Chapter Twenty-Five
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jessica: Welcome to the Come And Get Her podcast. We’re your hosts, Jessica and Isabella, two licensed sex therapists here to educate men on how to get ladies off . We’ve got a fabulous show for you this week—Demi Lane visits us again to give us the latest on all her new favorite couples’ toys—but first we’ll get started with a selection from our mailbag.
Isabella: I’m excited about the mail this week, Jessica! Very often we hear from younger men looking for tips to land themselves a second or third date. But this letter is from an older gentleman and I love what he is asking. Let me read it to you:
Dear Jess & Izzy,
My wife and I have been married for twenty-five years [aww!]. We’ve been through a lot together, raised a couple of kids, and our sex life, while not amazing, has always at least been pretty steady. Lately, however, it seems like she’s lost interest in me. I’ve tried giving her space, coming on to her, buying her gifts. Nothing has worked. Every time I try to initiate, I get excuses. She’s tired. Too busy. Maybe tomorrow. I’m not sure what else to do. I don’t think she’s seeing anyone else, but I’m not sure how to rekindle the spark. Do you have any advice?
Sincerely,
Cold Embers
Jessica: Oh, Embers. First of all, I just want to acknowledge your courage in writing this email. You must be feeling so alone, but you’ve reached out for help—and that’s what we’re going to try to do.
Isabella: Jess, I have a feeling this one is about the big D.
Jessica: For sure. I had the same thought.
Isabella: Okay, so men—listen up, all of you, for a second. Yes, even you guys who are doing everything great and getting laid every night. Congratulations! We’re glad you’ve been following our advice.
Jessica: Now, boys, here’s the great big caveat to everything we tell you: People change. Bodies change. Relationships change. And the really big one...so does desire.
Isabella: I could literally spend a whole episode on that word.
Jessica: Right? [laughs] Okay, so I think most of us here are familiar with the cliché about wives not enjoying sex.
Isabella: Um, let it be noted in the transcript how hard I’m rolling my eyes—this is half the reason our show exists.
Jessica: Absolutely. Okay, obviously, many of our regular listeners know at least ten ways to get a girl off in ten minutes or less?—
Isabella: We have failed if you don’t.
Jessica: But let me tell you something important—you can be a master of the entire fucking Kama Sutra , hold the title of G-Spot King, but it will get you nowhere if you don’t first understand desire...
I take off my headphones at the end of my run, stopping to do some stretching on our front porch. It’s the pattern I’ve been following all week—listening to the podcast while I jog, or at the gym after work. I stumbled on Jess and Izzy purely by accident after Lydia and I awkwardly agreed to give our relationship thirty more days and it felt like a clock immediately started ticking.
I never expected to find a whole beautifully produced podcast explaining all the subtleties of how to touch a woman, how to turn her on, how to get her aroused and bring her to climax. Granted, I haven’t had the opportunity to try any of it yet, but I feel like I’ve learned so much—about blood flow, erogenous zones, nipple stimulation, clitoral orgasm vs. penetration—things I have to admit I had been pretty clueless about. I wouldn’t say I had no idea what I’ve been doing the last ten years, but I feel like I have the chance to do so much better now.
If I can just work myself up to approach Lydia.
But every night, she’s stayed firmly over on her side of the bed, and I’ve been hesitant to stray from mine. And every time I think about leaning in for a goodnight kiss or even just a hug, I second-guess why she hasn’t—she’s the one who pushed to keep trying, who insisted she wanted to be with me.
Did she change her mind?
Her Toyota pulls into the driveway just as I open the door to head inside. We wave at each other, and I wait as she parks and lets Heartthrob out of the back seat. He zooms across the yard, and I greet him with his favorite squeaky octopus.
“Hi,” I say as Lydia follows him inside, and when she smiles in response, I am sure this is the moment—I could kiss her cheek, maybe even pull her into an embrace.
But I hesitate too long.
“I picked up stuff for nachos,” she says, carrying a grocery bag into the kitchen. “But I think I’ll jump in the shower first—avoid dog hair in the cheese.”
I nod. The black shirt she’s wearing is plastered with white hair, but while her face is tired, she doesn’t avoid my eyes. “Sounds good,” I say, taking the bag as Heartthrob spins in front of me. “I’ll feed this guy and start the oven.”
Lydia gives me another smile, plugs her phone into the charger on the counter, and disappears.
I mix up food for the dog, then start searching for something to make nachos in. Down the hall, I hear the bathroom door close and the water come on, and because everything feels desperate, I immediately picture Lydia in there naked. This is torture. Maybe I should just take the plunge tonight with some of Jess and Izzy’s tips. But is it worth the risk?
I locate the pan I’m looking for and set it on the counter next to Lydia’s phone, only just as I do, a notification lights up her screen.
FWD: Till Unmatched Do Us Part—Six Married Denver Men, Busted
Hey Lyd, thanks again for your help on the article. It’s live now on the site. See below...
My skin goes cold. I step back, nearly falling over a chair as I pull my own phone from my pocket. I hadn’t really considered how Lydia found my Unmatched profile—the fact that she had was such a nightmare, it didn’t seem important. But of course Caprice was the one doing the digging. She’s a freaking reporter. Was all that stuff Lydia said about giving it another try just to string me along until they could shame me publicly?
I punch in the web address for Denver Editorial , and seconds later, I’m staring at the headline right on the main page. My thumb hovers over the screen. But I’m not sure I’m ready to read this. Watch myself get dragged through the mud in front of my boss, coworkers, Lydia’s family, our friends and neighbors, the entire city. Down the hall, the water shuts off in the bathroom, and my heart begins to race. I forward the article to my brother and shove the phone back into my pocket. I can suffer the details with Seth later. Right now, I just want to be gone.
