Page 24 of Unmatched

I pull out the phone again. Not to open the messages—I just want one more look at the woman who truly seemed to want me. I don’t trust most of what’s posted on Unmatched, but after our exchange, this girl seems more genuine. I click on her picture and it’s even better than I remember. She’s clearly beautiful, seems adventurous, and God, those tits. They’re almost as nice as Lydia’s.

I stare at her, trying to fill in the blanks, wondering what she does for work. What she’s into. Her profile says she’s married, but what brought her to the app? It seems ludicrous that anyone could ignore a woman who looks like this, but it also seems insane that my gorgeous wife completely hates sex.

After ten minutes or so, I hear Lydia’s car pull into the driveway. It’s still too early to be asleep, but I flip the TV on, lock my phone, and shut my eyes anyway. I don’t really feel up to attempting pleasantries. She’s been gone almost twelve hours, and we’ve barely exchanged two texts. I have no idea what kind of day she’s had, and she doesn’t know what mine was like either. It’s like we’re becoming strangers inside and outside the bedroom.

The door opens, and Heartthrob runs in and sniffs me. He probably wants me to play tug or toss the ball in the yard, but I roll to face the back of the couch and he gives up, settling on his bed in the corner with an old forgotten bone.

Lydia comes in behind him, carrying a bunch of stuff from the sound of it. She has to walk right by the couch on her way to the kitchen and my whole body tenses as she hesitates next to me. There’s an intake of breath like she’s going to speak, and I just pray she doesn’t. I don’t think I can carry on a conversation with my wife right after exchanging messages about another woman’s tits.

I pretend to snore, burying my face in an old blanket. It carries scents of flowers and French vanilla, of her, and instantly the moment—hell, the entire last few hours—is sabotaged by memory. We brought this blanket the first time we went camping together. It was Memorial Day, and since neither of us is actually from Colorado, we thought it would be a good weekend to go to the mountains. We borrowed a tent and some other gear from friends, but the temperature plunged, and it snowed overnight. We kept from freezing by huddling naked together under this blanket inside the tent.

I can nearly taste the sweetness of her hardened nipples beneath that fabric. Feel the softness of her warm curves under my hands. She was hesitant to make love outdoors, but that was a huge turn-on for me. We spent the whole night in each other’s arms, and it was one of the best I can remember.

We’ve gone camping many times since, but she always stays firmly in her own sleeping bag.

My fist tightens around my phone. With a few swipes of my thumb, I could get my rocks off with a woman as frustrated as I am. But lying here, curled into this blanket, my dick is at half mast for my wife standing next to me.

Or maybe just her memory.

I breathe through my mouth, cutting off the scents and recollections buried in the fabric. Lydia exhales and continues into the kitchen. I listen as she makes a cup of tea. Unloads the dishwasher. Sets up the blender for my protein smoothie tomorrow morning. My heart softens a little. She does make some little gestures for me. Eventually, she visits the bathroom, then shuts herself in our room, closing the door between us with a secure thud.

I actually think about going in. Getting naked and crawling into bed with her. Searching for some reason not to reopen Unmatched. Maybe she’d be naked under the covers too. Maybe she’s in there now, just waiting for me to join her.

I don’t move. I’ve gone in with those hopes hundreds of times, and that’s never what happens. Instead, I set my phone alarm so I can get out of the house before she’s awake. Then, as a reward to myself for not reaching out to LonelyGirl8, I pull up my favorite porn feed. The amateur one composed of real couples, not that terrible mass-produced crap. I drift off to GIFs of naked wives who resemble mine, flashing their tits and fucking their husbands with great big smiles.

Outside, the sky is just beginning to lighten. I tiptoe out of our bedroom, my shoes tucked under my arm. I managed to sneak in and get dressed in the dark without waking Lydia, and there’s a fifty percent chance my socks even match, but just as I pull our door closed behind me, my phone chimes loudly in my pocket.

Eva Wallace

Hey! You and Lydia are the only ones I haven’t heard from. You two coming to Carl's party tonight?

I wipe my hand over my face. I’d meant to RSVP over the weekend, but I was in such a foul mood by Sunday it must’ve slipped my mind. I’ve been at Vesper Financial Advisers for five years, and I enjoy it there. My boss, Carl, essentially lets me handle my own clients and do things the way I want, but about twice a year his wife Eva finds some excuse to institute “mandatory fun,” and his fiftieth birthday is her latest effort. The last thing I ever want to do on a Friday night is spend more time with my coworkers, and normally I might find an excuse to skip out. But yesterday Carl mentioned, rather pointedly, that the owner of one of our biggest accounts will also be at this party. An account he’s talked about putting me in charge of, and admittedly, one I really, really want.

For a second, I consider just going by myself. I’m too ashamed of how I spent the previous evening to even say good morning to Lydia, let alone invite her to a social event. But I actually can’t imagine going without her either. Lydia’s good at parties. When she walks into a room, everyone looks at her instead of me. She laughs at the right times, asks the right questions. Plus I’ve never gone to one of these things by myself, so it would be weird if I showed up alone. People might ask questions. Ones I’m afraid to answer out loud.

Before I can figure out how to reply to the text, the bedroom door opens. Lydia starts when she sees me, wrapped in her robe and clearly only half awake. Heartthrob bounds down the hall beside her.

“Morning,” she says, not quite looking my way. She navigates around me, careful not to let our bodies touch, even with both of us fully clothed. On her way to the coffeepot, and then work, as always. I received an invite to an early meeting today, and I’m already crabby about having to skip the gym. But I can’t go into the office without resolving this stupid invitation. I clear my throat before she reaches the kitchen.

“There’s a party for Carl Wallace tonight. I told Eva we’d go.”

It comes out as an order rather than an invite, making me sound like a dick. But I’m afraid of giving her the option to say no.

She turns, letting her gaze slide over me, taking in my suit and the shoes still gripped under my left arm. Ages pass, and she says nothing, her expression completely blank. Then, with a strike of terror, I wonder if she knows. She couldn’t—but what if, somehow, she found out I was messaging another woman last night? A woman who invited me to do all manner of things with her naked body. A woman I have been trying to forget ever since I woke.

My lips part. I try to ready some excuse, only what the hell is there to say?

But then she runs her hands through her hair and sort of smiles. “His fiftieth, right? Sounds like fun. What time?”

Somewhere deep in my gut, a tiny cache of tension releases. She doesn’t know. She can’t.

I haven’t completely fucked up our marriage.

“Invitation said seven,” I say, letting out a slow breath.

“Great. I’ll pick up a gift and be ready by six thirty.”

She continues past me into the kitchen, and I follow, watching her go about making coffee, turning on the blender, feeding Heartthrob. The things she does every day. Her movements are light; nothing seems out of the ordinary. But that whole exchange just felt a little too easy.

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