The Arrangement

by Kiersten Modglin

“I will,” I said. “Love you, kiddo. See you later tonight or in the morning, depending…”

  “Love you, too.” With that, he pressed the button to start the game back up, and the music began blaring once again. I grabbed a stack of dirty cups from his dresser and walked from the room. I didn’t know why I felt so sad about this. It wasn’t like I was doing anything to hurt them, but somehow it felt like more of a betrayal to them than it did to Peter.

  The last room was Maisy’s. The pink flower on her door was one we’d painted together at a Mommy and Me class when she was six, her name drawn out in an attempted fancy script. It was a small sign of what used to be. Her room had changed so much over the years, starting out with posters of rainbows, unicorns, and her favorite Disney princesses, and ending up now with photos of her with her friends, quotes from her favorite books, and string lights all around the top of her walls and hanging in lines behind the head of her bed. I pushed the door open, and she looked up at me from the book in her hand, did a double take, and her brows raised.

  “You look gorg, Momma. Why are you so dressed up?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with a few people from the office tonight. I’ll probably be out late. Think you’ll be okay to hang out here with the boys?”

  She wrinkled her nose, pretended to think it over, and then nodded. “I think I’ll manage.”

  “What are you reading?” I asked, setting the cups from Riley’s room on top of her dresser and easing down on the edge of her bed.

  She held up the novel The Graveyard Book. “Neil Gaiman.” One of her favorite authors. She was a reader, like her father. And like her mother, my sweet Maisy had always been obsessed with all things creepy—ghost stories, scary movies, and the like. I’d been just the same growing up—there wasn’t a Goosebumps episode or Steven King film I hadn’t seen by age thirteen. The ones that existed then, anyway.

  “That’s a good one,” I assured her. “Did you finish your homework?” I didn’t even have to ask, but I wanted to. I wanted to savor every moment with her. At that moment, I was hit with the heaviest pang of guilt, and I considered calling the whole thing off to stay home and spend time with her. How long had it been since we’d painted each other’s nails and ate junk food together? Did she have a boyfriend? Was there a guy she had a crush on? Once, I would’ve known that, but I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a real conversation. I missed her.

  “Mostly. I have a call with Jennessa and Bailey in an hour to go over our English assignment. It’s a group project, but we’re going to FaceTime and work on it since Bailey's grounded.”

  I nodded. So, even if I wanted to stay, I’d be unwelcome. She had plans. Things to do. I would be in the way, and I needed to busy myself. “Anything I can help with?”

  “Not really,” she said, confirming what I suspected.

  “Okay then. Well,” I rubbed my hands over my legs, “I’m going to go ahead and get out of here. If you need anything, your dad will be around and I’ll have my phone.”

  “We’ll be fine, Mom.” She was smiling, and there was no hint of frustration in her tone, but I heard more than what she said nonetheless. They didn’t need me anymore. Not like they once had. I felt a tug somewhere deep inside of my stomach, as if the part of me that had grown my children was crying out. I fought back against the bitterness that filled my chest, my jaw tight. My babies were growing up, my husband was growing distant, and my life was at a standstill. The reality of where I was made me ache for all that had been. I touched her cheek lovingly and she looked disturbed, so I let my hand drop.

  “Love you, kiddo. Have a good night.”

  She picked the book back up, already lost in the story. “You too,” she called when I pulled open the door and grabbed the stack of cups again.

  I made my way down the hall, a hurricane of sadness, confusion over the sadness, anxiety, and fear welling inside of me. I needed to get out of this house before I backed down. Peter was in the kitchen, head in the refrigerator, but when he heard my heels on the hardwood, he looked over his shoulder.

  I saw the shock in his eyes. The appreciation for the way I looked.

  He was realizing I still had it, though I wouldn’t have known it myself if not for that moment. His shocked expression filled me with confidence.

  “Y-you look…wow,” his gaze bounced from my chest to my eyes and back down again, “you look amazing.”

  I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, glanced down, and walked past him on my way to place the dirty dishes in the sink. “Thank you.”

  “He must be taking you somewhere nice.”

  I froze, processing what he’d said. There was no question in his words at face value, but I knew the intention was there. It was the first hint that he wanted to break the rules. But if I told him anything, he’d want me to tell him everything. We’d be breaking the guidelines we’d laid out. “He is,” I said simply, choosing clipped honesty over reiterating the rules.

  “Well, he’s a…lucky guy tonight.”

