Page 33 of Unmatched

I’m about to put the phone away when I notice a new notification from my shared calendar with Anton.

Business Trip - Phoenix

Monday April 17 - Tuesday April 18

My stomach lurches. My palms go clammy. I don’t know why this hits harder than anything else this evening—any of his other lies. But for some reason, it seems like a direct slap in the face. I swipe back to my messages.

Sorry it’s late. Can you do me a huge favor?

Tomás

What’s up?

I need to go out of town next week. I’ll be gone Mon/Tues, but back by Wednesday, I promise. I wanted to ask ASAP in case that’s a problem.

Tomás

Not at all! Anton finally convince you to do the hot springs thing?

My lip curls. He told Tomás about that?

Will you be okay if I’m gone? Can I have Scarlet call you if she has issues?

Tomás

Of course. We’ll be fine! You guys deserve a nice getaway.

A metallic taste fills my mouth.

Thanks, Tom. You’re the best. ??

I make a mental note to give him a healthy raise at his next review. If the guy wasn’t happily married—and gay—I might divorce Anton and marry him.

Okay, no, I wouldn’t.

Except I guess maybe the divorce thing is going to happen.

I put my robe on and go to the door. I’ve delayed as long as possible, but I just need to suck it up and get in bed with Anton, if that’s where he is. Only two nights, I tell myself. I’ll work late tomorrow. Sunday, I’ll make an excuse to hang out with Caprice. But I have a lot to do before Monday night.

I turn the knob and lean into the hall, listening. There’s no sound—no television and no snoring. I take a hesitant step out, then instead of hanging a left into our bedroom, I head straight down the hall. We bought this house five years ago. It’s tiny, but has been just right for the two of us—and might’ve been for three, I think as I pass our second bedroom. Though that little dream is disappearing now. I’ve never been someone who desperately wanted babies, but despite my conversation with my mother, I’ve always envisioned kids as part of our future. Taking them to school, going on family trips. Having a reason to make magic on Christmas morning. In a way, my mom is right. I’m twenty-nine. If Anton and I split now, I guess there’s a real chance none of that will ever happen. I might not meet someone else and get that ball rolling again in time.

And what would that even be like, waking up with another man? Going about my whole life with someone who’s currently still a stranger? Would he be as handsome as Anton? As interesting to talk to? Anton and I met my second semester of college, and not to be cliché, but it truly felt like I’d found my missing “other half.” We were finishing each other’s sentences after only a month. I never had to explain my frustrations with my mom and sister or the career goals I couldn’t quite define until I got into the pet industry. He just welcomed me into his family, cheered me on, and was basically everything anyone might desire in a spouse.

But I guess maybe I wasn’t.

I step carefully down our steep basement stairs in the dark. When I make it to our little laundry space, I reach into the overflowing hamper next to the washing machine on a hunch, digging until I find my blue-striped pajamas at the bottom. They’re wrinkled and smell a little musty, but when I pull them to my chest, the gallop of my heart seems to slow. I hadn’t even realized how hard it was beating.

After slipping them on, I walk carefully back up the stairs and through the kitchen, pausing outside our bedroom. Now I can hear it—not a snore, but deep, regular breathing. My shoulders relax a bit. I tiptoe into the room, past Heartthrob snoozing in his dog bed, and over to my side.

Anton’s outline is visible in the soft moonlight through the window, and for a second I convince myself everything that’s happened this week was just a bad dream. I sink to the mattress, where I can see the sharp outline of his jaw that I used to snuggle close to and trace with my thumb. My throat tightens, and despite all the anger I am currently channeling, I find myself wondering where things went wrong. How I wasn’t enough.

But then I think of the “business trip” on our calendar and how he probably fell asleep thinking about the busty woman he met online. Blood roars through my ears. I bunch the covers in my hands, and suddenly I can’t wait for Monday night. As if he can hear my thoughts, he shifts position, rolling toward me. I hold my breath, waiting for him to open his eyes and catch me looking. Wondering what he would say. Or if he would say anything at all.

When he doesn’t move again after several minutes, I slip under the duvet, keeping as far as I can toward my side of the bed. Grateful for the comfy striped pajamas between us. Except now I’m hardly sleepy. I pick up my phone, thinking it will serve as a distraction. Instead, I wind up doomscrolling stories about women catching their husbands cheating. Ladies following men and their lovers to motels or coming home midday to find them in their own beds with someone else. Ugh. The more I read, the more relieved I am that I intercepted Anton’s booty call. I’ll be able to confront him without actually having to see him with someone else.

Still, it feels like something’s missing from my plan.

I’ve set up the date. I’m going to meet him at the hotel and have my “gotcha” moment when he arrives to find me there instead of his stupid fantasy girl. But how can I catch him and make him feel sorry he’s losing me? Make him regret giving up on us without giving me more of a chance?

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