Page 17 of Mismatched

She freezes when she realizes I’ve withdrawn. “Anton?”

I cover my face with my hands. “I... I’m sorry.”

Neither of us moves for endless seconds. But finally, she rises, dismounting me like a broken saddle. She disappears down the hall, then returns covered up in her bathrobe. I can’t even bring myself to look her in the face.

I keep hoping she’ll say something to make this not horrible. Give some kind of reassurance. Not that it will help. But when she doesn’t, I hear my own voice breaking through the air. “It not your fault.”

She sets the kettle back on the stove and pulls a chair up next to mine. Companionable. Friendly. Just a month ago I would have done anything to redirect that feeling. Take off her clothes, worship her body. Ensure we felt more like a married couple than friends. But right now, I am so grateful she’s still here, next to me. That she didn’t get upset and shut herself in our room, alone.

The way I used to.

“What do you think it is?” she asks. “I mean, obviously you’re grieving. Maybe it’s just too soon.”

“I—I don’t know.” I sigh. “It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with my mom, or even you. It’s just... there.”

“What is?”

I open my mouth to try and explain, but every way I can think to describe it just sounds dumb.

The kettle is heating up, and she rises to prepare more tea, not speaking again for a while.

“When did it start? Just last week?” she asks, dumping out the first mugs. “Is it there all the time, or does it ever go away?”

“I don’t know.” I chew on that for a second. “It definitely started last week, but we were doing all the funeral stuff. It seemed normal to feel bad.”

She nods, re-pouring the water and adding a little sugar.

“Normally, exercise helps with any kind of stress,” I continue. “But a twenty-mile bike ride did nothing for me today.”

Lydia comes around the counter and reclaims the seat next to me, presenting me with a fresh mug of what smells like lemon tea.

“But...” I say, thinking out loud. “I did feel a bit better when I was talking to Seth about moving here.”

“That’s promising.” She considers for a moment. “Has anything else felt like that?”

I’m about to say no, but I pause, realizing there was something else. “Um...” I say, reluctant to bring it up. “I don’t know why, but I felt the best I have all day while Celia and the baby were here.”

A line forms between Lydia’s eyebrows. “Really?”

I shrug, raking my hand through my hair. “See? None of this makes any sense.”

“Maybe it’s just helpful having something different to focus on?” she guesses, holding her mug between her palms.

We sip our tea in silence, and I mull through the whole day again. My interactions with Lydia. Everything that happened at work. Talking to my brother. My sister-in-law and nephew.

“Seth was trying to tell me something.” I scratch my head, wishing I could remember exactly what he’d said. “About us still being a family, or finding what’s missing...”

“Well, he’s right,” Lydia says. “We are a family. And we’ll probably feel even more like one after he gets to Denver.”

“Yeah... I guess. I was mad at him and wasn’t really listening,” I admit. “Now I wish I had.”

A quiet alert sounds on Lydia’s phone. It’s one that goes off every evening that I hardly ever register, reminding her to take a birth control pill. She gets up, walking automatically to the bathroom, as she often does. But tonight, for some reason, this action penetrates my mind. And stays there.

I jump out of my chair and follow. “Lydia, wait.”

She turns in the bathroom doorway, brows furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

Suddenly, my mind is churning with my brother’s message. With my own at-odds emptiness. And a new feeling I had just this evening, while holding Celia’s newborn. An unexpected, contented... peace.

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