Page 44 of Mismatched

“Oh,” I say. My vision of us wrapped up, snuggling together as we see this unfortunate thing through dissolves, because of course. The gym is where he copes. “Yeah.” I nod. “Sure.”

He disappears to change his clothes, and I start a rom-com, trying hard to focus on fictional people falling in love. But as he passes quietly to the front door, I hit pause. “Anton, wait.”

He leans in, cupping my cheek. “What can I do?”

For a moment, I can’t tell if he’s asking about period pain, or me not being pregnant. I lean into the warmth of his hand, my stomach bunching with dread. As if, somehow, he might leave and not come back.

“I just, um...” I know I shouldn’t apologize, but how else can I assure both of us I didn’t wish this chance away? That I’m still determined to make it happen?

“You just need to rest up and feel better,” he says, letting go of me to head for the door.

Without his sturdy hand, I fall back into my cocoon on the couch. And even though I know he’s right, I still hate watching him go.

“Mr. Richie?” I say quickly. “You know, this will be a great excuse to have a lot more hot sex.”

He pauses at the door, and I thrill a little. That I managed to say something remotely right. Even though... I’m having a hard time feeling it. Despite the fun we’ve had the last couple of weeks, right now, if I’m honest, a few days off sex sounds nice.

My cheeks go hot and I look at my lap, hoping he didn’t see it in my face. We’ve worked too hard to get where we are. Where we were.

But now I’m not even sure he heard me, because when he looks back, his face is achingly blank. “I’ll be back in a little while. I... I just need to go clear my head.”

He’s out the door almost before he gets the words out.

Heartthrob raises his head to look at me from his bed, and when my eyes start to sting, he gets up and shoves his nose into my lap. I pat the empty space on the couch again, and he doesn’t hesitate. He jumps up and curls close. I open my ice cream and hit play on the remote, snuggling my dog and watching made-up people get their happily ever afters.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

My phone goes off as soon as I’m through the front door.

Seth

Hey, bad news. Buyer financing fell through. Deal’s off. House going back on the market. Looks like my move to Denver will be delayed.

My plan for the gym evaporates on the spot. I’m too agitated, too restless to get in the car. I need to move, propel myself, get my heart rate up—now. I’m already running by the time my feet hit the sidewalk.

At first, my direction feels aimless. My feet seem to carry me randomly through the streets. But as I settle into a regular pace in the midday heat, I realize where I’m headed. Into an adjacent neighborhood, past pockets of microscopic older homes mixed with oversized, unidentifiably modern scrapes, and through a major intersection. The houses shrink down on the other side, into modest bungalows and row houses, until a familiar greenscape spreads before me and I can see the mirrored towers of my brother’s swanky new building reflecting the sky.

The building he should be moving into next month. Except now he isn’t.

But I guess that’s just the theme of the day.

I thought I might become a dad soon, But come to find out, I won’t.

I power down the street, hanging a hard left in the opposite direction. Trying to keep the numbness in my chest from spreading to my arms and legs. Everything just feels so far away. Like all I wanted, all I needed, had just been right there on the horizon. And now I’m in a fog and I can’t see anything. I break into a sprint, as if running fast enough could somehow help me find my way. Get me to what I need.

I’m almost all the way down the length of Washington Park when I slow for a woman and a little boy meandering down the path ahead of me. The kid is really small, maybe two or three years old, and he keeps picking up random leaves on the ground and running to her with them.

I’m not close enough to hear what she says, but I see her take each one, admiring it like it’s a treasure, collecting them carefully in one hand. I blink, watching the scene in front of me, and suddenly it’s my mom and me.

This one’s perfect, Anton. Her whole face would light up when she smiled. Let’s bring these home, and I’ll show you how to make a rubbing.

I only realize I’ve slowed to a walk when the corners of my eyes start to burn. I look again at the woman on the path, with her blonde hair and rounded hips. From the back, she almost looks like Lydia. But the gut punch is when she takes the little boy’s hand and turns to the side, revealing she’s very pregnant with a second child. Suddenly, I get this urge—to reach for them? Embrace them?—this woman and kid I don’t even know. It’s so overwhelming, I turn and sprint back the other way.

And even though it’s been years since we could have a real conversation, since she could recognize who I was, all I can think in that moment is how badly I want to call my mom.

It is somewhere over ninety degrees, and though it’s a dry heat, my neck and shirt are drenched by the time I stagger up our street. I’m not sure how long I’ve been gone. Hours, maybe? Lydia’s on the porch when I return, sitting in her pajama shorts on our swing, and my heart floods with something when I see her—relief? Need?

“I saw your car was still here. Did you go running in this heat?” Her face pinches when she takes in my sweaty appearance. But when our eyes meet, something shifts in her expression. “Anton? Are you okay?”

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