Page 73 of Mismatched

“Hello,” Celia singsongs through the receiver. “Just checking in to make sure nothing has changed for Thanksgiving. I know you still had a few loose ends?—”

“How’s Gabriel?” I ask, trying to collect myself in the full-length mirror while she prattles off his latest milestones. The pajama pants and T-shirt I slept in are already snug. If my mom doesn’t guess I’m pregnant right away, she’ll hound me about my weight before I even step foot in the house.

“Anyway, we’re excited for you guys to come out! Gabey and I were just going over the menu, and?—”

“Wait. Why are you doing the menu? Isn’t Mom hosting?”

She clears her throat. “Well. Mom decided it was too much to ask her to baby proof her house now that Gabey’s crawling. And since ours is already safe, it made sense... but she said if we’re not eating off her china, she’s not cooking the food. So... you guys haven’t gone vegan or anything, have you?”

“No.” I pause for a beat, trying to decide if this is better or worse. Or maybe just as bad, in a different setting. “We can’t fly out until Thanksgiving morning. Sorry. But we’ll eat whatever you guys want to make once we get there.”

“Oh, I’m having it catered,” Celia says. “Way too tired to cook with no help.”

Something in her voice makes my shoulders drop, and for a second I wonder if she’s actually dreading this as much as I am. But we’ve been adversaries so long, I can’t help myself. “What, Dr. Adam isn’t any good in the kitchen?”

She makes an impatient snort, and I can just imagine her pointing her nose in the air, getting ready to launch into some righteous speech about the demands of plastic surgery. But instead, she changes the subject. “Let me know if you two need a ride from the airport.”

“I’m sure we can handle it.” I don’t know what else to add—Can’t wait to see you. It’ll be great to catch up—I’ve never been a wonderful liar. So I just say, “Let me know if there’s anything we can bring.”

“Will do,” she says, and then actually adds, “I—I’m so glad you’re coming.”

I stare at my clothes long enough to decide nothing I own will fit comfortably, and I might have to either buy some larger sizes or break down and visit a maternity store. Only that thought is so unpleasant, I decide a shower is the best way to delay the decision longer.

But as soon as I shut myself in the bathroom, the doorbell rings and Heartthrob runs down the hall barking. For a second, still having had zero coffee, I can’t focus enough to think who it could possibly be. Until I realize it’s Sunday, and hurry to answer it.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Caprice says, standing on our front porch holding two cups of coffee from Pike’s Perk a few blocks over. “Why aren’t you answering my texts?”

“I—sorry, my sister called. What time is it?” I fumble for my phone, but I must’ve left it beside the bed.

“Almost ten. When you didn’t show at the park, I figured you must’ve forgotten.” She eyes the robe I covered up in with some suspicion. “Or... did I interrupt something?”

My stomach knots so fast, I nearly gasp. “Ah, no—I just got sidetracked. I’ll get changed.”

“The weather’s not the greatest,” she says, handing me a coffee and shoving the door closed with one hip. “We don’t have to run.“

Heartthrob realizes we have a visitor and rushes over to greet her, but she holds up a palm at his approach. “Back off, fuzzy wuzzy. Your hair does not go with my outfit.” My dog looks at me, sneezes, then returns to his bed.

“Are you sure? We could still go,” I say, looking doubtfully out the window. We’re officially out of still-feels-like-summer-in-the-sunshine October and into the full cold bleak of November. The last thing I want to do this morning is go jogging.

“Nah, I’m not feeling it,” she says, tossing her ponytail. “Let’s just hang out and catch up.”

For a second, I consider doing just that. Bringing Caprice into the kitchen and spilling everything. It’s been one thing not telling my mother and employees about the pregnancy. About what’s coming. Keeping it from my best friend has been one of the hardest things ever.

But on some level, I’m still dreading what she’ll say. How she’ll react. Technically, I hit twelve weeks a couple days ago. But since we don’t have our next appointment until right before Thanksgiving, and Anton and I agreed to tell my family first, I tighten my robe and lead the way into the kitchen. “Sure. I’ve got bagels. Tell me what’s new.”

“Meh. Not a whole lot...” she says, settling into a chair at the table. Anton must’ve gone outside, or maybe he’s back in the second bedroom.

I set my coffee aside and reach for the bagels, grateful to have something to do with my hands. Until my eyes rest on the list of pregnancy yes-foods and no-foods still stuck to the fridge. I snatch the paper off, shoving it on top of the appliance before she notices it. Then I remember the prenatal vitamins sitting on the counter, and block her view with my body as I shove the bottle inside a cabinet.

“Are you still working on that new story?” I ask, making a big show of loading the toaster and finding cream cheese. “The one about public art installations?”

“Yeah, that one’s finished. It should run next week,” she says in an uncertain tone. “I... I actually have a really big opportunity. I’ve been asked to do a feature for Rolling Stone.”

I sputter, nearly dropping the cream cheese knife. “Are you serious? Rolling Stone?”

She nods, and I grab her hand and start bouncing up and down.

“Caprice! Like, you’ve made it! I mean, okay, it hasn’t happened yet, but can we just take a sec to appreciate and enjoy this moment? This is your dream! You’ve worked hard, and your talent as a journalist is putting your work in Rolling Stone!”

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