Chapter Twenty-Six
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Are you sure you want to run the entire loop?” Caprice asks. “We could split it up, do a little walking and jogging?”
“Nah, if you normally run the whole thing, I’m here for it,” I say, gazing down the gravel path through the trees on the north end of Wash Park. I can’t remember the last time I actually went running, but after her phone call this morning, I couldn’t turn her down. “Have there been any other messages?”
“Just the one so far,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Thanks for keeping me company.”
“Of course.” I tuck my phone away, and we take off. Probably at a slower jog than she’d prefer since I am not ninety percent legs, but I keep pace. “I’m not going to let some jerk take the shine off your success. Last I checked, there were a thousand comments on the article! Seems like you hit a nerve.”
“It’s up to five thousand,” she says under her breath. “Got picked up for syndication, and now Bustle and the New York Post want me to write follow-ups focused on cheaters in other cities.”
“Caprice!” I turn my jog into a run-skip and nearly fall on my grinning face. “What’s it like to hit the big time? ”
“On the backs of hundreds of destroyed marriages?” She huffs. “It feels great. I particularly love the personal attacks and death threats.”
I nearly stumble to a halt. “You said there was only one.”
“Technically, only one actually threatened to kill me,” she says, slowing beside me. “There are a handful that promised other unpleasant things.”
I’m not even sure what to say. Anton’s reaction to her article was intense, and I know too well how torn apart some of the affected families must feel. But no one who “dated” on Unmatched has any right to direct their anger at Caprice. If those people’s lives are ruined, they only have themselves to blame.
“You should call the police.”
“It’s just part of journalism.” She gives a passing jogger a wary glance and picks up speed. “It’ll blow over soon.”
I push forward, a stitch forming in my side as I try to keep up with her past the fire station and fishing pond.
“Do you want to come stay with us or something?”
She looks at me and snorts. “That’s some in-depth coverage. Staying in the house of a relationship I ruined.”
My face heats. “I—I wouldn’t call us ruined,” I say thickly, but she goes on like she didn’t hear.
“My building is super secure; no one’s going to mess with me if I’m at work or at the gym. But thanks for coming with me today. I was starting to go stir-crazy only running on a treadmill.”
“Sure. But I still think you ought to?—”
“I’ll be fine.” She says this with confidence, though her voice wavers at the end. “Anyway, what’s the latest on you and Anton?”
I press my lips together, listening to the crunch of our feet on the path. It feels like ages since the hotel, since my failed striptease. And our agreement to give things “another try.” But that was ten days ago, and I can tell you exactly how much “trying” has happened since.
Part of it’s on me. I was filling in for Scarlet at Ooh La Pooch and had forgotten how head-to-toe exhausting grooming every day can be, crawling into bed each night and passing out immediately. But I was considering how to approach my husband...until I got my period. Nothing like cramps and heavy bleeding to kill a mood before it happens. I told myself I’d make twice the effort as soon as I felt normal again. But the bleeding ended two days ago, and I haven’t exactly jumped naked into Anton’s lap.
He hasn’t made any gestures either, which somehow makes me feel worse. Like he’s already given up. But if he was really done, why bother laying down the thirty-day deadline?
Twenty , I remind myself. We’re already down to twenty days.
“We’ve made zero progress,” I breathe, the stitch in my side intensifying, slowing me to a walk. “We agreed to try and fix things for thirty days, but it’s already been ten. Also...” I trail off. I was going to tell Caprice about the purchase offer, about the huge business decision I have to make, but suddenly it doesn’t feel right. That’s a conversation I need to have with Anton first. “It’s just a lot.”
“When you say you’ve made zero progress, what have you tried?” Caprice asks, jogging circles around me to make up for my slow pace.
“I mean, I told you about my awful striptease,” I say, jumping out of the way of a mom pushing a jogging stroller.
“Right,” she says matter-of-factly, “but what else? Did you use some new toys? Watch some porn? I’m just trying to get a sense of what hasn’t worked.”
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, unable to even respond to that.
“Hey, I promise I won’t write about it.” Her tone is light, but she waits for a real answer.
I put in a burst of speed. “I haven’t . . . actually . . . tried anything else.”
“Like, nothing new?” she asks, keeping up easily. “Maybe that’s the issue. You guys need to spice things up.”
“No—” I pant. “I mean—we haven’t tried at all.”
This time it’s Caprice who comes to a halt. And for a second, I’m tempted to continue my sprint down the trail, away from this conversation. But when I think of leaving her by herself in the park with her five thousand internet comments, I slow and circle back around.
“Lydia,” Caprice says, stepping off the jogging path. “When was the last time you and Anton had sex?”
