Page 11 of Mismatched

I close my eyes, fighting the weird, empty burn in my chest as I try to verbalize my thoughts. “It’s just, when he died, Mom was the one who held us together. She played both roles. Became our whole family. Filled all the gaps he left behind.” I take a ragged breath. “There’s no one left to do that this time.”

“I think you’re wrong—we need to do it ourselves.” My brother’s voice is so gentle I want to hit him. “Mom’s gone, but we’re still here. You, and me, and Lydia. We make our own family.”

I let out an exhausted breath, wishing I could tell him that’s not what I mean. But it feels too hard.

He waits a second, then tries to pivot the conversation, but he can’t seem to pick a subject that isn’t painful today. “How are you and Lydia doing?”

Seth knows everything that went down between my wife and me on Unmatched, the cheating app for married people where I was dumb enough to make an account. How she found my profile there and listed her own in response—and everything that happened as a result. He knows our marriage came to the brink. But he also knows things have been on the upswing recently. At least, until last week.

“We’re good. Ah, just getting back into the rhythm.”

“What, are you taking dance lessons?” he asks, but his tone is serious. “Anton, there’s a reason Mom loved Lydia. She fits. She’s good for you. Don’t get so wrapped up in what’s missing you lose sight of what’s in front of you.”

I twinge, remembering the way Lydia hugged me this morning. Something she’s done hundreds of times. But for some reason, today, it felt like a hug at arm’s length. Was that because of me?

“Just get your ass out here and let me worry about my marriage, Seth.”

“I’m just saying, you two are lucky to have each other. All I’ve got is an old grouchy cat.”

Sometimes, when things feel hard, I make my mom’s lasagna. There’s nothing really special about the recipe. It’s so straightforward I could probably make it in my sleep. But it tastes like the part of my childhood before my dad died when things felt whole. I’m on the second layer of noodles, letting myself zone out to a playlist of music without lyrics, when my phone pings next to the sink.

Lydia

So... Celia just called. She’s in town and wants to meet for dinner.

My brows shoot up. That’s so unlike Lydia’s sister, I have to read the message twice. She isn’t one to show up without planning an itinerary two months in advance.

Really? Where’s Dr. Adam?

Lydia

Medical conference at the Gaylord hotel. But he has an event tonight.

Huh. That sounds like the kind of occasion where Celia would shine. She’s a “life coach” and networked through half of her own wedding reception. I’m not sure why she’d miss an opportunity like that to drop in on the sister she barely speaks to. Unless she wants something.

Do you want to see her? You could say you’re busy?

The last time we saw Lydia’s family, she got so scattered she rear-ended another car during the visit. Celia isn’t half as critical as their mom, but neither of them bring out the best in my wife.

Lydia

I don’t know. She has the baby with her. Maybe just wants to show him off.

I pause, looking down at the half-made lasagna in front of me. I know nothing about babies, and I’m no fan of Celia Cohen, but somehow after facing down end of life last weekend, meeting the newest member of the family doesn’t seem like the worst idea.

I send Lydia a pic of the lasagna pan on the counter.

I’m already making dinner. Let’s meet our nephew.

CHAPTER FIVE

Celia inhales deeply as I open the front door. “Ooh, it smells amazing!” She steps inside before I can open my mouth, handing me an enormous black diaper bag. “This was such a better idea than going out, Lydia. Thanks for the invite.”

“Of course,” I mutter, hefting her bag off to the side. As usual, my sister appears perfectly put together in slacks and a navy sweater set. Her blonde hair has been pulled into a chignon, and there’s a signature string of pearls around her neck. She looks like she just finished giving a TED Talk. The only evidence that she gave birth three months ago looks at me wide-eyed from a car seat dangling on her arm.

“Is this Gabriel Edward?” Anton asks beside me, crouching down for a closer look. The round, rosy-cheeked child appraises him with a gaze not unlike his mother’s, then cracks a broad, gummy smile and waves his arms. Anton smiles and waves back.

“Gabe,” Celia corrects. “We don’t use Edward.”

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