Page 87 of Unmatched

Back in Mom’s room, I wait for Seth to pick me up, take me home, and feed me, like he’s been doing since I got here. Mom always used to insist that I needed to look out for him since I was the big brother. But lately, in his own way, Seth’s been the one caring for what’s left of our little family.

Maybe he’ll know what I should do.

A light tap on the door draws my attention. I turn my head, expecting to see my brother or one of the staff members coming in with Mom’s meds, to check her vitals, or change her position.

Nothing prepares me to see Lydia silhouetted in the doorway.

Seth is at her shoulder, but once she enters the room, he fades back into the hall.

For a minute, my jaw hardens, and I just sit there. I’d told her not to come, but every day, sitting here with my mom, it’s felt like something was missing. And the minute Lydia walks in, I know immediately what it was. A low ache spreads through my chest. I rise from my chair.

I was stupid, thinking I could leave everything behind in Denver.

Her gaze flits to me, then to my mom in the bed. She whispers, “Is she sleeping?”

I glance at Mom, but don’t nod or shake my head because I don’t actually know.

After a moment of hesitation, Lydia comes toward the bed. She’s ditched her leggings for an actual pair of jeans. Ones that, even in this somber moment, I can’t help noticing hug her ass like they were made for her. She’s wearing her favorite gray hooded sweatshirt that hides her curves, but instead of cramming her hair into a bun the way she does most days, she’s let it fall in loose waves around her shoulders. She isn’t wearing any makeup as far as I can tell. There are shadows under her eyes, and her lips are pale. She looks tired. She looks beautiful.

She moves to the opposite side of the bed, and I can tell she’s taking inventory of how things are different, the way I did when I got here. I had come for a brief visit last Thanksgiving, before we pulled Mom out of the old facility, but Lydia and I haven’t been to Dallas together in more than a year, and Mom was in a totally different place back then. She’d just started to become combative about certain things, but we were able to enjoy a few peaceful moments. Lydia sat by her side reading Winnie the Pooh, and Mom rested her head on the pillow and smiled at her the whole time.

Lydia pulls up a chair now and speaks in a soothing voice. “Sharon, it’s Lydia. I’m here with Anton.”

I glance at Mom’s head on the pillow. I just want her to respond. Turn her head, move her hand again, something. But she stays motionless. Maybe she is asleep.

Lydia’s gaze flickers to mine across the bed, and I see her expression changing, grief shining in her eyes. A knot of guilt registers in my core. She genuinely loves my mom. I should never have told her she wasn’t welcome.

“I’m glad you’re out of the hospital,” she says in a thick voice, turning back to the bed. “You have some beautiful flowers and stuffed animals.” She glances around the room, then reaches out and strokes Mom’s fingers with a trembling hand.

I can barely swallow.

“Heartthrob sends slobbery kisses,” she whispers, barely audible. “And Seth assures me Bruno is getting all the sardines he can handle...” Her voice trails off like she’s not sure what else to say.

We stay like that for a while, the three of us. Lydia sitting in silent reverie, Mom motionless in the bed, me backed up to the window. Until I can’t take anymore and I walk out the door.

It’s too bright in the hall. The walls are too many colors. People are smiling too much. Moving with too much spring in their steps. I drag my feet toward the exit, past a silver-haired couple shuffling together down the corridor, alert and alive. A staff member swaps jokes with an elderly man, something about bananas. I’m nearly to the doors when I hear Lydia call my name, but I don’t stop. I need out of this cheery, horrible building.

When I get outside, it’s almost worse. The early evening sun is still bright, the spring air warm and fragrant with hydrangeas—my mom’s favorite flowers. I charge down the sidewalk toward the parking lot, but before I can even try to find where Seth is parked, Lydia grabs my arm and plants herself between me and everything.

“Anton.”

I look into her wide blue eyes, forehead lined with concern. She pulls her hand away, uncertain, severing our touch, and it’s like there’s nothing left to hold me up.

I crumple into her right there on the sidewalk.

After a while, people start to eye us curiously, so we shift to a bench under a tree.

She doesn’t speak. Just studies me, glancing over my unshaven chin, the muss of hair that needs a wash, and the rumpled shirt I’ve been wearing for three days. I’ve barely left my mother’s side enough to eat, let alone maintain my appearance, but now that Lydia’s looking, I wish I’d at least showered. Out of nowhere, my mind flashes back to those hours back home before Seth called. Before she and I talked about the Pooches. I wonder where we might be now if nothing else had happened. If we’d just stayed in our bedroom, taking pleasure in one another.

“I should’ve come sooner,” she whispers.

I glance up at the Sunny Cove windows and shrug. “It’s not like she?—”

“No, Anton. For you.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

It’s getting dark out. The streetlights have just come on, but since this is Dallas and not Denver, there’s no bite to the temperature with the sun going down. It only takes ten minutes for Seth to navigate through the neighborhoods back to Mom’s little ranch house. He does his best to make small talk, asking Lydia about her flight, but when he inquires about the Pooches, we both go silent, and finally he just turns on the radio.

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