Page 66 of Mismatched

My phone pings again as I exit the Dunkin’ drive-through. I’m less than five minutes from The Pooch Park, so I pull it up once I’m in the parking lot. At first, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. There’s a person walking toward the camera, they hover in front of it, then they walk away. The whole thing is only fifteen seconds long, and I’m wondering if she even sent me the right thing. But when I restart it, I recognize the hallway outside Caprice’s apartment through the weird fish-eye lens of the peephole camera.

I sit up straighter and watch again.

It looks like a white guy carrying some kind of sack. He comes down the hall from the elevators, stands in front of her door, then turns around and heads back the way he came.

I turn up the volume and watch again. He doesn’t say anything, and he’s staring so hard at the ground I can’t see his face, but there’s a clear knock when he gets to her door.

I dial Caprice. “When was this? Did you get some kind of delivery?”

“It was Tuesday when I wasn’t home,” she says, voice wavering a little. “And no, I never have anything delivered.”

I press my lips together. The guy could have just knocked on the wrong door. It happens all the time. Even my neighbors have received our Thai delivery before. But something about the video doesn’t sit right with me.

“Did it seem like he was trying to hide his face?”

She huffs. “That’s what my brother thinks.”

“You showed it to Theo?”

“He wouldn’t stop asking about the camera, wanting to know how often I checked it. So yesterday I gave him the passcode and told him to monitor my neighbor’s DoorDash habit himself. Apparently he went through hours of footage. I had only glanced at it and assumed the guy was going across the hall.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Was this the only weird thing Theo saw?”

She scoffs. “I mean, depending on how you define weird? But yeah, pretty much. The guy only came by once, and it was the only time anyone approached my door.”

I tap my finger against my lips. “Well, my take—it definitely gives me a weird vibe. But since he didn’t do anything besides knock, and it only happened once, I’m not sure what you can do.”

“Yeah,” she says, voice unsteady again. “That’s sort of where I’m at too.”

“What’s Theo’s opinion?”

She sucks her teeth. “He wants to organize a stakeout.”

I chuckle briefly, but then I clear my throat. “Maybe you should check the videos more carefully. And it might not be a bad idea to run at the gym again, at least for a bit. Unless you want to resume our jogging buddy system?”

“If we make it a power walk,” she says, amused. “That actually sounds nice. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

I bite my lip. It has been weeks—we’ve only met up for lunch once since I found out I was pregnant, but she asked a lot of questions about why I had no appetite. I haven’t exactly been avoiding her since. More like keeping her sharp, journalist instincts an arm’s length from my knocked-up hormones. But my nausea has started to settle and the weather has cooled. I might not be ready to tell her or anyone else our news. But I miss her. If I’m careful, she might not notice anything different about me.

“Let’s do it. I’ll see you Sunday morning.”

I release Heartthrob as I push through the front door of The Pooch Park, donut boxes balanced precariously in my arms. Tomás looks up from the computer with raised brows. We don’t have a staff meeting. I’m not even supposed to be at this location today, but I asked Henry for a face-to-face chat in my office, and the Dunkin’ drive-through was between here and the house.

I set the boxes down on the counter, clutching the small, hot cup of decaf I ordered with them, trying to pretend it’s the real thing. Anton and I might disagree about what changes to make to our home, but I am grudgingly following his yes-list. I take prenatal vitamins every morning. I try to drink the sixty-four ounces of water I’m supposed to each day, even though it makes me pee nonstop. And I’ve been avoiding soft cheeses, undercooked anything, and alcohol. Not that I drink much anyway. But sweets aren’t on any yes or no list—so they’ve become my vice.

I have to admit, though, it’s a relief coming to work where no one questions what I eat, asks how I’m feeling, or otherwise has any clue about my condition.

“Dibs on the Boston cream,” Tomás says, carrying the boxes to my office. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here, Lydia. We’re short-staffed and I could use some help unpacking the food delivery if you have a sec.”

“Of course.” I furrow my brow. “Who didn’t show up?”

“Nadia is apparently having car trouble. But Jamal and Stella have got it, I think. We’ve just been tag-teaming.”

I frown. We only hired Stella a week ago, and she doesn’t have much experience. “Why don’t you go back with them for a bit. I’ll stay up front and unload the dog food. I’m just waiting on Henry.”

Tomás disappears into the playroom in a chorus of barking, and I get started putting away a large pallet of dog food. It crosses my mind as I’m slinging forty-pound bags around that pregnant women aren’t supposed to lift heavy things. But the food isn’t going to put itself away, and I’m not about to make excuses to my own manager. There are only two more weeks left in the second trimester anyway, and despite my misgivings, everything’s going ridiculously smoothly.

Ready or not, here a baby comes.

---