Page 9 of The Arrangement

I headed that direction, with no real plan for what I’d do once I reached her. When I got to the door, though, I chickened out. There was nothing left to say. Instead, I returned to our bedroom and crawled into bed. The tears found me there, and I let them fall until I heard her open our bedroom door.

She came straight from the bathroom to the bedroom, wrapped in a towel. She dressed in the dark, as if there might be evidence of what she’d done on her body. Maybe there was. I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to look at her. She probably believed I was asleep, and I made no move to correct her.

She didn’t check the refrigerator, not when she arrived home and not before she climbed into bed with me, our bodies inches apart. I don’t think she needed to. She knew me too well. She’d always said she knew me better than I knew myself. Which meant she knew I’d opened it; it was why she wrote what she did.

It seemed as if my wife knew my every move before I even made it, but I could’ve never guessed her moves that night.

I never thought she’d go through with it. That was the bitter truth. I thought she’d change her mind. I thought she loved me too much.

But she didn’t.

She’d gone through with it. She’d slept with someone else.

And that changed everything.

Chapter Five

AINSLEY

I could hardly sleep. I tossed and turned, waking and readjusting over and over, and when I woke up the final time a few hours later, Peter and I didn't talk about what happened.

He didn’t ask any questions, though I knew he wanted to. There were a few times when he stopped, standing in the middle of our bedroom as we both got ready for the day, and stared at me. His mouth would hang open as if he was trying to coax the question from his depths.

Each time though, without a word, he’d end up walking away. He didn’t ask what I did or how it went…he didn’t ask anything, but it was there in his face. The questions. The burning desire to know everything. It made it more exciting in a way. Peter and I had been together for so many years, sometimes it felt as if we no longer had secrets. Until that moment.

Finally, we both knew we had secrets again, and we’d only be creating more. I smiled to myself as I slid the maroon lipstick over my lips. He was watching me again, but I pretended not to notice. The truth was much less exciting than whatever he’d cooked up in his head. Maybe that was why the process would work—if it did, when it did. Because all he’d be able to think about for the next several days, weeks maybe, was me with someone else. Someone else doing his job, someone else loving me like he should have. Perhaps the jealousy would give him motivation to improve.

“I’ve got an early morning,” he said, breaking the silence. It was the first sentence either of us had spoken since our alarms had gone off at five that morning. “Can you get the kids to school?”

“Mhm,” I said, not nodding as I continued to glide the lipstick across my lips, making sure the lines were razor sharp.

He took a step toward me, and I lowered the tube, placing the lid back on it and meeting his eye in the mirror. To my surprise, he placed a hand on the side of my head, leaning down and pressing his lips to my temple. “Have a good day,” he whispered before standing back up.

“You too,” I said, turning around to look at him. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He nodded but didn't look back as he crossed the room and opened the door. Within seconds, he had disappeared and I was left alone with my thoughts, which I’d been trying to quiet.

The truth was, my date with Stefan went fine. He was nice, polite. He paid for my meal and drinks, asked about my career, told me about his. We talked about dating after a long-term relationship, and he only mentioned his late wife once. He held my hand as he walked me to my car. Everything was there. Everything was perfect.

But I didn’t go home with him. He didn’t ask me to, but I knew he would’ve taken me up on it if I’d mentioned it. I’d watched his gaze trail down the length of my dress or the stretch of my exposed cleavage when he thought I wasn’t looking. He wasn’t a pig about it, don’t get me wrong. But he was a man who hadn’t been with a woman in a very long time, and that was clear.

So why didn’t I go home with him? He was attractive, sweet, interested… But the truth was, I couldn’t turn off the guilt I felt. Not about Peter. We’d agreed to this. He wasn’t going to feel guilty about it when it was his turn. Instead, my guilt manifested about Stefan. I knew my night with him would be just the one. I didn’t plan to see him ever again. Our date hadn’t meant anything to me. It was purely to meet a need.

Perhaps I read him wrong and that was all he wanted too, but from the questions he asked about my life, the things he shared about himself, I got the impression that he was truly trying to get to know me. He mentioned more than once that I was the first woman he’d taken on a date in a long time, only one of those times specifying since his wife had passed away. It felt huge. It felt like I was stringing him along. I didn’t want to be the first woman he slept with after his wife died and then break his heart by never contacting him again. It felt wrong. And as much as this process was supposed to be about healing Peter and me, I felt awful that Stefan had gotten caught in the crossfire.

Once my makeup was finished, I spritzed my face with setting spray, ran my flat iron over my hair a few strokes more, and pulled on my black slacks and blouse with a pearl necklace to top off the outfit. I stepped into my favorite nude heels and headed for the door. The kids were bustling around the house, and Dylan crossed in front of me, dressed in only his boxers.

“Have you seen my green hoodie?”

“Good morning, Mom. How are you?” I asked sarcastically.

“This is serious!” he said. I was starting to think irritation was the only tone he knew. “I can’t find it anywhere. Riley’s been taking my stuff!”

“I have not!” The faint argument came from beyond the closed door in the bedroom to our left. Riley swung open his bedroom door, completely dressed, with half of a Pop-Tart in his hand. “Mom, I didn’t touch his stuff!”

“When did you have it last?” I asked Dylan.

“Friday at school, but I brought it home to be washed, and I never got it back.”

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