Page 7 of Love in Training
Lydia
LOL. Thanks again for coming. And for the adorable layette set.
I hope Anton rubbed your feet afterward.
This isthe nicest thing I can think to say, and I’m glad when Lydia doesn’t answer. I have my best friend’s no-good husband to thank for my biggest journalistic success. And the fact that I haven’t had another one since. I was doing casual research for an article on dating sites about a year ago when I stumbled across Anton Richie’s profile on the Unmatched app—a site that exists solely for married hookups.
I one hundred percent expected to be reintroducing Lydia to the dating scene by now, after she nailed Anton’s balls to the wallin divorce court. Instead, after a tumultuous few months during which she catfished and confronted him, and he put her through an obscene amount of pain, I just attended a baby shower for their firstborn.
She’s explained it to me in more detail than even my stomach could handle. TMI about the dynamics of their marriage and sex life, and not nearly enough about Anton laying down a good grovel. If you ask me, the man doesn’t know how.
But he claims he’ll never try to cheat again. And Lydia seems... happy.
So I keep my mouth shut. And mostly only scowl at him when she isn’t looking. But watching that all go down was reaffirming. Lydia can keep her marriage, if that’s what she wants. And I’ll just keep writing about all the reasons men can’t be counted on.
Or at least, that seemed like a solid plan until November.
When I arrive outside my apartment door, I let out a relieved sigh, looking up and down the empty hall. No unexpected deliveries. No envelopes taped or tucked into the cracks of the door. And I haven’t received a legitimately threatening email for at least a month. But once you get in the habit of being paranoid, it’s hard to let go.
I checked my peephole camera app before leaving the gym after work, and it hadn’t recorded anything of note. So I let myself in, flipping the lights on and dropping my bag onto one of the stools at my little breakfast bar.
I live in a studio apartment, which is easy enough to scan and clear mostly in one glance. Everything’s exactly the way I left it this morning. On the far side of the room, my bed is made with the fluffy purple duvet and green pillows I splurged on when I moved in. My green midcentury microfiber couch, an incredible find from an online secondhand market, divides the “bedroom” space from the living area. A TV is mounted to the wall by the door, because the opposite wall—the entire reason I originallymoved in—is one long counter with a stretch of windows to the ceiling. When the sun is up, I have the most incredible view of the Rocky Mountains to the west of Denver.
I flip the deadbolt, but don’t set down my keys or kick off my shoes until I’ve peeked into the bathroom and inside the closet. Once I’m satisfied I am well and truly alone, I let go of my pepper spray canister and strip off my clothes to shower.
A day in the life of a lady journalist.
After I’ve rinsed away the forty minutes of squats and deadlifts I put in after work at the gym, I condition and wrap my hair, heat up a frozen ramen bowl, and settle on the couch to catch up on email. Randall wasn’t kidding about staying on top of theObserverinbox. Keeping it at zero has been so time-consuming, I haven’t had time to check my own—which isn’t the worst thing. Sometimes wading into my work email is more precarious than stepping into my apartment. But I need to deal with both before bed or I won’t sleep.
Monday, March 8, 20__, 6:09 PM
From:[email protected]
Subject: feedback
Does theObservernot use a proofreader? There was a typo in your article on the new club on Lincoln Street. I’ll let you find it yourself.
Monday, March 8, 20__, 3:59 PM
From:[email protected]
Subject: Garbage
I am never reading the political waste featured in this publication again. Pleese fire Adrienne P and hire someone more attractive.
Monday, March 8, 20__, 3:16 PM
From:[email protected]
Subject: A proposal
Ms. Phipps,
