Page 16 of Mismatched

Lydia hovers next to me, and it seems like there’s something else she wants to say. I just wish I could make this cold, vacant feeling go away. I grab Heartthrob’s squeaky octopus toy off the floor and he lights up, racing ahead of me to the back door. “Seems like he could use a little fun after spending all night in detention.”

“That’s fair.” She laughs, but as she moves to follow me outside, I sort of wish she wouldn’t. Which immediately makes me feel worse. And apparently I broadcast the feeling, because she hesitates and holds back.

“I’m just going to catch up on a few things while you two play,” she says.

Equal parts guilt and relief flood through me as I step into the yard alone. I should be pulling Lydia closer, not pushing her away. It was way worse earlier when I was home alone. But I need a second to try and make this feeling go away. This weird, empty stillness wrapping around me like a shroud.

The sun has mostly set, and the crickets start up their evening song, but the patio light illuminates our tiny yard. I launch the octopus into every corner for Heartthrob, sending him diving after it like a puppy while I try to figure out why I don’t want to go back inside.

Things felt almost normal while Celia was here. More than they have since we left for Dallas. But all the awkwardness came flooding back after she left. Which is so odd—it should’ve been the other way around. Was it the distraction of entertaining? Will things be okay if I just make sure we have constant dinner guests?

I throw the octopus again. I felt this way at the office too. So that doesn’t really track.

Eventually, Heartthrob slows his retrievals, and after a few more, finds a good-smelling spot in the grass where he can roll instead. I stand on the little patio watching him, and finally admit the emptiness inside me is just as bad out here by myself.

When I reenter the kitchen, Lydia has changed into her white cotton nightgown and presents me with a mug of tea. She’s made one for each of us, which is surprisingly comforting. A flicker of memory, of my mom doing this for the two of us on lonely nights after my dad died, tries to push its way to the surface. But that seems like a bad direction for my thoughts, so I chase it away with words.

“How did the meeting go with Henry?” I ask, choosing the safest subject I can think of.

Lydia seems surprised when I bring this up, then scrunches her nose and looks away. “He suggested closing Ooh La Pooch or consolidating it within one of the daycares. I told him I’m not eliminating any jobs.”

She leans against the counter, shoulders slumped, looking more defeated than I’ve seen her since before she opened for business six years ago. A pang of guilt twinges in my chest. Maybe I pushed her too hard to bring Henry on as a partner.

“Well, he only owns half of the business,” I say, dropping into a chair. “You get just as much say about what happens.”

She nods, sipping her tea, but seems distracted, like she’s mulling something over. “It’s fine. I just have to do some thinking.”

Her phone lights up on the counter, and when she looks at it, she snickers and holds it up.

Seth

“Nothing is impossible. The word itself says: ‘I’m possible!’”

“Did your brother just quote Audrey Hepburn?”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe you and Seth should get into motivational coaching.”

She looks at the screen, thumbs clearly ready to fly with a comeback, but then she glances at me and sets it down again. “You never really said why you came home early today.”

My stomach tightens, but I shrug. “I was just having a hard time focusing.”

She considers this a minute, then sets her mug down and steps forward. And though I can see her second-guessing every move, she crosses the few feet to where I’m sitting at the kitchen table and lowers herself onto my lap.

“Maybe you just need the right thing to focus on.”

I hesitate. She’s trying to get something started. Something that, a couple of weeks ago, I would’ve pounced on without hesitation. I’m sure that version of me would be horrified that I haven’t already reached up to touch her. Encourage her. She looks like a fucking cupcake in that nightgown. The swell of her pert breasts peeking out from the low neckline, her long legs parted across my lap. But absolutely nothing stirs inside me. Just a swirl of hollowness.

Ugh, I hate this. And I don’t want her to think it’s her fault. I know how hard she’s trying. How much effort it takes for her to try at all.

“Maybe you’re right.” I set down my mug and bring my hands to her hips. She smiles, looking relieved.

Lydia leans in, laying kisses along my cheek and down my neck, and I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sensation. Just be present. It occurs to me this is actually a battle we’ve talked about her fighting, but it doesn’t seem like the right time to mention that revelation. Because she’s taking hold of my hands and guiding them along her thighs.

I open my eyes just as she touches my palms down on her warm, bare skin and begins to slide them up, until my fingers disappear beneath her cotton hem. Pretty much any straight man’s dream—hands up the skirt of a beautiful blonde straddling him in a nightgown—but even as my hands move along her skin, it feels like something’s chasing after them. Catching up to me.

Lydia thrusts her chest forward, recapturing my attention, and I bury my face in the space between her breasts, hoping to find my oblivion. Her skin is soft, her scent like warm French vanilla—but when I lay my lips on the swell of one breast, I’m as aroused as I would be kissing Aunt Betty.

Somewhat panicked, I refocus where my hands are, squeezing the supple skin of her legs, letting my fingers slide up the last few illicit inches. Lydia catches my eye at the exact moment I realize she isn’t wearing panties. Which is, unfortunately, the same moment I’m forced to admit nothing is going to happen at all. And my hands fall back to my sides.

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