Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Monday. Today’s the day.
I went to the gym extra early this morning. Skipped coffee in favor of a smoothie. Listened to classical music all the way to work. Nothing will settle my nerves. My overnight bag is packed and waiting in my truck—toothbrush, razor, condoms, change of clothes. I took a remote office day tomorrow. Even invented a quick trip to Phoenix that I put on my shared calendar with Lydia.
But when my brother called with an update on Mom’s bloodwork halfway through my commute, I nearly rear-ended the person in front of me. I keep swinging back and forth between excitement and wanting to throw up. There is apparently a vast difference between fantasizing about an affair and actually going through with it.
At least I didn’t have to look my wife in the eye today. I left for the gym before she was up. She sent a text wishing me a safe trip, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I am either about to do the stupidest or the best thing for us. I’m just not sure which.
“Morning, Riya,” I say to our receptionist as I pass through the doors of Vesper Financial Advisers.
“Hi, Anton. How’s your wife? ”
I trip over my own feet, nearly dropping my briefcase and phone. I straighten and stare at her.
“She feeling better?” Riya asks, brows drawn.
Oh . Faintly, I remember her being among the gaggle of women outside the bathroom at Carl's house. She saw that Lydia was sick and knew we had to leave. Which makes sense. She cares. She’s concerned.
I don’t have a bright red “A” emblazoned on my forehead. Not yet.
“Uh, yeah, she’s much better now, thanks.” Actually, she made a full recovery the next day, miraculously in time to get to work. “Just a stomach bug, I guess.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She gives me a funny smile, and I nod, continuing past the conference rooms and down the hall, greeting a few other coworkers. I avoid their gazes and questions, assured Riya will bring them all up to speed, and breathe a sigh when I reach my office. The room isn’t huge, but it’s my own space with a door that closes, which is a far cry from the cubicle I started in. My desk is just the way I left it Friday—neat, with only a few files I left out for today. There’s a pen holder, a box of tissues, and a framed photo of Lydia and me on our wedding day. With a weight in my stomach, I angle it away, facing the visitor side of the desk.
“Anton, glad I caught you,” Carl says, appearing in the doorway. “I’m heading into a meeting, but Myra’s coming in this morning, and I want you to take care of her. Nothing crazy, just an account review, and she wants to discuss setting up a 529 plan for her nephew.”
I jot a few notes on an empty pad of paper, then smile at him. “I’d be happy to help. Thanks for your confidence, Carl.”
“I know she’ll be in good hands,” he says. “Myra already liked you, but she pretty much insisted you take her account after meeting your wife. She said Lydia helped her decide to get a Havanese, and she wants to book all her grooming with Ooh La Pooch.”
I chuckle reflexively. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
Carl grins. “How’s she feeling, by the way?”
“Much better, thanks,” I say easily this time.
“Glad to hear it,” Carl says, glancing at the photo on my desk. “Eva thought...well, I’ll be sure to let her know she’s okay now.”
He disappears and I close the door, my gut twisting with a mix of gratitude toward Lydia for doing exactly what I’d hoped she’d do at the party, guilt over what I’m planning to do tonight, and the ongoing resentment that I’m in this position at all. I made myself sleep in bed with her all weekend. She may have recovered from whatever happened at the party quickly, but she didn’t exactly turn to me hot for sex. I stayed on my side of the bed, and she stayed on hers. She even managed to resurrect her sex-repelling pajamas. Which was all kinds of weirdly affirming. Nothing in our bedroom is going to change. People like Myra might assume our private life is one thing when the reality is something else. If we’re already living one lie, does it matter if I add another?
I open Unmatched on my phone, pulling up the most recent message from the woman I’ll finally meet tonight.
LonelyGirl8
I can’t wait to get my hands on you.
My dick twitches. I close the app and set the phone aside. I need to focus on work, but the thought of squeezing tits I’m actually allowed to touch and plunging my cock into a wet, turned-on pussy has my pulse pounding throughout my body. I adjust my pants and turn the wedding photo back around in an effort to stay on track. And it works, maybe a little too well. Seeing Lydia on my arm, beautiful in her wedding dress, infuses me with more than a flicker of regret. Because even after years of being frozen out and frustrated, driven to find an outlet somewhere else, I still wish I could just go home tonight and fuck my wife.
