UNMATCHED by Emilia Reed

Author:Emilia Reed [Reed, Emilia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fox Den Press
Published: 2023-10-17T00:00:00+00:00

My brain is in a fog by the time I stumble in the front door at home. I made mistakes on two dog food orders this afternoon and inadvertently made one of my daycare workers cry. On top of that, Scarlet’s back injury flared up, and she had to leave work early. Then one of her clients yelled at me that their dog’s haircut was lopsided. At this point I want nothing more than to snuggle up with Anton on the couch and watch a movie like we used to. Just turn my brain off and be comforted by his presence. Or maybe we should discuss the business purchase offer I’ve been sitting on since this morning. Except every time I entertain the idea of taking the cash and walking away, giving these problems to someone else, I start to cry.

As I close the door, I’m lured by the scents of simmering garlic, tomato, and onions wafting from the kitchen. I find Anton at the stove listening to something on his headphones.

“Smells delicious,” I say. I hadn’t expected him to be home at all. He’s stayed late at the gym the past couple of evenings, which has been sort of a relief, but here he is making dinner in our kitchen with Heartthrob parked at his heels.

“I was getting sick of takeout,” he says, sliding the headphones off one ear.

“Lasagna?” I ask. It’s been a while since he prepared his mother’s recipe. I study his face for signs that something’s changed with Sharon, but the tension in his eyes and across his forehead is unchanged.

He nods in reply.

“Well, my whole day just improved.” I smile at him, and he smiles back, but he keeps layering pasta in the pan, clearly distracted by the task and whatever he’s listening to. I watch him slide the dish into the oven, then glance at the clock. “Guess I’ll take a quick shower if it has to bake.”

It’s a little warm for my striped pajamas after I towel off, so I go with a camisole and sleep shorts, wrapping up in my fuzzy pink robe for extra comfort. Anton glances at me when I walk into the dining room, and I’m truly relieved when his eyes don’t linger anywhere.

“This looks amazing. Thanks for cooking.” I grab some plates and glasses and take a deep breath, hoping for simple conversation.

At that moment, my phone rings on the kitchen counter. Great. I reach for it reflexively, sure it’s some new fire I need to put out—a bout of kennel cough, maybe bickering employees—until I notice Anton following my movement. He’s watching without comment, but there’s a familiar wariness in his posture as I grasp the phone. I hesitate. Both my businesses are closed. Maybe whatever this is can wait until tomorrow. I turn the ringer to silent and leave it sitting on the counter.

“Umm, how was your day?” I ask, settling into a chair.

He arches an eyebrow, then takes a bowl of steaming broccoli off the counter and sits too.

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