Chapter Forty
CHAPTER FORTY
My phone pings in my pocket. I barely hear it, busy as I am counting speckles in the Sunny Cove ceiling tiles. It’s an unfamiliar sound. Not a text or email or any notification I can immediately identify. Maybe there’s a weather alert or something. I haven’t been paying attention to spring in Dallas, but I suppose there could be a tornado watch or something. There are shelters in this building, but I’m not sure about moving Mom. I tear my gaze from the ceiling and dig around for my phone.
You have 37 unread messages on Unmatched
My mouth goes dry.
I hover my thumb to open the app, but then I glance at my mother lying in the bed, looking both too young to be there and older than her years. She’s quiet, peaceful, like she’s asleep. The same way she’s looked for days. Even so, I mutter an excuse out loud to leave the room. I’m not opening up a cheating app in the same room with my mom.
I head outside to the walking path in the Sunny Cove gardens.
My inbox is jam-packed. I don’t know what happened. I reactivated my account and sent a bunch of messages to LonelyGirl8 the other day. Out of a mix of sadness and desperation, I guess. It felt more like writing in a journal than something she’d ever see. Didn’t make me feel better, but it did help me sleep. But now, scanning the subject lines and usernames, a tight, familiar feeling creeps into my chest.
There’s a note titled “Let’s have a pool hook up” from SexyMama2. Another from FullFrontalPeaks titled “Hungry for a lunch fuck.” And another that says “I’m your girl” from KinkyWife01. I don’t open any of them. Maybe I should be happy with all the offers for tits and ass, but after everything that’s happened the last few weeks, I can’t help wondering what brought them there. If it’s because they’re sad or hurt. Or maybe looking to hurt someone else.
Ugh. I can’t even see hookups the same anymore.
I keep scrolling, my hopes fading as I make my way down the page, until I see a username that halts everything.
I sink to a bench on the side of the path.
LonelyGirl8
The message line says simply: “No subject.”
I swallow hard. Lydia hasn’t texted or called since I left Denver. I really didn’t expect her to after everything we both said; I couldn’t either. Which is why I wound up back on Unmatched. Staring at a version of her that—I can see now—she clearly made for me. The unlikely last place we managed to reconnect. When staring at her profile wasn’t enough, I started writing.
Never in a million years did I expect her to reply.
But I’d never expected her to be in that hotel room either.
With a shaking hand, I tap open the message.
LonelyGirl8
Hey, sexy. Still looking for fun?
I stare at the chat window for a full minute, wondering if it’s actually my wife. Maybe it’s Caprice, or someone else. Maybe the account was hacked.
I want to say, Is this really you? But that seems too direct. If she wanted a normal conversation, she could have sent a normal message. Or texted me. But she didn’t.
MountainMan3
Yes. Though my last date here didn’t end so well.
The phone pings again right away.
LonelyGirl8
Mine either.
MountainMan3
Then what brings you back?
LonelyGirl8
Well, I’ve been told I have great tits. And I’m lonely.
I snort. Never in ten years have I heard Lydia use the word “tits.” This has got to be a sham. I start typing to dismiss whoever this is, tell them where to shove it, but another message comes through before I get the chance.
LonelyGirl8
Also realized . . . I do want more than just a roommate.
My pulse spikes.
I glance around the empty gardens. Not sure what I’m looking for, but suddenly I wish I was somewhere more private. Maybe it’s Lydia on the other end of this app after all. I swipe over to her profile. The pic is the same—fucking gorgeous—I don’t know how I could have seen it before and not known my own wife. Her stats haven’t changed, but the info after that looks like it’s been updated. I take a minute to read through:
Sex: Female
Age: 29
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 140lbs
Eyes: Blu e
Hair: Blonde
Build: Curvy
Interest: Men
What I Enjoy:
Tall, dark, and athletic for days. Must love dogs. Willingness to communicate needs.
Experiences I’m Looking For:
Less work, more play.
Figuring out what turns me on.
Figuring out how to get you off.
Trying out new things.
Learning about my body.
Learning about your body.
I think I could get better at this.
I do want you. I miss you.
I love you.
It’s been an hour since Lydia’s last message. Since I read through all the updates on her profile. I sat in the garden at Sunny Cove until the shadows started to grow long, trying to figure out what to say. How to respond. I even typed out half a dozen messages, but wound up deleting them all.
I have questions. Things I definitely want to say. But nothing feels right from seven hundred miles away.
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 .”