The Arrangement Page 2

  Other coworkers came in with their blouses and pressed black slacks and still managed to look frumpy compared to her. She’d been a partner at the firm for six years, and up until that moment, I’d been allowed to think such things but never to act on them.

  The arrangement Ainsley and I had put into place changed the game in ways I had never even thought of. I forced myself to glance back down at the paper. Getting involved with Gina would be a colossal mistake. She worked with me, and the point of the arrangement was to have casual sex, hang out with people randomly, and, ultimately, use it as a way to once again ignite the fire I’d had with my wife. Getting involved with anyone at the office was strictly forbidden.

  “So, you think you can, then?” she asked, filling the silence, and I realized we’d been sitting without saying anything for a long time.

  “Sorry, yeah,” I blurted out, looking away from her. “I’ll call around and see what I can do. If we can do it, the materials may have to be expedited…” I picked up a pencil from the desk, jotting down notes to myself and estimates as I worked through it all in my head. When I looked up, she was watching me curiously. Had she ever looked at me this way before? Not that I could remember. “Everything okay?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing…”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine here.” I chuckled then cleared my throat. “Well, tell Beckman I’ll get to work on this and have a definite answer for him by the end of the day.”

  She rapped her knuckles on the desk, something mischievous in her eyes. Maybe I was giving off some weird pheromone because of my new availability. Was that a thing? “Will do.” With that, she stood and walked away from my desk, heading for the door. Normally, I wouldn’t allow myself to stare for long, but I was in such a strange new headspace that I gave in to the indulgence.

  When she reached the door, she glanced back at me, her cheeks pinkening as she caught me staring. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be in my office,” she said, drawing out the words, as if she were waiting for me to say something.

  “Thanks, Gina.”

  With that, she nodded, patting the door with her fingers before she walked from the room. I immediately began to type up an email to our contracting company. My eyes drifted toward the drawer where my phone waited, the allure stronger than I’d expected it would be. I wanted to pull it out, to check it, to browse through the masses of available women again, but I had to pace myself. I had to carry on with my life and make sure I still managed to get work done, too.

  I finished the email, adding in the proposed changes to both the budget and timeline, as well as a request that they get back with me before three p.m. I pressed send and glanced back down toward the drawer.

  Five minutes.

  I’d allow myself five more minutes, and then it was straight back to work.

  I checked the clock, as if to enforce it, and opened the drawer. My phone screen was blank, so no matches yet, but had I been expecting anything different? I pressed my thumb to the button that would unlock my phone and opened the app again, brought back to the quirky girl’s face. I hit the heart, watching as the next face appeared. The girl appeared to be fake, or if she wasn’t, everything about her was. The tiny shirt she was wearing was stretched across her extra-large breasts. Her hair was white-blonde, a stark contradiction to the orange of her tan, bright pink lips, and too-thick eyeliner. I supposed some men might find her attractive, but she seemed to be trying far too hard for me. For the first time, I hit the thumbs down button, almost feeling the need to apologize if she were real.

  Within seconds, a new face filled the screen, tearing me away from my guilt, and I swallowed.

  What?

  Gina’s green eyes stared back at me from behind her thick glasses. She had her hair down in the photo, messy and unkempt, a cream-colored oversized sweater hung off one shoulder, and her pale lips were parted slightly.

  I stared at the photograph, wondering what to do. It went against all the rules I’d set for myself, but could it have been fate that she was on there? If I hit the heart button, I could explain to her that I was just looking for fun. Maybe she’d be okay with that. I didn’t want anything messy, but the woman in the picture didn’t look messy at all. She looked uncomplicated. Fun.

  Maybe I could ease myself into the arrangement by dating someone I knew.

  No. Not dating.

  Sleeping with.

  The thought had my heart racing, my whole body taking notice of the sudden surge of adrenaline.

  I stared at the picture a moment longer, wondering what she looked like underneath that sweater. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t pictured it a million times at that point, but now, I might have the chance to find out.

  Without allowing myself to think about it any further, I slid my thumb down the screen and pressed the heart button. It pulsed twice, then to my surprise, instead of disappearing like the others had, it exploded, a swarm of hearts trailing down the screen.

  I furrowed my brow.

  What the—

  The hearts disappeared, revealing a white, nearly blank screen with block lettering in the center.

  You’ve made a match! Click here to connect.

  Chapter Three

  AINSLEY

  When Peter arrived home, I was at the table waiting for him. The kids had disappeared to their respective corners of the home, as was the routine—sometime around their eighth birthdays, they each decided they no longer needed to spend time with us unless absolutely necessary.

  The thought crashed into me as I sank into memories of the four of us waiting anxiously for Peter to arrive home from work back then. I remembered the way Dylan and Riley, our oldest boys, would rush toward their father before he could even shut the door, anxious to tell him all about their days. It used to frustrate him. I recalled so vividly him asking that they wait until he’d had a moment to breathe before they pounced on him. If only we’d known how many moments to breathe we’d have as they grew older.

  With Maisy, our youngest and only girl, it was different. Peter had always seemed to have time for her, despite the fact that, of all our children, she was the most independent. Perhaps it was because he saw how fast time had gone by with the other two, perhaps it was because she was the easiest child of our three, or perhaps it was because he realized our time was dwindling with our babies in general.

  Now, granted, they weren’t ready to move out or anything. We still had time with them—Dylan was fourteen, Riley twelve, and Maisy ten. But it seemed like a blink from the time we brought them each home until we had a house of teenagers and preteens. I think the truth was, we’d both realized how quickly time had gotten away from us while we were busy doing other things. How easily we’d let it slip on by. And now, we realized that we had just eight years left, less than Maisy’s whole life, which seemed short in comparison to so much else, and then our babies would leave us. They’d be out of the house, on with their lives. And we’d be left with…what?

  Our marriage? The one we’d neglected over and over again?

  Our home? The one we’d put off repairing in favor of new shoes for the children and extracurriculars?

  We had nothing left of what we’d built together in the beginning, and I thought that was what this arrangement had come down to. We needed to decide if there was anything left to fight for.

  I didn’t want to be the kind of wife in a loveless marriage or the kind of mother who divorced her children’s father when the youngest turned eighteen—I knew people like that. They were exhausted—tired and bitter, worn down by a life without romantic love. I didn’t want that to be us, but I didn’t know what else to do to fix our marriage aside from this. Date nights and random attempts at couples counseling hadn’t worked… This was my last resort. If this didn’t work, I wasn’t sure there was any hope for us. It had to work.

  Peter appeared in the doorway of our kitchen, looking worn out and drained as usual. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and nodded in my g
eneral direction without making eye contact. “Hey,” he said, his voice conflicted. I didn’t have to ask what it was about. It was Tuesday, which meant we had reached the official start of our 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 acr
oss 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?”

  “No. Not you, just me. I have a work thing tonight. I probably won’t be back before you go to bed. Is your homework done?”

  He nodded, appearing relieved. “I only had math, and I finished most of it in class.”

  “Good. Will you mind your dad for me?”

  He rolled his eyes, but unlike Dylan, there was a playfulness there. He’d not yet learned to be annoyed by my every word. “I always do.”

  “Help him out if he needs it, okay? And don’t fight with your brother.” I ruffled his hair too, kissing his cheek. He swiped it away with his hand—he didn’t used to do that. When did it start? I couldn’t even remember.

  “I won’t. Have fun at your work thing.”