in his as we walk back to my new Honda through the slushy parking lot. I turn to study him. He asked a lot of questions on some of the previous tours, but I realize now he’s been mostly silent the last hour.

“I guess the waitlist is sort of an issue.” I run my free hand over my almost five-month bump. “If it’s really more than a year, we’d have to figure that out. Or I guess look into hiring a nanny in between...”

Anton doesn’t say anything, just climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the car.

“Everything okay?” I ask, fastening my seatbelt carefully under my stomach. I still get a little wigged out every time we have to travel in a car.

He turns to look at me thoughtfully. “Can I talk you into a milkshake?”

We wind up at a little burger place I read about near Wash Park that spins peanut butter cookie shakes you have to eat with a spoon, they’re so loaded with big pieces of cookie and peanut butter cups. Anton says it’s not a shake if you can’t drink it, but he’s obviously wrong.

Christmas music plays overhead and everything is decorated for the holidays, just as it was at the school. The last four weeks feel like they’ve flown by.

As we wait for our food, I set the school brochures aside and pull up the app where I’ve been tracking all the stuff like childcare options, baby names, and must-have baby supplies. I’m making a few notes on the Orchard School, when Anton clears his throat.

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