Page 5 of The Arrangement

Abiding by our rules, Peter hadn’t asked me anything about my date or what my plans were, but I could tell it was driving him crazy. I smiled and stood from the chair, walking toward him as he approached the sink to start his evening pot of coffee. “How was work?”

“Fine,” he mumbled, either distracted or agitated, but I didn’t pry.

“I’m going to go up and get ready. Do you need anything from me first?”

I waited for an answer, which didn’t come right away. Instead, he shut the water off, set the half-filled pot down, and turned to face me. “Are you sure about this? Are we sure we know what we’re doing? Is this a huge mistake?”

My face warmed from his concern. “I don’t think it’s a mistake. Do you?”

His brown eyes found mine. “I don’t know, Ainsley… I just can’t help feeling like after tonight…there’s no going back, you know? Up until you walk out that door, we still have a choice, but once it’s done…you can’t take it back.”

I narrowed my gaze at him, taking in what he was saying. “I hear you,” I said, nodding along. “But…what options are there? We both agree it’s not working like it is. Marriage counseling and date nights didn’t work, so…do we give up? Do we tuck our tails and accept that we have only a few years left of being roommates with the same last name and then pass Maisy her birthday cake as we sign the divorce papers? Even if we decide to stick it out for the kids, do you think we deserve to live like that? Eight years of…what? Some subpar existence?” I drew in my lips. “I don’t want to do this, Peter. I’m just as terrified as you are, trust me. I would never have suggested it if I thought we had any other choice, so if you have an option that doesn’t involve accepting defeat, I’m all ears.” I tucked my hands in my pockets, watching him mull over what I’d said.

“It feels wrong,” he said. “I can’t explain it. It feels like we’re cheating on each other.”

“But we aren’t. This is an agreement. We’re agreeing to see other people to reignite the spark in our marriage. Cheating would involve lying, and there’s no lying allowed in this arrangement. I’m with you that it feels strange, but wrong? Wrong would imply that we’re doing something shady, and we aren’t at all. At least, not to each other.”

“You aren’t going to fall in love with him, are you?” he asked with a laugh, but I knew he wasn’t joking.

I reached out a hand and took his. “This isn’t about love. It isn’t about sex either. It’s about connecting with other people. Having fun. Allowing ourselves to step outside of this mold we’ve created for our lives and see if there’s a part of us that we still need to discover. We used to be whole people without each other and without the kids. I want us to find out what parts of those people still exist. There’s nothing that says we have to do anything—physical or otherwise—on these dates. We can talk to people, dance, have a nice dinner, see a movie. I think this is more about connecting with ourselves again than it is about anyone else.”

He nodded, but it was slow. Inconsequential. I couldn’t tell if he agreed. “You’re probably right,” he said. “I don’t want it to be a mistake.”

“There’s no mistake we can’t fix as long as we work together, okay?” I squeezed his hand before dropping mine to my side. “We’re in this together. All the way.”

He leaned down, surprising me by kissing my lips. It was the first time he’d done that in I couldn’t recall how long. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” With that, I smiled at him one last time before departing from the room. I needed time to get ready for my first date in over fifteen years.

The date was with a man named Stefan. He was in his mid-forties, so a few years older than Peter and me, bald, with thick, dark eyebrows à la Eugene Levy, and a kind smile. His profile said he liked pasta and wine, he was a proud Italian, and he had a pet Labradoodle named Lip, after Lip Gallagher. He was a widower getting back on the wagon—I guess said wagon came in the form of me tonight—and wanting to have some fun in the process.

We’d talked sporadically over the past few days. He’d sent me a few notes to say hey and ask how my days were going, but I’d kept the conversation to a minimum. I wanted to make sure it was clear straight from the get-go that this wasn’t a permanent thing, but how would I do that? I should’ve stuck to matching with twenty-somethings. All they seemed to care about was racking up an astronomical number of women to sleep with. But I’d always been drawn to good conversation over a spectacular bedding, and I would assume experienced, older men could bring both to the table.

