Chapter Seventeen
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?”
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.
“Things have been good... getting better. Would you agree?”
She nods against me.
I raise one hand to stroke her hair. “I enjoy learning what turns you on. It’s fucking hot.”
She smiles. “Then why stop?”
“Because we’ve worked hard for this—for sex to be fun .” I pull back to look into her eyes. “I don’t want to lose track of that.”
“A break . . .” she says. “For how long?”
“Until you’re ready.”
She furrows her brow. “And what makes you think I’m not ready now?”
“Lydia,” I say flatly. “Look at me and tell me you’re dying to have period sex.”
Her face says it all. And even though I can think of a dozen ways for us to get off where blood wouldn’t be a factor, I smile, pull her close, and wrap her tightly in my arms.
Several heartbeats go by. Then she whispers, “Should... should I go back on birth control?”
“ No— why?” The words fly out of my mouth a little too quickly, and I feel myself flush. “I mean... Um, do you want to?”
“Do you still want a baby?” she asks softly.
“Yes. I do, very much.” I let out a long breath, tangling my fingers in her hair. “I can’t think of anything more wonderful than starting a family with you. But I don’t want to obsess about making it happen when we should just... enjoy each other. ”
She nods, and something seems to ease in her eyes as she pulls the heating pad back over her stomach. “Okay.”
I hold her close, resisting all my natural urges to stroke under her shirt. Breathe her in. Seek solace in her skin. It can wait until she’s ready, till she comes looking for it. Instead, I snuggle her against my chest, keeping her close and safe. Our little family, such as it is.
We spend the afternoon that way, lazing in each other’s arms. But that evening, after Lydia’s taken another bath and gone to bed, I open my calendar and start doing math in my head.