My hands fall to my sides as I join her, and I close my eyes. I know we’ve done it at least once or twice since New Year’s. There was that time he got handsy after the movie. But was that the last time? “It...it might’ve been six or eight weeks ago? I can’t remember.”
“But that means you haven’t at all since you guys?—”
“I told you, it’s hard for us to get started.” As soon as I say this, I realize it’s not actually true. “I mean, he doesn’t have any issue, but...”
My voice trails off. She already knows all the very worst about me and the state of my marriage. Still, I can’t bring myself to say this out loud.
“Lots of ladies need something to get their engines going—that’s totally normal,” she says gently. A group of joggers passes by, and I feel like every intimate detail we’re discussing is written on my face. Caprice pulls me farther from the busy path into the shade of a large tree. “Okay, I think I know what you need.”
“What’s that?” I say on autopilot, both dreading what she’ll say and ready for an easy answer to all my problems.
“Accessories. Something to help you get in the mood.”
I scrunch my nose. “Like what?”
“Well, I mean, that’s up to you. Maybe a nice negligee, or a game, or a good vibrator—you just have to figure out what works.”
My eyes widen, my whole body flushing bright red, particularly at that last suggestion. “Okay, thanks. I’ll give that some thought.” I turn back toward the jogging path.
“Do you want me to go with you?” she asks.
“Go where?”
“Lydia, your daycare is like, five minutes from Playful Pleasures.”
“The sex shop?” I can’t help it; my voice is totally shrill.
“Yeah. You need to go shopping.”
I try to imagine pulling into the parking lot of the two-story sensual superstore , let alone walking through the doors. I’ve driven by it every single day for years, but it has never crossed my mind to actually go in. “Caprice, that’s just not a place I would ever?—”
“Exactly,” she says. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I—” My words catch in my throat. “ No .”
She frowns. “Okay, that’s cool. I get it. It might be better if you went by yourself. I have a friend who works there, Daphne. She can hook you up.”
“You don’t understand...” My skin breaks into a light sweat.
“I think I do.” I can tell she’s smiling behind me, but I’m definitely not.
I wrap my arm around my waist, finally landing on what feels like the right words. But when I turn to look at her, they come out too loud and too fast. “Caprice, I don’t want to buy sex toys!”
She pauses for a long moment. “Why not?”
“I don’t think I need—” I stop, uncomfortable even trying to explain my discomfort. This is not the Victorian era. I should feel like a modern, empowered woman going into a store like that. If I could shut up the little voice in my brain whispering that it’s dirty . “What if someone saw me?”
“Oh my God, Lydia, you’re not buying drugs.”
“I don’t want to buy anything. I—I just don’t want my husband to leave me!”
Neither of us says anything for what feels like several minutes.
When Caprice finally speaks again, her tone is gentler. “I’m sorry...you’re right. Everyone has different comfort levels. I shouldn’t have assumed. It’s okay if vibrators aren’t your thing.”
“Thanks.” I exhale, even as I second-guess myself. Again. What if she’s right? The thought of buying sex merchandise makes me shudder, but what if that’s what’s missing? Could “accessories” make Anton want to stay with me?
“It’s none of my business what you and Anton do,” she goes on, leading us back to the jogging path. “Just ignore me—I’ve already meddled too much in your marriage.”
“No, it’s okay. I do appreciate your advice,” I say quietly, falling again into a slow pace beside her.
She looks at me with a sad smile. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
I focus on the trail ahead of us, trying not to think about the dwindling number of days left on the calendar. “Me too.”
“Maybe...” She pauses. “Do you think you might be focusing too much on Anton? I was thinking about what you said before, how you thought there was something wrong with you. Maybe the important thing right now is to figure out what you need?”
I draw my brows together, watching the sun sink in the sky over Grasmere Lake. “Maybe.”
Slowly, we make our way to where the path curves around the southeast corner of the park. “I feel a lot better having you here with me,” she says quietly.
Her posture is stiff in a way I hadn’t noticed earlier. We pass a couple of guys whose gazes linger on her legs—the kind of attention Caprice would normally invite, and even flaunt. Instead, discomfort flickers over her face, and I wonder how much she’s downplayed her situation. “Any of those online assholes wants to mess with you needs to get past me first,” I say. “I’ve got pepper spray.”
“Thanks.” She laughs a little.
A woman runs past with a gorgeous Doberman pinscher, and I smile. “You could get a dog for protection?”
Caprice rolls her head to look at me, and her expression is so incredulous, we both laugh for real. But as we curve toward the sunset, I reach out and squeeze her hand.
“I’m glad you wrote the article. If you hadn’t found out about Anton...I don’t know. I’m just glad you did.”