Page 61 of Unmatched

Lydia follows him in, setting her purse and a few other things down on a kitchen chair.

“Got you dinner,” I say without looking at her. She could’ve figured that out herself just by looking at the table, but I decide to go the extra mile to fill the silence.

“Oh, thank you—” she cuts off like she was about to say more, then just stands there, staring at the sandwich like she’s not sure what to do with it.

I grunt and move past her, putting the dish down for the dog, then heading for the back door. I can’t bring myself to climb in bed when the sun is still up, so yard maintenance it is.

She squeaks awkwardly behind me. “I um thought...”

I wait for her to finish whatever she’s trying to say. She’s holding a black plastic bag in her hands and just stands there, crinkling the material. I reach for the door.

“Do you want to—” she chokes. Then she takes a deep breath and sighs. “I mean, it’s been a while since we...um, stayed in together.”

I close my eyes, trying not to clench my jaw as I realize what she’s suggesting. Lydia’s version of a “date night” is staying in on the couch, watching some period drama while she tries not to come close enough to touch me. My gut twists because I think I’m supposed to see this invite as effort, but I just...can’t.

“Look, I’m not really in the mood for a movie,” I say, pulling open the door.

“No. I uh...” She swallows, looking at my feet. “That’s not really what I was thinking.”

I turn at the awkward tone of her voice. Taking in her strange, rigid posture. The way she fidgets with the paw print necklace I gave her for her birthday. She looks sincere, vulnerable, clinging to that black plastic bag like it’s a life raft.

Suddenly I realize. This is an actual gesture.

Heartthrob comes and wags his tail in front of me, licking the last of the fish oil off his nose. I look from the dog back to my wife standing there waiting for my response, and I do exactly the wrong thing.

“Dog needs to go out.” I grab some waste bags and slip through the door.

She doesn’t follow.

Outside, I take what feels like the first clean breath of air I’ve had in weeks. Then I take another. And another. Only forcing myself to slow when I start to get lightheaded. Through the windows, I see Lydia moving around, but I’m not sure what she’s doing.

Maybe throwing my stuff to the curb. Closing the blinds. Changing the locks.

Every time she actually reaches for me, I turn into the biggest ass.

But it’s been eleven days. What changed? Why now?

I don’t think I can take another forced effort. Waving her tits in my face, lying back so I can climb on top of her. Spreading her legs without reaching for me.

But there’s a whisper at the back of my mind. An echo of conversation between Jess and Izzy, patiently explaining the way desire works for different people:

Isabella: You know, some of us start with desire—men in particular—they see something they like, and they want it.

Jessica: Straightforward and simple.

Isabella: But for some of us, it’s the other way around. Some of us only experience desire after we’re aroused.

Lydia is no longer visible in the window. Maybe she left to spend the night with Caprice. Maybe she’s having dinner in front of her laptop. But I close my eyes, letting myself imagine her the way I do in my fantasies. Naked under the sheets, back arched, nipples perked. Aroused and reaching for me.

My dick stirs. The sky has darkened, but it’s not officially night as I move toward the door. Heartthrob pops his head up from where he was sniffing a clump of weeds, running happily inside ahead of me. Tail curled high, nails thundering like a freight train across the hardwood.

I let my lust draw me inside, but in the kitchen, I dawdle. Filling the dog bowl with fresh water, unloading the dishwasher, trying to listen and figure out where she is. The rest of the house is silent.

A peek down the hall toward the two bedrooms tells me she’s not at her desk in the little office, and the bathroom light is off. So she either left or she’s in our room. Maybe this is our chance. Maybe I just need to go in there and help her find her desire.

But what if it goes badly? What if it’s the totally wrong thing?

I’m halfway to the bedroom door when a small piece of paper catches my attention, curled on the floor. Just a receipt, probably for takeout or Starbucks, but something makes me pick it up, and when I do, the logo at the top grabs my attention.

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