Page 26 of Mismatched

One day I’m going to learn not to answer the phone when my mother calls.

“I know, you’re busy and don’t have time,” she clucks before I can even say hello.

“Mom.” I roll my eyes, but not without a hardy stab of guilt because that is exactly what I was about to say.

“How’s the new daycare performing? You think it’s going to make it?”

I grit my teeth, rethinking my guilt. “We’re doing fine. It’s been a lot of work, but we’ve already exceeded our own expectations.”

“Really?” she says, with a clear measure of doubt. “Well, maybe that fancy partner of yours knows what he’s doing.”

“Or maybe I do,” I mutter, pulling into our driveway. “I can’t talk long. Anton and I have a date and I need to?—”

“How is the poor dear doing?” she asks with affected sorrow. “Lydia, you give him a great big mom hug from me. I’m so glad you can at least make time for Anton around your career. You know, I’ve seen plenty of women lose husbands over?—”

“Mom?” I cut the engine. “Is there a reason you called?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She sniffs. “Celia said you got to meet Baby Gabey this week—isn’t he the most precious—I’m only calling to see if you’d made a decision about Thanksgiving.”

I blink, trying to let my brain catch up. “I told Celia I won’t know until it gets closer.”

“Yes, but can you find out?” my mom says, clearly unsatisfied with my answer. “I was considering going on a cruise, but then I had this marvelous idea to get all of us together. And you know, Celia and Adam are going to be moving. So this is our last chance for a real Thanksgiving at home.”

“I thought it was Celia’s idea...” I say absently, letting Heartthrob out of my car and heading for the porch. It looks like we beat Anton home. If I can get my mom off the phone, I should have time to shower and think about what to wear.

“It might’ve been. But you know, she’s so scattered now. All she wants to talk about is breast milk and diapers.” I almost laugh at the distaste in her voice. “Between you and me, she seems to need all the help she can get. I’m not sure motherhood is instinctive for her.”

“Maybe it runs in the family,” I mutter, but I can still hear my husband declaring Celia a natural. Which is a sharp reminder of the conversation ahead of me this evening; what’s at stake.

“She dotes on him too much,” my mom says, not listening. “Doesn’t do anything that isn’t about him. I’ve seen it happen, Lydia, she’s going to lose herself if she’s not careful.”

My stomach has started twisting painfully as I imagine the future I could lose. With the person I love most.

“Maybe she needs one of those live-in nannies,” I say without really thinking.

“Oh!” my mother exclaims. “An au pair—what a wonderful idea. I never had that sort of luxury with you girls, but Adam could certainly afford it.”

I exhale, relatively sure that isn’t what my sister wants, but relieved to get my mom off my back. “Okay, glad I could help. Now I do have to go.”

“Fine, but let me know about Thanksgiving. I’m going to call your sister.” She sighs. “Lydia, you’re so practical. Sometimes you really remind me of me.”

I spend, admittedly, too much time getting ready. Partly because, working with dogs all day, I just never have a reason to really gussy myself up and look nice. But if I’m honest, I’m also nervous as hell, and experimenting with eyeliner is a great way to procrastinate. Because there’s a lot more than just a date going on tonight. Each of us has drawn a line in the sand, and now one of us will have to budge—we can’t just have a romantic dinner and pretend we haven’t been avoiding each other the last three days.

Once I’m done blowing out and styling my hair, I put on a touch of lip gloss, a cute yellow sundress, and sandals with just a little heel. Anton made a reservation at D Bar, which makes this feel more like a special occasion than an armistice. It’s one of my favorite date night spots in Denver—elegant, but casual, and Anton knows their specialty desserts are the part I like best.

“You look beautiful,” he says as I meet him at the front door.

“So do you.” When he frowns, I scrunch my nose. Because he does. He’s dressed in jeans and a linen button-down, with a jacket folded over his arm. He’s about a day out from a shave (my favorite), his wavy hair tousled, and when he looks at me there’s even a glint of heat in his eyes.

We haven’t said anything to each other yet about why we’re going out, but there seems to be an unspoken understanding. We both know what this date is about.

When we get to the restaurant, we’re seated in the middle of the room. Even with a reservation, it’s a busy Friday night. We take our time perusing the menu, and while our waiter is just the right amount of attentive, he mostly leaves us alone. But after we’ve made our selections and returned the menus, there’s a moment when we look at each other and I’m not sure either of us knows what to say. Technically, tonight was Anton’s idea, so it seems like I should give him the space to start the conversation. But after thinking everything over carefully the last twenty-four hours, I’ve made my decision and I’m anxious to move forward.

“I uh...” He clears his throat. “I owe you an apology,” he says, straightening the knife and fork beside his plate.

“Anton—” I shake my head, but he holds up a hand.

“Please. Let me finish.” He raises his chin, looking straight at me. “It wasn’t fair of me to suggest our marriage was somehow contingent upon the decision to have, or not have, children. We’ve been together so long, and we’ve already done so much work on our relationship. You’d think that should’ve been obvious, but apparently I needed a kick in the teeth to realize it. Yet again.”

---