Page 21 of Mismatched

“Really?” I ask, glancing at the clock, not really in the mood to talk about Lydia’s business.

“I don’t even think she realizes how beautifully it will set us up to franchise,” he says, looking a little smug. “But so far, with some tweaking, the numbers should be there.”

I hesitate. “Lydia wants to franchise?”

“Well... I haven’t exactly brought it up yet.” He taps the side of his nose. “But now that we’re past the initial backlash, that’s where I’d like to steer us. If we go that route, she could keep running some locations on her own if she wanted. But I could pretty much step back and let the Pooches run themselves. We’d both get what we wanted.”

I study Henry more closely. Even in a sweaty T-shirt and shorts, just off a run, his posture is straight, his eyes sharp and exacting. The way he does business.

“You did a franchise before, right?”

“I bought one, yes,” he says. “Ran it for a couple years before I sold it. Good experience, but I quickly learned the path to success is to be the franchisor, not the franchisee.”

“And you really think it could go that way—with the Pooches, I mean?”

“I do. It will be demanding to go through development, but once the systems are launched—” He chuckles. “Well, first I have to convince her.”

“Yeah, that’s the hard part.” I chew my lip. “Lydia can be reluctant to do anything she doesn’t feel ready for.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Henry chuckles. “But I think she’ll get there.”

“I—I think she could,” I say, as much for him as for me.

“Thanks for the encouragement, mate. Let’s hope.” He glances at his phone and steps back onto the treadmill. “I certainly wouldn’t complain if you put in a good word for me.”

My mind is churning by the time I leave work for the day. Lydia is prone to overwhelm. We established that in therapy, though it’s something we both already kind of knew. She tends to hit the brakes when anything starts to feel like too much. Not just sex.

Even her business partner gets it.

And I came at her demanding an insta-family, on her first day back at work, after a surprise visit from her sister, hot on the heels of my mother’s memorial. I’m such a goddamn idiot.

I find myself driving by Ooh La Pooch and the two Pooch Park locations on my way home. Lydia’s car isn’t at any of them, but that isn’t really a surprise. She often runs errands when things slow down in the afternoon. I should probably just go home and wait for her. She left Heartthrob behind this morning, and he’s probably ready for a walk.

But I feel like I need to do something. Make some gesture. Not stupid flowers or chocolates, but something to communicate that it’s okay if we wait. I miss my mom. I do want a family. And I still think in her heart, Lydia will too—when she’s ready. But it doesn’t have to be now, or even next year. She and Henry can focus on the franchise potential. I’ll lean in on Carl’s ideas for Vesper. But most of all, we’ll refocus on each other. Pick up sex therapy again. Get more comfortable as a couple before we start creating new family members.

I’m struggling to think how to approach this when I recognize a brick and stucco building coming up on my right. Playful Pleasures, the sensual superstore. I pull in the parking lot on instinct, but once I’m there, I start to second guess. Sex is not the way to Lydia’s heart and never has been.

But intimacy is. And more often recently, sex has been leading us to intimacy.

Another thing we’ve been learning about in therapy.

“Can I help you find anything?” A twenty-something white woman with dark hair and a septum nose ring asks from behind a counter as I walk through the front door. I really wish I knew exactly what I wanted. But since I don’t, I cross the room so I can speak in a low voice.

“Uh, do you have any suggestions for like... an apology gift?”

The woman looks me up and down, making obvious note of my wedding ring, then crosses her arms. “That depends on what you did.”

My face warms. I open my mouth, then close it again, reminding myself this is a sex store. Not confession. “I uh... I said the wrong things to my wife. I feel bad.”

She smirks and I could almost swear the cat tattoo on her shoulder swishes its tail. “Never heard that before.”

She curls a finger, then turns on her heel. I follow her on a meandering path through racks of lingerie, costumes, and suggestive gifts until finally, we reach a neat, colorful display of bottles and candles. The woman smiles at me.

“Have you ever given her a massage?”

“Um... no,” I say, though I’m not opposed to the idea. I’ve spent more time touching Lydia the last few months than I did the last few years, which has been so great it honestly hadn’t occurred to me to move beyond the basics. Suddenly, I feel stupid for not thinking of it myself.

“Great!” She gestures to the shelf in front of us. “There are about a hundred ways to say you’re sorry right here. You can go traditional, edible, or... you might even add some nice atmosphere with a massage candle.”

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