Page 9 of The Amendment

“It’s Maisy,” Peter said, his voice wary. The angerdissipated instantly, and I shut the water off, reaching for a towel and scrambling out of the shower.

“What is it? Is she okay?”

He jiggled the door handle. “She’s sick. Bailey’s mom just called. Do you want me to go get her?”

“No,” I said, too quickly. “No. I’m coming with you.” I dried my body quickly before opening the bathroom door and darting down the hall toward our room. Peter gave my body an appreciative glance, but I pretended not to notice. I couldn’t think of him in that way. Not now. We needed to get to our little girl.

She needed us.

In the bedroom, I dropped the towel, turning away from him as I pulled on my clothes and tied my hair back out of my face. Once I was dressed, I looked at him.

“Did you get rid of it?”

“It’s gone.” He patted his pocket, as if to prove a point.

“Good. We should stop by the pharmacy and pick her up some medicine. Did Amber say what was wrong with her?”

“Sounds like a stomach bug. Maisy mentioned there’s been one going around.”

“We’ll need crackers and broth, then. And ginger ale.” I rattled off the list, counting them off on my fingers. I might as well have kept them in my head; it wasn’t as if I could count on Peter to remember what I was saying.

I tugged on my shoes and headed for the door. “Let’s go.”

He was behind me as we made our way toward the garage. I checked to be sure he’d moved the shelf back tocover the secret room—not that he had ever forgotten that—and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“I’m texting her to let her know we’re leaving now,” he said.

I didn’t ask if he meant Amber or Maisy. I didn’t ask anything. My mind was focused on the to-do list forming in my head.

There was so much I still needed to say to my husband, but none of it mattered. I needed to get to my child.

Like so much else in my life, in our marriage, everything else could wait.

It’s what a good mother would do.

CHAPTER FOUR

PETER

We pulled into the garage an hour and a half later with Maisy curled in the back seat, her legs tucked up in front of her. She’d been whimpering most of the way, clutching for dear life to the spare pitcher Amber had given her.

We weren’t sure if it was a stomach bug or something she’d eaten, but whatever it was had her vomiting every hour or so. Every window in the car was rolled down in an attempt to alleviate the putrid smell.

When Ainsley parked the car, I slid out of my side door, hurrying to scoop Maisy up and carry her inside. Ainsley was just behind me, carrying the bag from the grocery store we’d stopped at to stock up on whatever our daughter might need.

This was when we were at our best—Ains and I. When we had to work together as a team, no matter the reason, we fired on all cylinders. It was why we were so good. So much of our life had been bouncing from one situation to the next. One problem after the other: sick kids, workemergencies, her parents’ divorce, Glennon getting cancer, her grandfather’s dementia. We’d been in crisis mode for so long, sometimes I wondered if we even remembered how to be normal.

Then again, what was normal anyway?

Actually, now that I thought about it, the mostnormaltime in our marriage had also been the most drab. Perhaps the most problematic.

It was that period of time that led us to try the arrangement in the first place.

At least, that was what Ainsley had let me believe in the beginning.

I placed Maisy in her bed, tugging her shoes off her feet and pulling the comforter around her shoulders. Ainsley was just behind me, pouring her a glass of ginger ale and placing a plate of crackers next to it.

“Get a washcloth,” she instructed, lowering herself next to Maisy as she rubbed her cheeks carefully.

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