Page 20 of Mismatched

CHAPTER EIGHT

Money management is a great field to get lost in. The actual work is basically numbers and formulas and spreadsheets. No gray areas. No maybes. Just mind-numbingly neutral addition and subtraction. Money goes in, money goes out. Strategies work or they don’t. It’s pretty straightforward—interactions with clients aside. And lucky for me, I have an over-enthusiastic partner handling all of my client relations.

“Milo and I can take the new account,” I say, jotting a couple notes in a Thursday meeting. I glance at my eager protégé, who straightens and nods with an air of self-importance.

I resist rolling my eyes because Carl gives us both a warm smile. “You two make an excellent team. Send me an update next week.”

We leave the meeting, and I slip into autopilot. Breathing in, breathing out. Back to my desk and familiar routine. I wouldn’t call this thriving, but I have managed to appear something like functional between nine a.m. and five p.m. the last few days. I go to work, perform, go to the gym, then home. Which is where the familiar leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

For the past three nights, I’ve slept on the living room couch. Withdrawn, the way I did months ago. Before the hotel, before Unmatched. Lydia’s fallen into her own version of this pattern. Avoiding me, spending all her time at work. We barely exchange a few sentences or texts, and they’re usually about takeout.

It feels painfully just like it did before. Only it isn’t the same at all. I am still dying to touch her; she’s still avoiding me. But our stalemate isn’t about the sex anymore—it’s what we want from it. And the two very different futures we seem to be imagining.

“Uh, Anton?”

I look up to find Milo blinking at me. It’s like this tic he has, though I haven’t noticed him doing it with anyone besides me.

“It’s ah . . . it’s after one o’clock.”

I tip forward in my chair. “Are we late for a meeting or something?”

“No.” Blink. “But you haven’t gone to lunch yet.” I’m so fixated on his blinking, I notice his gaze drift to my desk. To the wedding picture I’ve been staring at most of the last hour.

“Right. Lunch.” I get up immediately, grabbing my gym bag from a drawer. Exercise is the only appetite I seem to have anymore. “Why don’t you follow up with the Swansons. I’ll be back in an hour.”

After a forty-minute lifting session, my arms are jelly and I’m calmer than when I walked in. I didn’t opt for a workout intending to do any thinking. But in the gym I’m always focused, careful attention on the weights and my form. I guess it’s just enough structure to slow down my brain and allow me to focus on the thoughts I’ve been avoiding. And today, there were many.

But as I drape a towel around my neck and head for the locker room, I’m still at a loss for what to do.

I feel like I’ve been lied to. I know that’s not really fair, but Lydia and I always talked about having kids like it was a guarantee. It was never a matter of if, but when. Starting a family didn’t make sense when we first got married right out of college. We were both focused on getting started, buying a house, growing our careers. But it felt like the pieces were being woven together.

Until she pulled the rug out from under me.

Still, I’ve had several days to reflect on what happened Monday, and I’m aware I acted like an ass. I rushed her, pressured her. Let my desires take over, just the way I did with Unmatched. I know I need to apologize, and we need to discuss it all again from a calmer place. But I’m dreading the conversation.

“Anton, hey!”

I’m on my way past the cardio machines when I turn to see my friend and Lydia’s business partner, Henry, sprinting on a treadmill, waving at me. He hits the screen in front of him, turning down the program until the belt slows and he steps off, catching his breath.

“Hey, man,” he huffs. “How are you doing?”

My mouth quirks, wondering what might be so urgent it was worth ending his workout mid-run. But then he opens his mouth again.

“Just wanted to say I’m sorry about your mum.”

My chest goes numb as guilt washes through me. I’ve been so preoccupied with Lydia, with wanting a family, I’ve hardly thought about my mother all day. My limbs are heavy. I hate that I let her slip so easily—I also hate that it feels like a tiny relief.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” I force a lump down my throat, then vaguely gesture around the gym, looking for a change of subject. “You here running from the dogs?”

Henry flashes a smile that’s all teeth. “Had to. Your wife is running me ragged this week.”

“Is she now,” I say, my face a careful blank.

“Crunching numbers, meeting with contractors. She’s making us look seriously at adding grooming to both Pooch Park locations.” He pauses, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Think she’s trying to prove a point.”

“Yeah.” The corner of my mouth twitches. “She... does that.”

Henry arches a brow. “Yes, well. It’s my own fault. I brought up closing Ooh La Pooch, and you’d have thought I suggested letting all the dogs out into traffic.” He snorts. “But, based on projections for this new plan, she might actually be onto something.”

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