Page 67 of Mismatched

The door chimes as I’m stacking cases of canned food, and a high voice shrieks, “BIG doggie!”

I pop my head around the retail shelves to see Heartthrob nose to nose with a familiar toddler by the front door. She’s looking at him with a face-splitting grin, and he’s staring at her curiously with his tail arced over his back. Paloma reaches out and strokes his ears more softly than I would have expected, and in return, he slurps his tongue up the side of her face.

She squeals with delight. “Doggie kiss!”

Behind her, I spot Marisol holding Biscochito’s leash. She catches my eye and waves, pointing to an earpiece on the left side of her head. “Right, Harold, but you told me the shipment would be here Friday and it hasn’t even been sent out.”

Oh. I recognize that sort of conversation. I take the leash out of her hand with a nod, then glance at Paloma, standing there in pigtails and an adorable white-corduroy dress. “Do you want to see where Bizkit plays?”

She claps her hands, and I wave at Tomás through one of the windows. He retrieves the terrier mix, but as soon as they disappear I realize the little girl can’t see where he’s gone. I glance back at Marisol, but she’s facing the other way, deep in discussion.

“Um... is it okay if I pick you up?” I ask Paloma.

She raises her arms automatically. “Up! Up!”

Awkwardly, I reach under her arms. I handle four-legged creatures all day long, but other than Celia’s infant, I can’t remember the last time I held a tiny human. I’m surprised by how light she feels. And how easily she settles in my arms, fitting into the crook of my elbow and wrapping her little arm behind my neck. She smells faintly of strawberry yogurt.

As soon as she glimpses the playroom, her eyes go huge and she lunges forward, pressing her face against the glass. “Doggies!”

I smile, recognizing a fellow animal lover when I see one. My mother and Celia have always said I was nuts for dogs by this age. “Yes, look at them running around. Aren’t they silly?”

Paloma watches, clapping, with a smile that lights up her whole face. I smile too, and out of nowhere, I’m flooded with an unfamiliar warmth. I realize, with some surprise, that I’m not in a hurry to put her down. It’s... different than when I held my nephew. If I’m honest, Marisol’s bright-eyed daughter is more interesting than a sleeping bundle. The expressions on her face and the way she pronounces words with so much care is undeniably cute. And she doesn’t seem as fragile as an infant. When she turns in my arms and smiles right at me, that warm feeling intensifies. Vaguely, I realize it must be hormonally driven. But it causes something to ease in my mind.

Maybe I could do this? At least, if our little raspberry-olive is half as cute.

As I grapple to accept that I am now referring to the human-looking cluster of cells in my uterus as a fruit, Paloma turns her head and screeches. “Mama! Doggies!”

Marisol glances at us from where she stands by the front desk, still talking. She waves, and to Paloma’s and my dismay, turns away.

Paloma juts her lip out and slaps the window. “Go doggies.”

“Uh... what? You want to go in there?” I shake my head. “Sorry, we can’t. It’s only for dogs.”

Paloma aims a surprising scowl right at me. “Go doggies!”

Pulse spiking, I glance back at Marisol, who’s still pacing back and forth on her phone. Worried the little girl will start screaming during her business call, I set Paloma down and look her in the eye. “How about this... Um, do you like donuts?”

Paloma’s eyes go huge and she claps, nodding. “Pease!”

Grateful for a distraction, I lead her into my office where the bakery boxes sit on the desk. I can’t really remember anything Marisol fed her when we met at the restaurant, but the kid’s enthusiasm convinces me she’s had one before. I have Paloma climb onto the vinyl couch, then put a pink frosted donut with sprinkles on a paper napkin and place it in her lap.

“Fank you,” she says adorably, smiling like the sweetest little cherub. And then I watch in horror as she proceeds to destroy the donut, only getting small amounts in her mouth as she squeezes until frosting oozes between her fingers, smearing the rest all over her face and clothes.

“Oh. Oh my?—”

I reach toward her with both hands, but I have no idea what to do. Taking it from her seems like a bad idea. But do I just stand by and watch this pink frosting destruction until her mom finds us? Her outfit is done for. She’s going to need a full-on bath. If we were at Ooh La Pooch, I could at least put her in one of the tubs.

At that moment, Marisol steps into the office and takes in the scene.

“I—I’m sorry,” I say, wincing. “This did not go quite how I expected.”

Marisol presses her lips together, raising her eyebrows at Paloma. “Did you get a dessert?”

She nods, beaming like she found a pot of gold, and holds out a fistful of goo. “See?”

Marisol glances at my face, then chuckles. Without missing a beat, she reaches into her purse, which I now realize is some sort of stylish diaper bag. “This is why baby wipes were invented. And why we always carry a change of clothes.”

I stand by, twisting my fingers and feeling useless as she lets Paloma finish, then strips her down to a diaper and systematically wipes down every inch of her skin.

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