Page 15 of Mismatched

I get up from the couch, pausing a second before crossing to where Heartthrob snoozes in his bed. He raises his head as I curl up with him, then drops his muzzle into my hand, and I’m instantly more comfortable, stroking his chin and scratching the soft fuzz on his ears.

“Well. I guess I should probably be getting back to the hotel,” Celia says, mercifully in her grownup voice.

Anton helps her gather up blankets and little plastic keys and things, and I drag myself off the floor away from my dog, if only to hasten her departure. “Guess we’ll see you in another five years,” I say, only half joking.

“Actually...” Celia turns to me with a strangely sanguine smile. “I was wondering if I could entice you and Anton to Ohio for Thanksgiving.”

My mouth falls open. This is what I get for assuming having my sister over means the universe will leave me alone for a while. I look at Anton and scramble for an excuse. Celia might be extending the invitation, but Thanksgiving is always at our mom’s house. And I just can’t. Not this year.

“I thought Gabriel getting to spend his first Thanksgiving with all his family might be nice.” She coos down at the car seat. “Especially if we’re about to move.”

Anton makes a sound I can’t identify, and I turn to him, pleading with my eyes. Thanksgiving with my family is a particular hell we’ve weathered before.

“It’s a nice thought for the little guy,” he says.

I close my eyes, reaching over and squeezing his hand so hard it probably hurts.

“Yes, lovely,” I say. “Will Mom be inviting Adam’s parents too?”

Celia winces like she hadn’t considered that specific toxic stew, but says, “Of course she will. Everyone will be invited. I’ll even buy pumpkin pie.”

“How domestic,” I deadpan.

“Thanks for the invite,” Anton says, finally coming to my aid. “We’ll have to look at our schedules.”

“But I doubt we’ll make it,” I add. “I’ll have to talk to Henry, and then there’s employee schedules to think about—it’s a busy time of year.”

“That’s why I asked in July,” Celia says with a laugh, clearly not picking up on my distress. Or maybe she is. “Just think about it and let us know by like, September.”

“Sure. Okay,” I say. “We’ll let you know.”

Anton squeezes my hand, and in that moment I’m so grateful he understands my dysfunctional family and has my back. He lets go to help my sister with her diaper bag, and I wave, hoping it is the last time for years.

CHAPTER SIX

“No way. In Hell. Am I spending Thanksgiving with them,” Lydia says, then forces her mouth into some imitation of a smile. “I’d rather have forcible manicures every day for a week.”

I shake my head, exhaling as I sink into the living room chair. “God, can you imagine? It’d be like her rehearsal dinner all over again.”

“Oh, be more specific. Are you referring to when my mom started yelling at Adam’s mom because the crystal on the table didn’t match? Or Adam’s dad lecturing us on there being no worthwhile universities west of the Mississippi?”

We both snort at the memory.

“You wearing your CU sweatshirt to breakfast the next day was a nice touch.” Lydia chuckles, then looks at me curiously. “Though, for a second there, it almost seemed like you were going to tell Celia we’d come?”

“What?” I look up at her. “No, I was worried you were going to cave because she put you on the spot—probably on purpose. I was playing into her sentiment, but mostly trying to get her out the door before you agreed to something you didn’t want.”

“Oh.” She considers this, then says, “Thanks.”

In truth, Celia isn’t terrible. Not like their mom. She can be judgy and aloof, but she isn’t overtly hurtful. What’s unbearable when she’s around is the tension between her and Lydia. At least the baby broke some of that up tonight.

Heartthrob thrusts his head into my lap, wagging his tail, seemingly as relieved as we are that they’re gone. But as I ruffle his fur with one hand and we settle into companionable silence, an uneasy stillness seems to creep back in. The house is suddenly too quiet again. Empty. Even with Lydia and Heartthrob here.

I push myself out of the chair. “I’ll um... I’ll go finish up the dishes.”

“They’re done,” Lydia says, following behind me.

I get to the kitchen to find she’s right. Everything’s tidied up and the dishwasher’s running. Even the counters are wiped down. It hardly looks like anyone cooked here tonight. “Oh. Thanks.”

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