Page 72 of Unmatched

My phone pings with a text from my sister, which I’m actually grateful for.

Celia

Baby Gabriel got his present from Aunt Lydia! Thank you!

I shift my eyes to the screen, trying to process why she sent me a picture of a stuffed guacamole and chips dangling over a baby until I remember that I sent them. I purse my lips, thinking way too hard about my generic reply.

Anton clears his throat. “I’m going to head to the airport and get checked in.”

I glance up, trying hard to make it seem like I’d forgotten he was there, but mostly hoping to keep tears from spilling all down my face. We look at each other in that moment, and while his face is still impossible to read, his eyes aren’t the cold steel they were a little while ago. Now they’re swimming with sadness.

I don’t know if it’s for me, for his mom, or just the whole terrible situation. But a feeling deep in my stomach wrenches me into action. I step forward and put my arms around him.

It’s just a hug. Something we’ve done thousands of times before, and arguably appropriate for the situation. But he pauses a long beat before returning the gesture, finally placing his hands against the curve of my back and pulling me lightly against him.

I don’t breathe until we each let go.

He checks his pockets for his ID and phone, and I want to say “Let me know when you’re there safe,” or “Give Seth a hug from me.” But I don’t. I stand motionless and quiet.

Finally, he turns to leave the room. And as he does, I find my voice.

“Anton, I’m?—”

“Please,” he says. “Don’t.”

He wheels the suitcase through the house, and I trail behind because I’m not sure what else to do. Heartthrob trots beside him, nudging his hand as he opens the front door. The dog knows what packed luggage usually means. Anton rubs his head and looks at him, lingering for a moment, possibly conveying be a good boy. I’ll miss you. Or maybe keep her safe. Or nothing of the sort. Then he’s out the door, tossing his things in his truck.

I watch from the front porch, not expecting him to look back. So when he rolls the window down, my heart jumps with a stupid thrill. Maybe he’s having second thoughts—he wants me to come after all. Or to say he’ll be back. That it hasn’t even been thirty days, so we still have time to work on things.

He opens his mouth. “I . . .”

I clasp my hand to my throat, suddenly sure he’s going to say what married people say when they leave. The three most basic words that will hold everything together while we’re apart.

Then he pauses, shakes his head, and raises his hand. “Bye.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

An onslaught of barking greets me as I walk into The Pooch Park, and like every day this week, I am grateful for the din. Tomás raises a hand to wave hello, then presses it back against his ear as he shouts into the phone.

“Sure! We can get Freckles in next week. Which days are you thinking?”

I don’t have to check the computer to picture Freckles the English Springer Spaniel. He’s a sweet, playful dog who’s come for daycare almost since we opened. He and Ginger, a red standard poodle, like to race around the play yard on hot days, splashing through the wading pools. Both of them are also clients at Ooh La Pooch, coming in every six weeks for a bath and a trim. A small part of the loyal client base I’ve worked so hard to build.

Heartthrob is out playing with his buddies and his favorite staff member, a girl with green hair named Francie. My office often feels like a tiny refuge, and this week it’s been a lot more comforting than home. I set my empty travel mug on my desk just as my phone rings, but when I see Mark’s name I breathe a sigh, closing the door to muffle some of the barking.

“Hey, Mark. How are things going?” I greet my contractor tentatively, not sure I want to know why he’s calling.

“Good news! We finally resolved those HVAC and electrical issues. We should be hanging drywall by the end of the week.”

“Seriously?” My voice rises above a monotone for the first time all day. “That’s fantastic!” Once drywall is up, we can paint, and everything else should move along quickly. I have a storage unit full of everything we’ll need in reception. After the inspectors give us approval, I’ll be able to set a tentative grand opening date.

He gives me a couple other minor updates before we hang up, then I sit there with my fingers hovered over my phone, wishing I could share my excitement with someone. Caprice will not understand the delight of drywall. Definitely not Celia or my mom. Actually, this is the sort of thing Anton is great at celebrating. He’s always quick to jump on little milestones that prove things are moving along.

I slump into my desk chair. My husband—I can still call him that for now—hasn’t texted or called since he left five days ago. Seth took pity on me when I broke down and asked what was going on, and he’s been sending updates here and there, but it doesn’t sound like Sharon’s condition has changed. Or Anton’s, for that matter. Seth says he barely speaks and has hardly left her bedside. I feel sick thinking about it, wishing I was there with all of them. But I know I’m not welcome, so it feels like there’s nothing to do.

I open my laptop. There’s a spreadsheet open on the screen from this morning. Something I need to finish updating in order to run a report for my insurance company. But instead of settling in to crunch numbers, I pick up my phone and text my brother-in-law.

“365 new days, 365 new chances.”

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