Page 13 of The Arrangement
“A new rule?” His face fell.
“Nothing crazy. A clarification, I guess. It was pretty unspoken before, but I want to make it official. I think we should let the people we’re seeing know up front that it’s a physical, casual thing.” His brow inched up a hair, it was barely noticeable, but I noticed. So, I went on. “I just think that’s going to be the easiest way to prevent anyone, on either side, from developing feelings. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Don’t you agree?”
He opened his mouth wide, like he’d been planning to argue or say something profound, but dropped it back closed. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“You seem like you disagree.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not that, it’s just that…well, I think that’ll come off much better from your end than mine. Women are going to think I’m an asshole.”
“Trust me, there are as many women out there looking for something casual as there are men—I’m proof of that. We have to be sure we find the right ones. The last thing either of us needs is some needy, scorned one-night stand snooping around.” I lowered my voice as I finished the sentence.
He nodded. “Okay. Yeah, that works for me.”
“Good.” I tapped the metal of my wedding ring against the glass in my hand. “Okay, I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“So, did something happen to make you decide this? Are you having trouble with the guy you saw last night?”
“No,” I assured him. “It’s something I’ve been thinking about. I had a few messages from him after, and I thought maybe I should’ve been clearer, so I wanted to give you a heads-up for tomorrow night and going forward.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Speaking of, have you decided who you’re going to ask?”
A scowl formed on his face, the crease in his forehead deepening. “It’s not the spring formal, Ainsley.”
“You know what I mean.” I smiled, trying to tamp down the jealousy I was starting to feel dancing in my belly.
“I’ve decided, yeah.”
Who was she? Someone younger? Thinner? Prettier? Someone who wouldn’t nag him about anything? I shivered, shunning the thought away. It didn’t matter who she was. What mattered was what the process did to my husband, and if his date went anything like mine, there was a chance it could work.
I changed the subject. “Any requests for what to make with the chicken?”
“I was thinking Brussels sprouts,” he said, walking toward the refrigerator. “We have some from the produce delivery that need to be cooked before they go bad.” He pulled the green bag from the crisper drawer and moved toward the sink to begin washing the vegetables.
“What are you doing?” I asked, because it had been so long since he'd offered me any help with dinner I legitimately couldn’t remember the last time it happened.
“I thought I’d help…” His voice was soft and unsure, as if he thought I might scold him for helping me out. “If that’s okay?”
“Sure.” I took another sip of my wine. “Do you want something to drink?”
“I’m okay,” he said, holding my eye contact for an extra second. There was something warm in his eyes that I’d missed. He was trying to impress me, and I couldn’t help cherishing that. When he moved to my side to chop and season the vegetables, his hip rested against my side. Though there was plenty of counter space on either side of us, neither of us moved.
I listened to the steady chopping, my body heating up as his skin continued grazing mine, and smiled to myself. Maybe my plan would work out after all.
Chapter Eight
PETER
When Thursday night rolled around, I was a ball of nerves. The last time I could remember feeling that way was the night Maisy was born. Nervous, excited, worried. I was afraid I’d make a mess of the date, that I’d do something to embarrass myself. Worse, I was afraid I'd do something to inadvertently ruin my marriage. I knew what the rules were, but that didn’t stop me from worrying they’d change or I’d somehow break one.
When Ainsley told me the new rule the night before, I wanted so badly to tell her I wanted to call the whole thing off instead. I bounced back and forth between being excited about the possibility of what we were doing, terrified that this would ruin our marriage, ruin our family, and disgusted with the fact that I couldn’t let myself enjoy it. What kind of man asks questions when his wife says she wants him to sleep with other people? I couldn’t bring myself to tell the nagging voice, the one warning how close I was to losing her, to shut up.
When I was a kid, my parents made me take piano lessons. I painstakingly memorized the notes, memorized where my fingers were supposed to lay on the keys. I remembered the way my piano teacher smelled—like a musty attic and the peppermints she kept in her pockets all rolled into one—and the way she’d rap my knuckles with her ruler whenever my hands lost their posture.
That was how I felt at that moment. Like my life had fallen out of posture and I was waiting for Mrs. Feffermen to smack my knuckles and get me back into shape.
I walked from the bedroom, dressed in dark gray slacks with a light blue button-down shirt and a black bomber jacket. I was nervous as hell when I appeared in the living room—Ainsley apparently oblivious to me for a few seconds as she shredded the baked chicken for her legendary white chicken chili. She moved the metal claws through the meat with precision. Anger. Was I imagining that?