Page 12 of Unmatched

“Telling me what?” I sit back in my chair, anxious to find out what’s going on. “Did Anton say something about the second Pooch Park?”

“It’s not that.” She gives her head a tiny shake. “You know how there are dating apps people use? Like, married people?”

“Married people dating? That sounds like good material.” My skin prickles. Apparently we’re changing subjects again. I take a bite of bagel and tap out a quick text to Tomás about employee hours.

“Right? I thought so too.”

She sits up in her chair, her voice slightly sturdier. Caprice needs to feel like she’s really onto something before she can write about it. So, if she’s excited about a good lead, I’m happy for her. Even if this conversation is all over the place.

“Well, I can’t wait to read the series. I’m sure you’ll expose the underbelly of Denver’s cheating society.”

She swallows. “Yeah, there’s this one site, Unmatched, that I’m particularly interested in. It’s seventy-five percent male, many of whom live in Denver, and they all use aliases.”

“I’m sure they would if they’re not complete idiots.” My mom sends a GIF that says It’s a Boy! on a group text, and my phone immediately blows up with congrats from aunts, uncles, and cousins. I swallow hard and turn it face down again.

Caprice rearranges her silverware. “Well, I made an Unmatched profile so I could do some covert browsing...some of the guys on there seem downright familiar.”

“Ooh, you’re going undercover? You’ll probably sting some local celebrities. Maybe a few politicians. This sounds sensational!” I grin at her, then my phone starts vibrating on the table. I reach for it, knocking back the last sip of my coffee, which has gone cold.

“Lydia—”

“I really should take this,” I say through my teeth. “Scarlet’s had nothing but problems since last week.”

“Lydia.”

I pull my hand back at her tone. She’s staring right at me with this look like she just ran over my dog. I reach under the table for Heartthrob before remembering he’s not there. The tips of my fingers tingle.

The ringing stops. I fold my arms and stare at my friend, who looks every bit like she’s about to throw up.

“Caprice, what is it?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, dropping her gaze to her hands, then back up at me. “I logged onto Unmatched, and I...I found a profile for Anton.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“You must be mistaken,” I manage to say after several moments. I swallow hard, fighting a rising thickness in the back of my throat.

“I wish I was.” Caprice pulls out her phone and taps the screen.

“Anton looks like a lot of guys,” I say. “You said yourself they all use aliases. The pictures are probably fake too. I’m sure it’s just some dude with similar features ‘cause he would never?—”

She holds her phone out to me.

There’s a picture of a man on the screen. But I don’t reach for it, not yet. I keep my hands in my lap, moving air in and out of my lungs like a machine. I need to stay in this moment for five more seconds, before I have to see that face and think. My phone vibrates with what must be a lengthy voicemail from Scarlet, but for once I don’t care who didn’t show up for work, which customer complained, or what kind of crisis might’ve happened with the plumbing. I’m too busy trying not to imagine my husband’s golden skin and rock-hard abs under another woman’s hands.

Caprice clears her throat. “Username: MountainMan3; Age: 31; Height 6’1”; Eyes: hazel; Hair: brown.”

She lists these details like they mean something. Like they don’t describe any average thirty-one-year-old white guy looking to cheat on his wife.

“Enjoys: Intimate mornings on the beach, naughty afternoons in a hotel bed. Looking for illicit experiences out of town to?—”

“Stop.” I slap my hand against the table.

“Lyd.” Her voice softens. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t want him to either.”

She rests the phone on the table in front of me, and despite the warm day, I shiver. Then my eyes focus on the screen. On a handsome smiling face with a square, clean-shaven jaw. The lines around his mouth so familiar I could draw them with my eyes closed. My heart sinks as I recognize the photograph, though at first I can’t remember where it’s from. There’s something odd about the way it’s cropped, the way he’s crammed over to one side. It’s clearly not the whole picture, but I’m not sure what’s missing. He doesn’t look into the camera, but there’s a smirk on his face. The kind he gets when he’s amused but doesn’t want to admit it. Like someone told a stupid joke and he couldn’t help but laugh. I stare at him for a second, at the trees in the background, the collar of his shirt—and then I know. The pic is from my sister’s wedding last year. And if you looked at it and thought something was missing, you’d be right. Because I was right on his arm when it was taken, laughing at the same joke.

He’s cut me out of the picture. Literally.

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