Page 78 of Mismatched

“I’ll expect a full refund for the stay,” I snarl.

I find Lydia on a bench outside the lobby restrooms. She sits up, looking hopeful as I approach, but her face falls when I shake my head.

“It’s a total shit-show.” I slump down next to her. “I’m sorry. This was all my idea. I never meant to do this to you.”

“You couldn’t have known. It was a decent plan.” Lydia exhales, then says in a small voice, “Celia invited us to stay with her.”

I sit up, studying her face carefully. Between the hotel and spilling the baby beans to my brother, I feel like I’ve already fucked up so much. I don’t want to read her wrong and make it worse. “Is that—do you think you could handle it?”

Lydia and Celia don’t have the smoothest relationship. And Celia’s husband Adam is his own piece of work. But neither of us has to say aloud that staying with them would be a major upgrade over rooming with her mom.

“I don’t want to be here at all,” she says, still pale, her mouth set in a tense line. But her expression is less panicked. More resigned. “You were right, though. It’ll just be worse if we don’t get it over with.”

I take her hand and squeeze. “It’s just one night. We’ll be out of here in twenty-four hours. And I’ll be by your side the entire time.”

“Sure.” Lydia grits her teeth. “I mean, it’s just Thanksgiving dinner with my mom.”

“You two made it just in time!” Celia says, spatula in hand when she answers the door. The house is one of those massive, gentrified scrapes with an indeterminate design, but is clearly the nicest one on the block. Inside, it’s like a vast, minimalist museum, scattered with more baby toys than furniture. It’s so sparsely furnished, I’m about to make a joke about them having it staged when Dr. Adam himself thrusts his hand into mine.

“Anton,” he says, gripping my fingers like a vice.

“Adam.” I nod, eyeing the blue scrubs he’s wearing with his gray cashmere sweater. “I see duty calls, even on holidays?”

“What can I say? It’s part of the job.” He chuckles like he’s said this exact line many times. “Can I get you a beer? How about you, Lydia? Champagne? Glass of wine?”

She looks at him and grimaces. “Ah, just water for me. Got a little airsick on the flight.”

I catch her eye, feeling encouraged when she smiles. We haven’t really discussed how she wants to handle the announcement, but I’m leaving the timing up to her.

“Since when do you get airsick?” Marion appears from around a corner holding a champagne flute, looking like a dressed turkey. Her sweater glitters with so many sequins she resembles an Olympic ice skater.

“Marion, how nice to see you! You look... radiant.” I insert myself between her and Lydia, intercepting the hug, and more importantly, the assessing gaze she has zeroed in on my wife. Luckily, if there’s anything my mother-in-law likes better than nitpicking her daughter, it’s getting attention herself.

“Anton, you flatterer. I see you’re just as strapping as ever.” She squeezes my bicep as I release her. “I was so sorry to hear about your mother. It must’ve been painful, watching her slowly slip away like that.”

Her expression is like a kid waiting for a firework to go off. Which is why we keep her at a healthy distance of a thousand miles. For a moment, that familiar darkness rises up inside me. There have been so many good things to focus on, I’d managed to bury my grief to the point I could almost forget about it. But Lydia grips my hand at my side and squeezes. And finally, I’m able to force myself to swallow. “I uh... thanks. It was.”

“Lydia, it’s been too long. You look... healthy,” Marion says, wasting no time scanning her up and down.

“Thanks, Mom.” Lydia slips her coat off and drapes it over her arm, navigating a hug with it between them, effectively blocking her mother from her stomach.

“Aren’t you hot in that sweatshirt?” Marion asks, lip curled. “It’s awfully casual.”

“Nope. I’m fine,” Lydia says, keeping her responses clipped. She turns to her sister. “Celia, where’s Pookie?”

Dogs will always be Lydia’s comfort zone, and I’m not surprised to see her searching the room for her sister’s elderly Pekingese.

“Oh. Um . . .” Celia’s mouth tightens.

“It wasn’t hygienic, having a dog walking around on the same floors Gabriel’s learning to crawl on,” Dr. Adam interjects without pause.

Lydia gapes, obviously horrified. “So you?—?”

“He’s living with my friend Bethany,” Celia says, quickly turning away. “I... I need to check on the green bean casserole. Adam, will you show them the room?”

“Let the boys take care of that.” Marion inserts herself between Lydia and her suitcase. “I never get to see my baby girl.”

Lydia gives me a dreadful look, and I scramble for something to say to stay by her side, like I promised. So far, Lydia’s done more to support me since we walked in than the other way around. But before I can open my mouth, Dr. Adam grabs the suitcase out of my hand.

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