If I had to guess, I’d bet Peter’s date would be younger, maybe much, and brunette. He’d always had a thing for brunettes with hair down to their asses. But, I would play by the rules, and I wouldn’t ask him about her or about what they would do together.

A knot formed in my stomach as I forced the thought away. I needed to focus. I needed to get this right. I grabbed the red dress from my closet, a favorite of mine and one I didn’t get to wear nearly enough, and laid it out on the bed. It was a midi sleeveless dress with elegant pleats across the chest and a tapered waistband. One of the few silk items of clothing I owned, and certainly the only one I’d ever had dry-cleaned.

I sat down at the vanity, pulling and prodding at my skin. I thought wrinkles were reserved for women in their forties and fifties, but I had discovered my first at age twenty-six, and I’d been on the steady decline ever since. I used to think it was a good thing I managed to snag my husband before my age started to affect my appearance, but now I had to wonder if I’d made a mistake. If things fell apart with Peter and me, the next person wouldn’t get me at my best. No one would ever again see what my body looked like before it created and birthed three children. No one would know how soft and supple my skin was in my early twenties. They wouldn’t know who I was when I was carefree and fun. Peter got that version of me, and he’d practically squandered it.

I picked up the bottle of makeup remover, washing away the day. Underneath all the primer, eyeliner, and subtle hints of rouge, I was pale and lifeless. A shell of the woman I once was. I rubbed moisturizer on before adding fresh primer, then put on a new coat of makeup, adding extra color to my cheeks. I dusted gold powder across my eyes—it had always made the green stand out the most—and applied fresh red lipstick, fiery as my hair.

When I was done, I pulled my hair down from its clip and took out the curling wand, turning my flat, red hair into carefree beach waves. It took time, but I still had an hour before I was meeting Stefan and I wanted to look my best.

Once every piece of my hair had been curled to loose, imperfect perfection, I spritzed my favorite perfume on my wrists and behind my ears and removed my clothing, slipping on clean, uncomfortable underwear I hadn’t worn in years. Next, I unzipped the dress and stepped into it, zipping it back up on the side and adjusting it. Without checking the mirror yet, I made my way into the closet and picked out simple, black heels.

I stood still for a moment, trying to calm my erratic breathing. I shouldn’t have felt so afraid. I’d been preparing myself for days, trying to be confident that this would all work out, that Stefan would be great, that Stefan would not be a serial killer, that I would be able to get back into the swing of things easily, that there wouldn’t be dating protocol I was unfamiliar with after years of not dating. I wrung my hands together in front of me, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out. My palms were sweaty and I didn’t dare wipe them on the silk, so I flapped them at my sides as if I were a bird instead. I could feel sweat beading on my upper lip and along my temple, and I felt both very cold and like I may get sick all at once.

I balled my hands into fists, locking my jaw into a determined grimace. No. Tonight would be fun. I was going to make sure it was fun.

I stalked back across the room, pulled out a simple, black clutch, and placed my ID and credit card inside. I looked down at my hand, at the wedding and engagement bands that adorned my ring finger. Bite the bullet. I twisted the rings, easing them off my finger and dropping them in the glass ring holder on my vanity. Then, I grabbed my phone and headed for the door. I stopped by the kids’ bedrooms one by one.

I reached Dylan’s first. He hardly looked up from his tablet, except to mumble “Why are you dressed like that?”

“I have a work thing,” I said, the answer I’d prepared. “I won’t be home until late. Be good for your dad, okay?”

He nodded, bored with the conversation, and looked back down without another word. I kissed his scruffy brown hair, ruffling it and hurrying from the room before I found myself unable to put off my desire to clean it.

Next came Riley. He was elbow-deep in a bag of potato chips when I walked into the room, one hand on an Xbox controller. He paused it, looking me up and down with a slack jaw and confused expression. “Are we going somewhere?”

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