Page 36 of Unmatched

“I think I’ll take this one,” I say grudgingly, but also eyeing the new sets with more optimism. “And I guess I should try on what I actually came in for.”

She leaves me with an array of satin, lace, and bows. I reach for the made-of-nothing set to eliminate it first. Even in the right size, I’m positive it’s going to look ridiculous. I take a minute to figure out what goes where since the structure of the bra seems like a suggestion at best, but I finally figure it out and even pull the “panties” on over my big, comfy, full-coverage nude underwear.

My face goes scarlet in the mirror. A phrase Caprice uses—sex on a stick—comes to mind, and I blush even harder. I may have needed a lot of imagination to consider this set, but very little is required once it’s on. My nipples are completely visible through the sheer black fabric, and the way the bra is structured, my breasts look like two floating snow globes, my bare skin rising and falling above the neckline with each breath. It plunges in the middle, giving me gravity-defying cleavage I wouldn’t have thought physically possible. And the panties. Oh my God. Even over my wide cotton underpants, even with certain vital areas missing, they flatter my hips and ass and suggest nothing but sex, sex, sex.

They’re perfect.

More than an hour after I walked in, I step out of Allure Lingerie wearing my new favorite nude bra, feeling more attractive than I have in months. I carry a bag with two delicately wrapped fancy bras and panties. Which, I have to admit, do seem totally different from the cotton bikinis I call underwear, making them perfect for the next step of my plan.

A small flash of regret flutters through me that I only bought this lingerie as a means to end my marriage. The delicate fabric makes me feel so sexy and feminine, it seems a bit of a waste. But I want Anton to see everything he’s losing when I wear it. Everything he thought he could find elsewhere. I never want him to forget how good I looked right before I told him I want a divorce.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Monday. Today’s the day.

I went to the gym extra early this morning. Skipped coffee in favor of a smoothie. Listened to classical music all the way to work. Nothing will settle my nerves. My overnight bag is packed and waiting in my truck—toothbrush, razor, condoms, change of clothes. I took a remote office day tomorrow. Even invented a quick trip to Phoenix that I put on my shared calendar with Lydia.

But when my brother called with an update on Mom’s bloodwork halfway through my commute, I nearly rear-ended the person in front of me. I keep swinging back and forth between excitement and wanting to throw up. There is apparently a vast difference between fantasizing about an affair and actually going through with it.

At least I didn’t have to look my wife in the eye today. I left for the gym before she was up. She sent a text wishing me a safe trip, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I am either about to do the stupidest or the best thing for us. I’m just not sure which.

“Morning, Riya,” I say to our receptionist as I pass through the doors of Vesper Financial Advisers.

“Hi, Anton. How’s your wife?”

I trip over my own feet, nearly dropping my briefcase and phone. I straighten and stare at her.

“She feeling better?” Riya asks, brows drawn.

Oh. Faintly, I remember her being among the gaggle of women outside the bathroom at Carl's house. She saw that Lydia was sick and knew we had to leave. Which makes sense. She cares. She’s concerned.

I don’t have a bright red “A” emblazoned on my forehead. Not yet.

“Uh, yeah, she’s much better now, thanks.” Actually, she made a full recovery the next day, miraculously in time to get to work. “Just a stomach bug, I guess.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She gives me a funny smile, and I nod, continuing past the conference rooms and down the hall, greeting a few other coworkers. I avoid their gazes and questions, assured Riya will bring them all up to speed, and breathe a sigh when I reach my office. The room isn’t huge, but it’s my own space with a door that closes, which is a far cry from the cubicle I started in. My desk is just the way I left it Friday—neat, with only a few files I left out for today. There’s a pen holder, a box of tissues, and a framed photo of Lydia and me on our wedding day. With a weight in my stomach, I angle it away, facing the visitor side of the desk.

“Anton, glad I caught you,” Carl says, appearing in the doorway. “I’m heading into a meeting, but Myra’s coming in this morning, and I want you to take care of her. Nothing crazy, just an account review, and she wants to discuss setting up a 529 plan for her nephew.”

I jot a few notes on an empty pad of paper, then smile at him. “I’d be happy to help. Thanks for your confidence, Carl.”

“I know she’ll be in good hands,” he says. “Myra already liked you, but she pretty much insisted you take her account after meeting your wife. She said Lydia helped her decide to get a Havanese, and she wants to book all her grooming with Ooh La Pooch.”

I chuckle reflexively. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Carl grins. “How’s she feeling, by the way?”

“Much better, thanks,” I say easily this time.

“Glad to hear it,” Carl says, glancing at the photo on my desk. “Eva thought...well, I’ll be sure to let her know she’s okay now.”

He disappears and I close the door, my gut twisting with a mix of gratitude toward Lydia for doing exactly what I’d hoped she’d do at the party, guilt over what I’m planning to do tonight, and the ongoing resentment that I’m in this position at all. I made myself sleep in bed with her all weekend. She may have recovered from whatever happened at the party quickly, but she didn’t exactly turn to me hot for sex. I stayed on my side of the bed, and she stayed on hers. She even managed to resurrect her sex-repelling pajamas. Which was all kinds of weirdly affirming. Nothing in our bedroom is going to change. People like Myra might assume our private life is one thing when the reality is something else. If we’re already living one lie, does it matter if I add another?

I open Unmatched on my phone, pulling up the most recent message from the woman I’ll finally meet tonight.

LonelyGirl8

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