Page 8 of Unmatched

I would never cheat. I’m not that kind of guy. But I have to admit, even a compliment from a stranger might be a nice ego boost this evening. If I download the app rather than go through the browser, I can just delete the whole thing once I’m finished. That seems reasonable. I won’t input any real info and won’t send or reply to any messages. I’m not trying to get in trouble; I just want to fill the empty space where Lydia should be.

I bury the app three screens deep inside two separate folders named “business” and “utilities.” But I can’t get past the welcome screen without creating an account with an email and password. After some deliberation, I type in an old Hotmail address I haven’t used since college. Then I’m prompted to select my relationship status: married. I clench my jaw, filling out some basic stats after that.

Sex: Male

Age: 31

Height: 6’1”

Weight: 185lbs

Race: Caucasian

Eyes: Hazel

Hair: Brown

Build: Athletic

Interest: Women

My heart pounds as I type that last line. As if downloading the app wasn’t already a clear admission of what I’m up to. I click submit, ready to start browsing the unhappy married people of the world. But then I’m prompted to fill out another section about things I enjoy and what kind of “experiences” I’m looking for. This requires a bit more thought than just filling out black-and-white stats. I enjoy not being cock-blocked and getting to have actual, mutually enjoyable sex. I have ideas about things I might like beyond that, things I’ve fantasized about doing, but I don’t really know since I’ve never felt like I could try them with Lydia. After a few minutes of deliberation, I tap out something like enjoys long walks on the beach, except with sex. Not really award-winning content, but this is a throwaway profile anyway. I’m willing to bet the other guys on this app haven’t done much better.

To complete the account setup, I have to add a picture, and this makes me hesitate longer than anything. I might be here to enjoy the scenery and fish for compliments, but uploading my face isn’t quite the same as giving a list of generic stats. I’d be screwed if anyone who knew me scrolled by and noticed. I realize after a minute that anyone who finds me on a cheating site might not want to draw attention to their presence either. Maybe that’s insurance enough?

I take a bunch of selfies first, but in every one of them I look either stupid, angry, or bored. So I dig around the photos Lydia and I share until I find one of us taken at a wedding we attended last year. Someone had cracked a dumb joke, and I’d laughed, which made me look a thousand times more natural than any of the poses I just tried. Lydia is next to me in the image, but I manage to crop her out without it looking too weird.

When I’m finished, my thumb hovers over the green button at the bottom of the page that says Upload and Post to Community. My breathing shallows. I scroll up, reading over my entire profile again until I’m satisfied that it’s an accurate portrayal of who I am.

Except . . . it’s not.

I set the phone face down on the coffee table and rise from the couch.

What the fuck am I doing?

Lydia and I have our problems, but I love her. We love each other. She runs two businesses and is opening a third—she is really busy—and as frustrated as I am, I’m also proud of her. She’s worked hard to get where she is. I have a straightforward office job as a financial adviser in a big firm, nine to five, Monday through Friday. It’s demanding, but nothing like what she deals with.

I guess I’m just not sure where we’re going. Maybe that’s what’s bothering me. I wander down the hall, back toward our bedroom, but stop in the doorway to our home office. I stare at the four walls, the window, and the little closet, trying to imagine the space transformed. Belonging to a child. Could Lydia be there for a kid if she can’t even be here for me? How could we even start a family if we hardly sleep together?

I slump against the doorframe. I just don’t know what to do. I’ve come on to her, romanced her, bought her sexy clothes. I’ve tried approaching her in the morning, the evening, middle of the day. But lately she’s always either too tired or too busy. I almost feel like I should request an appointment for sex. Which is both ludicrous and sad. But how else can I get her attention without it turning into what happened tonight?

I turn my head to look at our closed bedroom door, then wander back toward the living room and sink to the couch.

She keeps saying things will get better after the next business opens. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m an impatient jerk, and I just need to sit tight until we can “resume” intimacy.

I stare at my phone on the table a long time before picking it back up. It’s been seven years. I guess I can wait a few more months? But I need something to occupy me. A distraction from the impossible-to-ignore fact that no one here is getting laid. Or even going on a dinner date. Or functioning at all like a married couple.

The green Upload button glows back at me.

I think of my boss, our friends, my brother finding out, and my dead heart pounds to life.

I can’t do it. I hit the red Delete button and hang my head.

But then an alert comes on the screen: Are you sure you want to delete the information you’ve added?

My hand shakes.

Just making a profile isn’t technically cheating. Yes, it will create a digital record of my feelings—every urge and frustration I’ve had for months and years—and put it out there for anyone to find. But that isn’t the same as climbing into bed with someone.

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