Page 42 of Unmatched

But it doesn’t matter. Because even though she wore it, enticed me with it, she still pushed me away.

I grip the wheel, searching for the headlights of her Toyota in my rearview mirror. She would have had to dress and pack up, but even if we’d left together, at the rate I’m going she’d be several miles back. I’ll beat her home by a good fifteen minutes, and I’m still so mortified by everything that happened tonight, I’m tempted to just throw some stuff in a bag and leave before she gets there. I could spend a few nights with Henry. Find a place of my own, hire some movers to go back into the house for my stuff. Can you ghost on a marriage?

Possibly—except for one thing.

You’re talking about our sex life...maybe it’s something we could work on.

I guess I’m enough of an asshole to cheat on my wife, but not enough of one to deny her the chance to try.

I can’t decide if she’s sincere or just trying to punish me, though. Why couldn’t we have worked on it a year ago? Or three? The fact that she actually suggested out loud that we could have sex fills me with stupid hope, but I really wish it didn’t. Because she’ll never follow through. Once we’re home she might make a halfhearted effort. Wear a low-cut shirt, wave her cleavage in front of me, then invite me to get on top of her for ten minutes as per usual. Nothing’s going to make her magically start desiring me. Then she’ll get busy at work, go back to avoiding me, and turn me down the next time I’m desperate enough to make a move.

No fucking thank you. I should have walked away tonight when she was most upset. It would’ve been easier.

And God—I showed up ready to sleep with a stranger. Even if she did want me, I don’t fucking deserve her.

I step into the house and slam the front door. There’s no barking or full-body dog tackle. Lydia must’ve left Heartthrob with Tomás.

I pace from the living room to the kitchen. It’s a small relief we had to drive back separately—I needed the time with my own thoughts—but now I’m all keyed up, wondering what we’re supposed to do when she gets here. Where I should be, what she’s expecting. It’s only eleven o’clock at night. Are we supposed to sit and make small talk? Get into bed? Then what? It figures that after waiting years for her to meet me halfway under the sheets, I’m now dreading it. I don’t know how to touch her after what I did tonight. I can’t imagine she’d ever want to touch me again.

I decide to change clothes just as she pulls into the driveway. She takes her time coming in, and I’m just tying my shoes when she walks in the door.

“Going for a run?” Her eyebrows arch, taking in my joggers and reflective jacket.

“Yeah.” It feels like I should say more, justify my actions, but I’m afraid to. I’ve done enough damage tonight.

“Okay.” She seems to want to say something else too, but she just nods after a moment. “Well, I um...have to catch up on some things.”

My stomach sinks, quickly knotting around her words, despite a simultaneous sense of relief. Of course. She’s going to work. What else would she do? I almost laugh, but the corners of my eyes start to burn, so I keep my face an impassive mask. This is familiar. I know what to do when she works. I zip my jacket and head out the door without another word.

My calves burn like crazy. It was a longer run than I normally would’ve taken so late at night, but it was that or come home. After a while, everything that happened today started piling up in my chest—driving sixty miles for an affair, getting caught, then my marriage not quite falling apart—until I had to slow to a walk. I drag my feet to our front porch, so tired I can hardly stand, but I make myself take time to stretch, hoping Lydia’s gone to sleep. I don’t want to have to face her again. I just want to go to bed and pretend this whole day never fucking happened.

When I finally open the door, the house is dark. I step lightly, easing it closed so it won’t creak, leaving my shoes by the coat rack. She’s not at her desk in the second bedroom when I pass, but that doesn’t mean anything. She carries her laptop all over the place when she works, and our bed is less than sacred. As I get close to our bedroom door, I can hear music playing, which is odd. I’ll put on a playlist sometimes to relax or try to set a mood. She usually listens to podcasts or news reports, saying she prefers to stay informed. I can’t remember the last time she sat back and just played a song.

I head past our door and lock myself in the bathroom. When I turn on the shower, I adjust the spray to make the hot water last as long as possible. Then I just stand there, letting it run down my body, soothing my aching muscles, willing it to cleanse the sin from my skin.

When I’m finally brave enough to leave the confines of the bathroom, I find Lydia curled asleep in our bed. She’s not wearing the lingerie anymore, which is both a relief, and if I’m honest, a total disappointment. But she’s pulled on a sleeveless cotton nightgown that I have to admit I adore because it shows so much skin. She usually saves it for summer when it’s too hot for the striped anti-sex long sleeves. The lights are low, and the music drifting through the room is coming from the small Bluetooth speaker beside the bed. It takes me a few minutes to realize the songs she’s cued up are actually the playlist from our wedding. One of the knots in my chest loosens a little.

Her breathing is low and even, and I linger over her, staring at her yellow hair fanned over the pillow, her parted lips, the smooth planes of her face. She still looks exactly the way she did when we first met, if not somehow more beautiful. I pull the blankets up over her shoulders, my hand hovering by her cheek, heart caught in my chest. I wasn’t lying when I told her she’s all I’ve ever wanted—she is. I just don’t think she’ll ever feel the same way about me.

I turn out the light and walk around to my side, shedding my towel and slipping under the covers naked, but staying as close to the edge of the bed as I can. I unlock my phone and pull up my alarm app out of habit, my thumb poised over five a.m. when I like to go to the gym. But something stops me from setting it this time. For one, despite the shower, my legs already feel like they’re ready to fall off. If I work out tomorrow, it’s going to be arm work only.

But another part of me wants to stay in, see what happens in the morning. I’m not delusional; I don’t expect her to roll over tomorrow hot for morning sex. Honestly, it would make more sense if she changed her mind and threw all my clothes out the front window. But I keep thinking about the tremor in her voice when she said, I don’t want you to move out. And the corresponding lump that formed in my own throat. Would she really put in the work we need? Or are we both delaying the inevitable? I hate setting myself up for more disappointment, and it feels like that’s what I’m about to do. But I’m curious—and probably stupid—enough to wait and see.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It takes me a minute to register his weight next to me on the mattress. The heat of his skin beneath the covers. The rhythm of his breath. He’s actually here. I’d half expected him to be gone before I woke up. If not gone gone, at the very least off at the gym for some killer workout. But it’s already six thirty. The sun is up. Either he slept through his alarm, or he never set one.

I sit up, realizing my alarms didn’t go off either. I need to look at my messages and check in with my managers. It’s Tuesday, which means there’s a whole list of things I need to do. I still haven’t gone through a stack of references for employee applications. A drain in one of the Ooh La Pooch tubs is running slow and might need a plumber. I have a list of questions to answer for a feature with a local magazine. I need to email my bank about the financing for the new location, and of course, I’m having issues with payroll...

I swipe my phone off the bedside table, thumb hovering over the screen as I calculate how long it will take me to get dressed and out the door. But then Anton stirs beside me, flooding my brain with memories of last night, and I’m pulled back into my bedroom, where the walls feel like they’re closing in. I run a hand through my hair, drawing my knees to my chest.

I’ll do things however you want...but I can’t go on the way it’s been.

I clutch the phone in my hand. It doesn’t seem like he should be laying down conditions. Maybe I have some things to work on, but he’s the one who went to a hotel to screw someone else.

Even as my skin flushes with this thought, my gaze strays back to my husband, flitting over his form like I’m afraid to look too hard and somehow wake him. Why? Because he might reach for me? Because I don’t want him to?

My stomach twists.

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