Page 74 of Mismatched

She looks over and smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

I rest my feet flat on the floor again. “Why am I the only one excited?”

“Because they want me to do a deeper dive into cheating culture.” She sighs, wrapping her arms around herself. “Revisit some of the stuff from the first article, then dig up even more, and I just?—”

“Don’t feel safe,” I finish her sentence.

Her posture slumps. “I mean, it’s an amazing opportunity. Any story they run could propel my career to the next level. But I’m just kind of over it, you know? I’ve written stellar articles on health trends, musical movements, fitness... Not one person ever sent me a death threat for analyzing weight training versus cardio.”

“I read every one of them, and they were stellar.” I frown. “But... this is Rolling Stone.”

“I know.” She drops her face into her hands. “I should write them an article about how women always have to give something up in order to gain.”

I retrieve the bagels from the toaster with a nod of solidarity, spreading cream cheese and trying not to dwell on some of the trade-offs I’ve been making lately.

“Anyway, I’ve been dying to get that off my chest—to someone who gets it,” Caprice says, straightening as I bring the food to the table. “Now tell me again, why did you decide to spend Thanksgiving with your mother?”

I sink into a chair and massage my temples, sipping the last delicious drops of my coffee. “Um, I don’t remember anymore.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Her eyes sharpen, raking over me carefully. “Is everything okay? Is something going on?”

“No, why would there be?” I ask, stuffing bagel into my mouth.

“Because when you came home from your sister’s wedding last year, you swore you weren’t going back to Ohio for at least a decade, barring some emergency.”

I take my time chewing. I do remember saying that.

“Where’s Anton, by the way?” she asks, glancing around.

“Uh... he has a project he’s working on.” I set my bagel down. “Celia’s going to be moving, so my mom made a big stink, wanting us all to have one more holiday at home. It seemed easier to just go than argue with her about it.”

Despite there being some truth in that statement, Caprice raises a brow in a familiar, skeptical way. So, before she can really start peppering me with questions, I leap out of my chair. “Hey look, the sun sort of came out. We could still go for a run—let me just get changed.”

In my room, I smoosh my swollen chest into a too-snug sports bra and bury my figure in one of my husband’s old CU Boulder sweatshirts, debating whether it would seem suspicious if I beg her to power walk instead of run. But when I come back out with my sneakers on, I find Caprice leaning in the doorway of what’s quickly looking like my former home office, watching my husband paint the walls.

“Anton says you’re doing some redecorating.”

My gaze immediately flies to where he’s stirring paint across the room. He looks up, giving the tiniest shake of his head, letting me know he hasn’t let the cat out of the bag. Though, by the way he raises his brows, he seems to think I should.

“Just refreshing a little,” I say with a placid smile. “We haven’t painted since we moved in.”

“It’s already a lot brighter in here,” she says, peering closely at the swatches on the wall. “The colors are very... neutral.”

“You know me.” I turn up my palms. “Noncommittal.”

Caprice snorts, but allows me to usher her to the front door. Which we open, only to find the sun long gone and buckets of sleet dumping down from the sky.

“Guess the forecast changed,” I say, biting my lip.

“There’s definitely some sort of front,” she mutters. “Guess it’s time to go home and make career decisions.”

“I’ll give you a ride,” I say, grabbing my keys.

But when I let her out in front of her building and turn back toward home alone, my stomach crawls with guilty relief.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Now that is an active little kiddo,” Dr. Sharma says, coming into the room. “Look at you go, practically doing backflips.”

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