Page 17 of Unmatched

Height: 5’7”

Weight: 140lbs

Eyes: Blue

Hair: Blonde

Build: Curvy

Interest: Men

When I’m finished, I hand the phone to Caprice with a trembling hand and sit back in my chair. “All I need now is the right profile picture. What do you think?”

Her eyes widen as she reads. “Lydia, this is...”

“Brilliant?” I ask.

“Don’t call yourself curvy, ” she says.

I frown. “Uh, well, I’ve got mega hips and boobs.”

“Yes, you do, but curvy means something totally different to the men on here.” She edits my profile briefly and keeps scrolling.

I wrinkle my nose, looking over her shoulder. “I’m not ‘athletic.’”

“You’re more athletic than curvy to these guys, trust me.”

“Fine. What about the rest?”

She clears her throat and reads aloud. “‘Bored, unfulfilled wife looking for discreet out-of-town adventures with fit, early-thirties male. Preferably on the beach, but let’s get started between the sheets at a nice hotel.’ Nice nod to his profile. ‘If we hit it off, you can spank me for being naughty—’” She looks up from the screen, lip curled in curious surprise. “Spank you, huh?”

I thought it seemed racy and daring when I wrote it, but my face burns with her looking at me that way. “Maybe I’ll skip that line...”

“No. If you want it, keep it.” She hands the phone back to me with a look I’ve never seen. Like I’m someone she hasn’t met before. I can’t tell if she thinks this is a good or bad thing, but it’s exactly the reaction I was shooting for. “I still don’t get it, though, Lydia. What are you going to do with all this?”

“What else?” I ignore the hot prickle of my skin, pressing my mouth into a hard smile. “I’m going to cheat.”

CHAPTER NINE

Nine messages. Since the moment I signed up on Unmatched, nine women (supposedly, I guess) have checked out my profile, liked what they saw, and reached out. I haven’t replied to any of them, and I don’t intend to. I’m sticking to my rules. But it’s been weirdly validating. Like walking into a bar and having nine separate women come up to tell me they want me, and knowing I could go to bed with any one I pick. Except I’m safely behind my phone, staying out of reach and out of trouble.

It’s been exactly what I needed, though. A distraction to get through a very tough week. Lydia and I used to always spend Sundays together since I’m off and both her businesses are closed. We’d go hiking in the foothills, ride our bikes around town, or just stay home and cook ourselves an elaborate lunch. This Sunday was a low point, waking up in separate rooms. And over the last four days, things haven’t really improved. I’ve left early every morning for the gym, and she’s been working late into the evenings. We’re back to sleeping on separate sides of the same bed, but we haven’t talked about what happened or why.

We’ve barely spoken at all.

As I leave my office Thursday, I can’t take it anymore. I decide to shoot her a text. I just want to ask how she is. What her day has been like. If she misses me as much as I miss her. I take my phone out of my pocket, but then my confidence wavers. Maybe I’ll ask what she wants for dinner first. That’s more neutral. But as I unlock the screen, I find thirty new messages on a group text I have muted. I open the thread, worried something serious is going on, and I’m immediately bombarded with It’s A Boy! GIFs declaring that Lydia’s sister has given birth and congratulating their mom on becoming a grandmother.

My appetite disappears. I’d forgotten Celia and her husband were expecting. Lydia shared the news months ago, not long after we attended their wedding. But she and her sister aren’t close, so it hasn’t really come up since. For some reason, though, this announcement feels like a punch in the gut.

Like they’re doing something right. And we’re doing it all wrong.

Marion

Finally! Someone came through with a grandchild!

I roll my eyes. I can tolerate my mother-in-law, mostly because she lives in another state and I only have to speak to her on holidays. But Lydia isn’t afforded that luxury, and trying to help her negate interactions with her mom is an ongoing battle. Every time we come back from a visit, Lydia goes on some brutal diet, brings up going back to school, or finds some other way to second-guess her existence. After Celia’s wedding, she buried herself even deeper in work, which I hadn’t thought possible. I can only guess how she’s feeling now.

Then Marion sends a picture of herself in a glittery T-shirt that says World’s Greatest Grandma.

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