Page 18 of Unmatched

I swallow hard and remove myself from the thread.

Maybe I’m just in a shitty mood, but it seems like you’d have to qualify as a halfway decent mother before labeling yourself a superlative grandparent. I guess what bothers me more than that is knowing my mother would have earned the T-shirt and then some. She could have grandma’d circles around Marion.

And because the universe loves to punctuate pain, my screen lights up at this moment with a call from my brother.

I swipe to answer and immediately say, “What’s wrong?” figuring I’ll spare him working up to it.

“Anton. Nice to hear your voice. How’s the weather there in Denver?”

“What happened?” I ask, even as it dawns on me that I’m the one who wants to be spared.

“Relax, man. All sh—di—wa—bi—som—” he continues speaking, but his voice breaks up so badly I can barely make out the words. Downsides of Mom’s new facility. The reception inside is terrible. I’m about to hang up and wait for him to call back when my brain fills in the blanks.

“Wait. What do you mean all she did was bite someone?”

“Apparently it happens.” His voice is clear again. “But the staff here have been amazing, okay? No one is blaming her or pissed at us. They’ve changed some of their precautions, but they’re still doing everything to give her the utmost care.”

I rest my head against my steering wheel. And only as my pulse throbs against the leather do I realize how hard my heart is pounding. A month ago, Mom punched a staff member at the old facility, and I had to fly to Dallas to help Seth deal with the situation. They’d decided to keep her restrained since no one there wanted to handle her, and her physical condition deteriorated so much we had to pull her out.

“You’re right. That does sound better.” I sigh.

But it doesn’t seem like the right word, knowing what we used to have. She was one of those moms who never forgot a birthday. Who decorated for every holiday—even the ones most of us forget. She went to our soccer practices, drove us to music lessons, and sent us monthly care packages after we left for college. Now, she attacks the people who tend to her and can barely recognize her own sons. In darker moments, I wonder if dementia wouldn’t have come for her so early if Dad hadn’t died so young. Maybe her brain would’ve been okay if she hadn’t had to weather his car accident when we were still in elementary school and figure so many things out on her own. Maybe we wouldn’t be dealing with any of this if he’d just stayed by her side and grown old with her.

Lydia lost her dad too, but he walked out when she was little, and to hear Marion tell it, they were better off because he did. My parents loved each other so much. Mom acted like Dad hung the moon, and he orbited around her like she was the sun. They had the kind of marriage most people only dream about. And honestly, when I first met Lydia, it’s what I thought I’d found.

“So, I’m headed out,” Seth says, starting up his car in the background. “Going to shower the nursing home smell off, then go find a woman to bury myself in and forget this day ever happened.”

“Sounds...refreshing,” I say, careful to keep my voice even. It isn’t lost on me that we have similar short-term goals. But while Seth seems to find what he needs in the arms of strangers, it feels like Lydia and I have become strangers in our own bedroom.

“Exactly,” he says. “Say hey to Lydia and your pooch.”

I end the call and navigate on autopilot to the nearest takeout place I can find. A Cuban restaurant Lydia loves. We used to eat here on the patio all the time, hanging out into the evening, but I actually can’t remember the last time we did that. I get the food to go and make my way home, trying to convince myself we’ll spend the evening together, that she’ll come home when I need her just this once.

At seven o’clock, my phone pings with a text.

Lydia

Working late, don’t wait on dinner.

I glance toward the kitchen where I ate an hour ago. Where her food sits waiting in the fridge. I don’t reply. If I hadn’t driven by and seen her walking Heartthrob outside Pooch Park on my way home I’m not even sure I’d believe her. I thought about pulling into the lot and asking if she wanted help with supply orders or bookkeeping. I would have without hesitation last week. But something changed between us Saturday night. I’m not sure if it’s her fault or mine or if we’re both to blame. But today I get the distinct sense she is at work hiding from me.

Since I came home I’ve tooled around, sorted through mail, and taken out the trash. But once her message comes through, I sink to a chair and stare at my phone, trying to come up with any reason not to open up Unmatched. It’s been burning a hole in my pocket all evening, tempting me to check for messages or at least re-read old ones. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look. Maybe browse a few profiles. Kill time until she comes home, we go to bed, and...sleep.

I’ve barely had the app open fifteen minutes when a new message alert pops up. I purse my lips. This has never happened in real time.

LonelyGirl8

Hey, sexy. Looking for some fun?

At first, I don’t think much of it. It’s similar to the nine other generic messages I’ve received. A line sent to attract attention, gauge interest, but nothing stands out about it. I suppose it could even have been sent by a bot. But when I click on LonelyGirl8’s profile, something stirs in my groin. Her pic is the kind I can get off to. Mostly tits—sizable ones at that. Not the kind you touch with just your fingers, but big enough to grab by the handful. Like Lydia’s. The rest of the image is similar to others I’ve seen on Unmatched—face somewhat obscured, but clearly pretty. A come-fuck-me expression peeking out from behind a sweep of long, dark blonde hair. My brain doesn’t need much more. I can already imagine wrapping that hair around my fist while I fuck this girl from behind.

Lydia doesn’t like to let her hair down during sex. Says she doesn’t want it to get sticky.

I read over the profile info quickly. This girl checks all my favorite boxes as far as looks, and honestly, her description reads a lot like my own. Bored, unfulfilled wife looking for discreet out-of-town adventures with fit, early-thirties male. Sounds familiar. Skimming over the rest, she clearly has ideas about sex on beaches and in hotels that jibe with my own.

But it’s the picture that really does it for me. The hair, the tits, the playfulness—she reminds me of a fantasy version of my wife.

I put the phone down, adjust my pants, and slowly exhale. When I set up this account, I promised myself I wouldn’t send or respond to any messages. And I haven’t so far. But this is definitely the most I’ve been tempted. With Lydia at work—ignoring or avoiding me for the fifth night this week—it’s hard not to be. But here is a woman I could almost pretend is my wife, inviting me to touch her, showing off more of her body than Lydia’s been willing to share for months. Not out of some sense of duty or obligation, but because she longs for intimacy as much as I do. Because she actually desires me.

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