Page 45 of Mismatched

Sometimes, I’m not good at communicating—we both know this. It’ll give our therapist fodder to work with for years. All I manage in this moment is a stiff shake of the head, but I guess it’s enough. Lydia rises from the swing and pulls me into the house.

Heartthrob jumps up from where he’s chewing on a soup bone when he sees me, and I steady myself with a hand on his head, but I only have eyes for Lydia. Hair pulled up, casually beautiful in her pajama shorts and camisole—a concession to the weather. She goes straight to the fridge and comes back with a large bottle of water. “Drink this.”

I take it gratefully, guzzling for nourishment until she puts her hand over mine and tells me to slow down. I sink to the couch, and when she seats herself right next to me, I lie down, pressing my face into her lap, letting her stroke her fingers through my sweaty hair. And my God, it feels good. Comforting and consoling, and... a relief. Just to be here, safe, connected with her.

When my heart feels like it’s slowed to a reasonable pace, and I’m relatively sure I’m not going to break something inside me if I speak, I roll to look up at her. Her face is smooth, calm, her eyes clear and present.

“I um...” my voice croaks when I open my mouth, but I take another sip of water and continue. “Guess I’m having a hard time.”

I doubt she needed me to state it, but she doesn’t say I told you so, or look smug. She just nods and keeps her fingers in my hair.

“Seth texted. The house sale fell through.”

Her fingers pause. She cups my cheek. “Oh, Anton. I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes, savoring the warmth of her hand. Grateful when she doesn’t try to make reassurances or give me a pep talk.

“Maybe this is the universe telling me to calm the fuck down.”

“Or maybe,” she says gently, “these things have nothing to do with each other.”

I open my eyes, staring up at her. And for the umpteenth time since spring, I am so grateful. That I still have this woman in my life. That she didn’t toss me to the curb when I somehow thought she wasn’t everything I needed.

“You know,” I say quietly, thinking of the woman at the park. “You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

She stiffens a little, gaze shifting out the window. “I don’t really have a stunning example to aspire to.”

I reach for her hand and squeeze. “It’s obvious, Lydia. You’re just... warm and nurturing. Not at all like Marion. You’ll be...” My voice trails off when I see her face, and immediately, I feel like an ass. “I’m sorry, this isn’t the time?—”

“You will make an excellent dad,” she says quickly, earnestly.

And all the air leaves my lungs. My eyes drift across the room, to the family photo I brought back from Dallas. The image of my dad, long gone, now joined by my mom. I didn’t get long enough with either of them. And for a bleak moment I let that thought weigh me down, wondering what the sense is in trying to create new life when everything is so impermanent. We’re barely here long enough to love, and then we’re gone.

But my eyes drift to my mother’s steady smile, and I know she’d be first to dismiss that. Every ending is a new beginning, Anton, she’d say.

And maybe it isn’t fair of me to contradict her.

“I think I’d like to try,” I say quietly.

Neither of us speaks for a while. And I just lie there, sinking into Lydia’s closeness. The soft warmth of her lap, her reassuring touch. But then her fingers begin to travel. Running up and down my side, moving slowly past my hip. Eventually, very clearly, making her way to the waistband of my shorts.

And for just a second, I want to let her. After everything that’s gone down today, I’d love nothing more than to chase away all the doubts between us with each other’s bodies.

But I recognize this touch. There’s something in her approach. A layer of reluctance. Obligation. Like her focus is on what she thinks I need and not any desire of her own. I haven’t sensed it in months, but as soon as it registers, my walls are up.

I move my hand down to cover hers, hold it still. Then readjust us on the couch so we’re lying side by side and I can look into her eyes.

“What you said before, about trying to get pregnant being an excuse to have hot sex?” Her cheeks go pink, and I can’t resist—I kiss them just to feel their warmth on my lips. “I’m all for the hot sex,” I say.

She smiles, batting her lashes. But again, it feels forced.

I take a deep breath. “But maybe this is a good time to take a break.”

Her lips part. Then, all at once, her eyes widen.

“I just mean from sex—trying to get pregnant.” I squeeze her hands. “All of that. Not us.”

I touch my forehead to hers, listening as our breathing mingles and slows.

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