I close myself in our bedroom, grab my duffle from under the bed, and start emptying drawers. Underwear, socks, then workout clothes. I don’t pay much attention.
The bag is nearly full when I hear a light tap on the door. “Anton?”
I grunt, moving to the closet when I remember I need work clothes.
“Hey, um, are you decent?” she calls. Because God forbid she walk in on her own husband naked, I guess.
I’m exiting our closet with a pile of pants and shirts as she turns the knob and peeks in.
“Oh, hey—” She stops abruptly in the doorway, watching me lay clothes into a garment bag. “What are you doing?”
I zip too many things inside, then grab a pair of shoes. “What I should’ve done two weeks ago.”
Her figure fills the narrow doorway, and even now, my eyes can’t help tracing along the edge of the towel she clutches around her body, still dripping from the shower. She frowns, peering at my face. “Did something happen?”
“Why don’t you go ask one of the neighbors? Or my boss?” My lip curls. “Maybe they’ve had a chance to read the news.”
“News?” Her brows draw together, her gaze drifting toward the kitchen where she left her phone.
I duck into the second bedroom as she steps away. I’ll need my laptop and chargers, but I can come back later for books and furniture. Unless the gloves are completely off now and she decides to dump them on the curb. Heartthrob follows behind me, squeaking his stuffed octopus, unaware of the domestic upheaval. I throw the toy for him as I head for the front door, trying not to think about leaving him behind.
But as I dig my keys out of my pocket, my phone chimes with a message from my brother.
Seth
Yikes, freaking ugly. Lucky you dodged that bullet.
What is that supposed to mean? Denver Editorial is a relatively young but respected local news source. By tomorrow the story will disperse to even more major outlets.
Failing to see the luck.
Seth
Did you READ the article, asshole?
I pause, glancing around for Lydia, an uncomfortable feeling creeping into my gut when I don’t see or hear her anywhere. I swipe back to the feature, forcing myself to absorb the text on the screen.
Caprice’s words are scathing.
As the headline suggests, she tears into six Denver men, although she doesn’t actually name any of them—she doesn’t have to. From her descriptions, it’s pretty easy to figure out at least two of them are well-known politicians, and one sounds a lot like a popular radio personality from a local station. Caprice is an excellent writer, giving just the right amount of detail to paint a clear picture of each guy, so I’m sure the others can be identified by anyone close to them. One is some sort of professional athlete. One is a chef. Another’s a banker in his midfifties. All of them are married with families.
But not a single one of them sounds even remotely like me.
I let out a long, whispering breath, my heartbeat quieting enough that I can tune back in to the sounds of the house. Is Lydia still here? Or did I turn my jackass up so high she left?
I retrace my steps to the kitchen and find her hunched in a chair, focused blank-faced on her phone screen.
I clear my throat. “I um . . . I owe you an apology.”
She raises her head and looks at me.
“Another one,” I add in a shaky voice.
She sits back, folding her arms across her chest.
“I saw Caprice’s email about the article, and I thought?—”
Our eyes meet, and the words dry up in my throat.
“Lydia—I’m so sorry.”
The echo of my apology settles between us in the silence, and I slump against the doorframe, hoping she’ll understand—I’m not just saying sorry for tonight. I’m sorry for being on Unmatched at all, for going to the hotel, for not being more patient or trying harder. I’m sorry for every way I’ve betrayed her trust. Including tonight .
Her eyes traverse my face, then she glances back at her phone. “I’m not in a big hurry for people to know what you did. It was bad enough dealing with it privately.”
I swallow hard, wiping one hand over my face. Of course. Caprice wouldn’t have publicly tied me to a social scandal. Anything she wrote about me would directly impact Lydia and the Pooches. If Lydia had wanted, I guess she could have given permission—let Caprice rake me over the coals for revenge. Instead they both protected me. But my head was so far up my own ass, I couldn’t think of anyone but myself.
Which is how we got here in the first place.
Lydia stands. She’s wearing her robe now, a towel wrapped around her head, posture clearly exhausted. Despite that, or maybe even because of it, I find myself wanting to pull her to me, let her hair down so I can run my fingers through it and down over her hips. Needy for the comfort of her warmth, her skin. I think of Jess and Izzy’s podcast and bite the inside of my cheek, realizing I might have blown my chance to try any of those new ways to touch her, bring her pleasure, draw us back together.
But if this was the last straw, if she asks me to leave, I’ll respect that. She clearly deserves better.
With a sigh, she gestures at the packed duffle bag still gripped in my hand. “So, now that we’ve established that I didn’t betray you ...” She pauses just long enough for that to really sting. “Are you coming or going?”
I furrow my brow, studying her face carefully.
“It’s Tuesday. I’m keeping track. We’ve still got what, three more weeks?”
My mind spins in a circle before I realize what she means. “We, ah...” I take a deep breath. “You mean you’re still willing?”
She shrugs. I can tell it’s forced by the set of her shoulders, but she looks back and says, “Thirty days. We agreed.”
A lump rises in my throat. I am the last person who deserves a second, let alone a third or fourth chance. But I’ll take every bone she throws. “Okay. Yeah.”
Her stomach lets out a plaintive growl, and she covers it with one hand. “I did um...burn the nachos last time I tried to make them... ”
The corners of my mouth rise at the memory. Last winter, on one of the coldest days of the year, we’d had to open every window in the house to get the smoke detectors to stop beeping. Lydia is great with dogs, but she’s never really honed her cooking skills.
“I’ve got it.” I set my duffle on the bed. “Let me just unpack.”