Right before six thirty, after the longest workday of my life, I park in the back of the Colorado Springs Hyatt and walk around the building. It seems stupid to be paranoid sixty miles from home, but I feel better not leaving my truck out front. I check over my shoulder as I go, not even sure what I’m looking for. Nothing is familiar. Everything feels foreign and wrong. Which is how it should be, how I want it. But as I approach the main doors and a man comes out, my eyes widen. It’s our next-door neighbor, Matt Devore—oh my fucking God. I turn away, looking for some place to hide where he won’t see me entering a hotel in another town without my wife. Or should I just run to my truck and drive straight back up I-25? I’m frozen in my tracks, unable to do anything but stare as he comes toward me, but then his phone rings. He answers, and I look closer as he passes. It isn’t Matt. The guy doesn’t even look remotely like him.
My stomach is sick with self-loathing. There have to be few more disgusting scenarios than a husband meeting a woman who isn’t his wife at a hotel, yet here I am, about to do just that. If I go in, there’s every chance I’ll get laid by a woman ready and willing to let me fuck her in ways that would absolutely horrify my frigid Lydia. And despite some off-the-charts anxiety, I can’t deny I’m excited about that. On the other hand, if I leave now, I won’t be an asshole. Well, not as big of one. I could just forget this whole scenario, stay faithful, and drive home with fucking blue balls.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
LonelyGirl8
Excited to see you soon . . .
Like a jackass, I let my dick decide.
I head through the front doors. We stayed at this place once, Lydia and me. Got stranded in a blizzard five years ago and barely made it here before the highway closed. I picked it for tonight because I knew it was an okay place, but I’m not expecting the wave of nostalgia that hits me when I walk in. Everything inside is exactly the same. The leather chairs and wood paneling. The smell of coffee and fresh fruit in the lobby. It’s nothing extraordinary, just a generic hotel like a bunch of others, but we actually had a nice night here. It was earlier in our relationship, but something about being snowed in, cut off from work and everything else, made it romantic, intimate. We spent the night naked in each other’s arms, taking pleasure in touching each other, and nothing felt forced. We just enjoyed being together. Or at least, I did.
My chest tightens as I approach reception. “Uh, hi, I have a reservation,” I say, clearing my throat. “The name is Smith.”
The girl behind the desk types on her computer, and I swear she’s smirking. Everything feels so obvious. Sure, Mr. Smith . Wink-wink.
She glances up. “It looks like your wife already checked in. ”
“What?” My blood runs cold before I realize she doesn’t mean Lydia, but Mrs. Smith .
She nods, going into well-practiced instructions like this is completely normal. Like my entire evening hasn’t just been thrown off. “You’re in room 212. Here’s your key. This also gets you into the pool.” She points to a small map of the property. “The business center is around the corner. There’s a shop here in the lobby if you need any personal items or snacks. Breakfast is complimentary, served from seven to nine a.m.” She sticks the plastic room key into a paper sheath and hands me the materials. “Do you have any questions?”
I swallow hard and take them from her. I have about a million questions, but none of them are for her.
“Uh, no . . . that sounds perfect.”
“Enjoy your stay.” She glances up, taking me in head to toe as if she’s seeing me for the first time. She hesitates on my biceps, then my jaw, and licks her lips. I’m not stupid, I know women find me attractive—at least women who aren’t my wife. The girl glances away toward the elevators, her cheeks pink, and again I get the sense she knows exactly what I’m up to. Who’s in that room upstairs, waiting for me. But then an elderly couple shuffles through the doors, and she turns away to help them.
I carry my duffle bag up to the second floor, pulse pounding in my ears, key card gripped in a sweaty hand. I’m not sure how my “date” got here before me. I was counting on getting here first. To have time to prepare. But somehow she’s already in there, waiting for me, and I need to be ready when I walk through the door. Adrenaline makes the thirty steps to the end of the hall feel like a thousand, my brain flashing back and forth the whole time between memory and fantasy. The firm, full globes of my wife’s magnificent breasts swinging as we fucked in this very hotel. The promise of a pair of tits nearly as nice waiting for me behind the door. Tits that, as soon as I touch them, will permanently change me. Brand me an adulterer. But also give me permission, I guess, to enjoy myself. Maybe even do this again.
I press my hand against the door frame.
It’s not too late . I can still walk out and go home.
To flannel pajama armor and a chafed, neglected dick.
I wave the key card in front of the knob, and with a click, the light turns from red to green.