Page 40 of Unmatched

“Okay,” he says in a ragged voice. “If that’s what you want.”

I fold my arms over my chest in an effort to regain my confidence. “How many others have there been? Did you bring them all here?”

“You’re the first,” he says. “The only.”

A lump forms in my throat. That’s what I’ve thought since college—that our first times were together, and there’s never been anyone else. I swallow hard. “Why should I believe that?”

He shrugs, raising his gaze to my face, eyes not straying anywhere on my body this time. When he speaks again, his words come out cool. “Is it going to matter if you do?” He rises from the bed, crosses to the chair, and slips on his boxer briefs.

I hesitate. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Getting dressed.” His voice is flat and emotionless.

“Why?”

He pauses at this admittedly ridiculous question, then continues gathering his things. I don’t know why that came out of my mouth, why my stomach tightens more with every article of clothing he finds. Why I suddenly wish I’d said and done everything leading up to this moment differently.

“I’ll move my stuff out this weekend,” he says. “We can start the paperwork before that. I see no reason to make this uglier than it already is.”

He takes his shirt off the chair, slips it on, and turns away as he does the buttons. I stare at his back, stiff and straight, at the well-carved curve of his ass, and try to imagine what he’d take from our house. What things are his? Which are mine? How could he even tell?

He pulls on his pants, tucking in his shirt while I sit on the bed, now very underdressed for the somber occasion. I pull a blanket across my lap, envisioning myself getting up for work next week, alone in our home. Not texting him during the day with silly GIFs or asking what he’s doing for lunch. And then I think of Heartthrob. Who will keep him? Is there shared custody for dogs? I picture his eager face rushing in after work, looking for Anton to play, and finding the house empty. Dear God, it breaks my heart to think about our poor disappointed dog.

As Anton locates his shoes, nearly dressed, a sense of dread pools in my gut. Maybe it’s guilt, which is stupid. Or a healthy dose of remorse. Maybe it’s what he said—about only wanting me. But I’m overcome with this horrible feeling, like once he walks out the door, that will be it. I’ll never see him again.

And even though I came here with every intention of ending our relationship, suddenly I’m no longer sure that’s what I want.

He picks up his keys. Duffle bag. Reaches for the door handle.

“Wait—” I say, rising from the bed. The blanket falls away, landing around my ankles.

Anton stops, hand on the knob. Lingering an eternity, presumably waiting for me to say something else, to do something.

“Why?” he finally asks when I don’t speak. He doesn’t turn to look at me. But there’s something in his tone that wasn’t there a second ago. Regret? Maybe disgust. I falter, unsure if it’s meant for me or for himself.

“I—” I stammer, trying to figure out what I want to say. “I don’t want you to move out.”

He lets go of the knob and turns to stare at me. Goose flesh rises on my arms. “Why?”

I open my mouth, but I’m still having trouble understanding myself.

He gestures to me, the wig on the floor, the entire hotel room. “If you don’t want to be rid of me, Lydia, what was the point of all this?”

I press my lips together. It’s a legitimate question. But I don’t know the answer anymore. I was so sure of myself as I lay in wait tonight, driven by hurt and betrayal. Ready to catch my no-good, cheating husband in a salacious act. So how come, now that I’ve pulled it off, I’m second-guessing? Why, instead of feeling glorious, is a voice inside me screaming not to let him go?

You are all I’ve ever wanted.

Do I really believe that? Or am I just afraid?

In a shaky voice, I whisper, “Have you really never”—I swallow past the burning in my throat—“been with anyone else?”

His jaw tightens, but his chin dips in a nearly imperceptible nod.

I drop my gaze, trying not to shiver as I stare at my hands. “Then why did you come here tonight?”

There’s a long silence. In which I become too aware of everything in the room. The tear in the carpet by the closet. The drip of the bathroom faucet. The forced air blowing cool under the curtain. The way he’s dressed and I’m not. Like we aren’t a married couple and this is some other kind of transaction.

He takes a shallow breath. “Lydia, it’s been?—”

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