Page 14 of The Arrangement

I cleared my throat, and she glanced over her shoulder, then released the claws, grabbing a towel to dry her hands as she looked me over. “You look nice, babe,” she said. Her tone was casual. Unbothered. As if I were headed to the grocery store rather than on a date.

I swallowed and stepped forward. “Does the jacket look…” I adjusted it, pulling on the neck. “Is it too much?”

She walked toward me, checking that her hands were clean before she laid the towel down on the counter and reached for the collar, adjusting it. “Are you comfortable?” My wife preferred deep shades of red lipstick, colors that matched her hair. She applied them every morning, and by the evening, they’d all but faded from her lips. I could see traces of her lipstick then, near the edges of her smile and in the cracks of her bottom lip. I was struck by the sudden urge to lean down, take her lip between my teeth, and bite down. I couldn’t explain it, the sudden urge to hurt her, but it was there. I wanted to cause her pain. Was that my way of coping?

“I’m comfortable,” I said, forcing the thought away. “I haven’t worn this jacket enough. It’s still stiff.”

She ran her hands slowly down my sides, almost sensually, but there was nothing sensual in her eyes. She was slow, methodical, as if I were one of the children trying on an outfit in the dressing room at the mall. She carefully looked over my body in the clothes meant to impress another woman, her lips pressed together. “Well, what if you wore a sweater instead? If you aren’t comfortable, it’s going to show.”

“I don’t want to look like a bum.”

She scoffed. “You aren’t going to look like a bum. You look handsome in sweaters. You always have. You can wear the cashmere one your parents got you last Christmas.”

“I’d forgotten about that one,” I said. “I mean, I think this looks okay though, right?”

Her eyes bounced up to mine, and I couldn’t tell if there was any frustration in them. When we first moved in together, Ainsley used to complain that I was the only man she knew who required several clothing changes before we could leave the house. I liked to try things on, see how they felt against my skin, see how they looked. Did that make me so different from every other man? I didn’t know, but it was how I worked.

“You look great,” she repeated. “Don’t be nervous. Do you have everything you need?”

I nodded, patting my back pocket, where my wallet rested. There was a condom tucked inside, hidden away like I’d done in my teenage years. Was it presumptuous to pack one? I wanted to be prepared, just in case. The thought shot through me like lightning: I might be having sex tonight. I might be having sex with someone who isn’t my wife.

Why did I feel so excited and terrified all at once? It was enough to make me sick. What if I didn’t know what I was doing? I’d only cared about impressing Ainsley for so long, what if I hadn’t been kept up to date on what was in anymore? What if there was some new move I didn’t know about? What if sex had changed somehow? What if my sex had changed? What if I’d gotten lazy? What if I wasn’t as good as she pretended I was?

I shuddered, forcing the thought away as she interrupted it by kissing my cheek gently, then rubbing her thumb over where the kiss had landed. “Go on, now. Have fun. What time are you supposed to be there? Are you picking her up?”

I shook my head, clearing my throat. “We’re meeting at seven.”

We glanced at the clock in unison. It was just after six, so I had plenty of time, but I needed to leave. I needed to get out of her presence, away from her warm, familiar, musky jasmine scent that enveloped the house, and into the groove of things. Groove of things? I cringed—even my thoughts were old and uncool. I was a dad, and it was painfully obvious. I needed to get out of my own head.

“Okay, I’ll be back later,” I said. She didn’t ask me to write down the name of the girl or the restaurant. She didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, she nodded, turning back to the chicken on the counter and setting to work.

“We’ll see you then.”

I walked away, out of the room and through the door. She never asked me about the note she’d written and sealed, but I suspected she didn't need to. My wife knew me too well. She knew every thought before I had it, every move before I made it. Strangely, I found comfort in that, knowing that I didn’t have to be anyone I wasn't with her. Knowing that my being someone different would surprise her, maybe even disappoint her.

There was uncertainty in the night, the date—spending an evening with someone who didn’t know me at all. It was part of the reason I hadn’t decided to take Gina up on her offer. It felt wrong somehow. Not that I’d expected her to fall madly in love with me, but I supposed I had too much respect for her to ask her out on a date where: a) I would probably be pretty rusty and awkward, and b) I planned to have sex—if my date was up for it—and never call her again.

So, for my first date, I’d chosen Mallory, a blonde massage therapist in her mid-twenties who loved to watch Hallmark Christmas movies year round and hike with her Shih Tzu, Bebe. Most of her pictures on the app were of her in bikinis, and the rest were either outdoors in tiny shorts or indoors in low-cut pajamas. Maybe it made me shallow to have picked her, but I needed someone who screamed casual for my first attempt at dating in years, and that was Mallory to the T.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I was seated in the oversized booth in the far corner. I ordered a gin and tonic for myself and waited. If I were with Ainsley, I’d have ordered her a red wine, a pinot or a cabernet perhaps. I considered guessing for Mallory—I’d bet she was a cosmo girl, but I wasn’t sure what the protocol was anymore, and I didn’t want to come across as a date rapist. So, instead, I sipped my drink, using my black straw to stir around the slices of lime.

When Mallory arrived, led to the table by a maître d’, I stood up, though it was awkward in the booth, and scooted toward the edge, reaching out my hand as she went in for a hug. She was wearing a small, pink dress, with minimal makeup except for giant, fake eyelashes and painted brows. Her blonde hair was cut into a sleek bob, unlike the wild, long hair in her pictures, and she’d straightened the curls I was so fond of.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, her voice deeper than I imagined. She was insanely beautiful, there was no doubt, but everything about her was different than I’d expected. She was calmer, like a dimmer version of the life-of-the-party girl I’d met on the app.

“You too,” I said, returning to my seat. “Sorry I didn’t order you a drink yet. I wasn’t sure what you prefer.”

“No worries,” she said, waving her hand at me. The waiter reappeared, and she ordered a whiskey neat, making me grateful I hadn’t tried to guess her drink, because, given a thousand guesses, that would’ve never been one of them. She played with a strand of her hair, checking her phone once before sliding it into her purse and watching for the waiter. When he appeared, he placed her drink in front of her and took our orders. For the first time, she didn’t surprise me, ordering a small salad while I ordered a burger and fries. A salad was not a meal, something Ainsley and I agreed on, but I didn’t bother saying it to her. Who cared if she only ate salads? I’d never see her again after tonight. I had Ainsley to go home to… Ainsley who ate real meals and didn’t mind a bit of meat on her bones.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to stop thinking of my wife. I was never going to get anywhere on this date if I couldn’t stop thinking of her. And, as Mallory leaned into the table, her breasts pressing against the edge and nearly bulging out of the top of her dress, I realized how badly I did want to get somewhere with her. It was almost incessant. I needed to. To prove something—to myself, to my wife. I wanted to feel wanted again. I wanted someone to look at me the way Mallory was looking at me now. I wanted that look to last all night. Why had I allowed myself to forget how good that felt?

“So, tell me about yourself,” she said, breaking the silence I hadn’t realized we’d been sitting in. “What do you do for a living?”

“I work at an ar—” I stopped myself because the truth had almost slipped out, and she could never know the truth about me. “Art gallery,” I filled in the blank. “As an office manager.”

“Wow,” she said with a dry laugh. “I never would’ve guessed that.”

“Why do you say that?”

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