Page 13 of Unmatched

I have a framed copy of this photo in its entirety in my office at The Pooch Park. Anton wears a suit every day for work, but since I spend my days with dogs, it’s rare I get to dress up, and I loved how we looked together. Him in a suit, me in a form-fitting blue cocktail dress. I wasn’t a bridesmaid, so I wore something I actually liked. We looked like the ideal couple. Young, attractive, successful.

Happy?

I had thought so.

I study the cropped version again, and in a moment of fatalistic clarity, I can see why he chose it. He looks great in the shot. Sexy, mature, and ready to pounce. It would’ve been the ideal profile picture if my head hadn’t been resting on his shoulder.

The screen of Caprice’s phone times out and goes black in front of me.

I don’t look up. I don’t want to see the expression my friends will wear when they feel sorry for me. When they think I’ve been cheated on.

Caprice puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Look, a friend of mine knows an attorney and?—”

“What?” I blink at her.

She pulls back, sitting straighter in her chair. “Lyd, he has a profile on?—”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” I pause, trying to rein in the shrillness of my voice. “Not necessarily.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line. “Sure. Look, why don’t you just take some time to process? You probably shouldn’t do anything right away.”

I shake my head, absently bringing my empty mug to my lips. Is she just assuming we’ll divorce? Anton and I could never split up. I mean, okay, we have our problems, but we have a solid foundation. One unverified online profile hardly means our marriage is over.

Is it?

I close my eyes. When we got married straight out of college, my mom said we were too young. She warned I wouldn’t be enough for him, that he’d get tired of me just like Dad. But all our friends said we were the forever couple. The ones who were supposed to make it. We’ve been together ten years, married seven, and had So. Much. Promise.

But we couldn’t hack it . . .

No.

He couldn’t.

I ball my fists, moisture welling in my eyes. I hate the possibility that my mother might’ve been right.

Caprice clears her throat. “Had he said anything recently? Did you know he was unhappy?”

I stare at her, trying to make sense of her question. Did I know? How could I possibly have known? I open my mouth to make this obvious point, but a twinge in my gut stops me before I can say it out loud. Anton hasn’t said he’s unhappy. But he slept on the couch all night Saturday, and we haven’t had much conversation outside of the changing weather, what to eat, and of course, the Pooches.

“I...” My face heats, my voice coming out a whisper. “I’ve been a little preoccupied...”

Her brows knit with sympathy. “Of course. You’re busy. Anyone who knows you can see that.”

I shake my head, thinking back to Saturday night. I had tried. We didn’t wind up going out because I was tired, but I still came home and rallied. I jumped in the shower right away, washing off all the dog hair and grime. Even though I still had a million things I needed to do for work after we ate, I put all of that aside and followed him to bed, figuring I’d give him a happy surprise. I never really know how to get things started, but I was assertive, reaching out for him in the dark. When I guided his hand inside my pants, inviting him to explore further, I thought he’d be excited to slide my clothes off and take care of the rest. We’ve done it that way before. He slips in from behind and we do it on our sides. It’s actually more comfortable for me that way, not so intense. He can reach around and grab where he wants, and it’s easy to fall asleep after.

But that isn’t what happened.

He got up and left instead.

A tear tracks down my cheek, and Caprice grabs my hand. “Lydia?”

I meet her gaze for the first time since I became the friend whose husband cheats and her face is everything I dreaded it would be. “I tried,” I say, fighting to breathe through a rapidly clogging nose. “I’ve been trying.”

Caprice’s grasp tightens around mine. “Hey. No way are you going to blame yourself for this. No married person gets to just date other people when things get hard. Whatever else has been happening”—she waves her phone in front of me—“this is on him.”

I hear her speaking, trying to say something comforting, but before her words even reach me, my doubts drown them out. He booked us a vacation. Planned a whole getaway at that hot springs place in the mountains. But I panicked about work and refused to go. Okay, if I’m honest, I guess I panicked a little about his intimate expectations too. Is that what triggered all this? What if I’d said yes instead? Would any of this be happening now?

My phone buzzes with a text. Not from Anton. Just Tomás asking if I’m still picking up donuts for the staff meeting this afternoon. I drag my gaze back to Caprice, my voice croaking. “I need to get back to work.”

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