  There was nothing light about his tone then. He was angry. Bitter. I could sense it, but I wouldn’t respond. The clock on the stove showed it was after six, which meant I needed to leave the house within the next few minutes to make it to the restaurant by seven.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve told the kids I’m heading out, let them know it was a work thing and that I’ll see them either late tonight or in the morning. Homework’s done, Maisy has a FaceTime thing for one of her assignments here soon, so you won’t want to disturb her. Riley needs to eat more than potato chips for dinner, so if you don’t cook—”

  “I’m going to cook,” he affirmed.

  “Well, if you don’t—”

  “I’m going to,” he said again, more firmly this time.

  “Okay,” I nodded. “Fine. Okay. Good.” I sighed. “I’ll see you when I get home then.” I started to walk away, but he stopped me, grabbing my arm.

  “Do you—” He let me go when I glanced down at his grip. “Sorry. Do you want to send me his name, or the address of the restaurant, or the name of where you’re going in case…I don’t know, in case he ends up being some sort of wacko? I know it’s against the rules, but…”

  I twisted my lips in thought. “I guess it’s not the worst idea. How about this: do we have any envelopes?”

  “What? Are you going to write me a letter?”

  “I’m going to write down his name and the place he’s taking me for dinner and seal it in an envelope. Then, when I get home, we can shred it and I’ll know if you tampered with it. But if I don’t come home or if you don’t hear from me, you can open it.”

  He didn’t look happy about the plan. “You don’t trust me not to look?”

  “It’s not about trust. It’s about temptation. Knowing you can’t look takes away the temptation, and then neither of us has to worry about it.”

  He sighed. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll get an envelope.”

  I removed a piece of paper from a drawer and scribbled the words down as he sulked out of the room, and when he returned, I slid the paper inside the envelope and sealed it tight. I pulled a piece of tape from the drawer and placed it over the seal. Then, I signed my name to the tape. “There, now it’s sealed for sure.” It was an old trick we used at the bank to protect the combinations we kept sealed in our keybox from the prying eyes of other employees. The safeguard worked just as well in this situation. If he removed the tape, I’d know it. And he couldn’t forge my signature well enough to replace it.

  Peter looked at it as if it was the most ridiculous thing in the world, but he didn't say anything.

  “Put it on top of the refrigerator so none of the kids find it. I don’t want them asking questions.”

  He did as he was told. “Well, have a good night, I guess.”

  I nodded, pressing my lips to his cheek awkwardly. “This feels weird,” I admitted as I turned away from him.

  “So weird,” he agreed with a huff of relieved breath.

&nbs
p; “I’ll text you when I get there. Let you know I made it okay.”

  “Be careful,” he said, the anger disappearing from his eyes, replaced by sadness. “There are a lot of crazy people out there.”

  “I will be. Promise.”

  With that, I walked out of the room, then out of the house, refusing to let myself question if I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

  Chapter Four

  PETER

  I had signed myself up for a specific kind of torture when I brought up the idea of writing down who my wife was currently on a date with. Of course, I hadn’t expected her to seal it. I should’ve, I guess. My wife was nothing if not thorough. Somehow, though, I hadn’t seen it coming.

  As the evening progressed, I found myself staring at the top of the refrigerator more and more, so much so that Maisy and Riley had both asked me if something was wrong, and even Dylan seemed to have noticed something definitely wasn’t right. I’d managed to whip up a quick dinner despite my distraction and carry on a halfhearted conversation throughout the meal, but as soon as it was over and the kids had retired back to their bedrooms, I knew it was going to be a long night of worrying.

  I glanced at the doorway to the kitchen again, my throat dry. She texted me around an hour after she left to say that she’d arrived. She was safe. He seemed normal. It was all she’d said. I felt like a girlfriend she’d texted when her date had gone to the bathroom.

  I couldn’t help wondering what type of man my wife would date. Would she want someone like me? Or someone my opposite? Would she choose someone better looking than me? Someone with better hair? A better build? I couldn’t deny that I’d let myself go over the years. Once, I’d had hours a day to spend at the gym, but now, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stepped foot inside one. Things got busy, you know? Between life and work and the kids, there was no time for myself anymore. Not in that way. When you were building an architecture firm from the ground up and raising three children, everything else tended to fall by the wayside. Including my marriage.

  Our marriage was good once. I remembered it well. The time when we were inseparable. When all we wanted to do was spend time together. I could’ve spent hours holding her hand on the couch. We spent entire days at various theaters and restaurants because we had nowhere else to be. And then there were the hours spent rolling around in bed, soaked in sweat, never tiring, never running out of desire for one another. What had become of those people? Why had we let them go?

  I felt stupid and selfish for what we were doing. The moments of thrill came, sure, but they were vastly outnumbered by the moments of shame. Shame that I’d let it get to that point. Shame that my wife was looking for happiness in the arms of another man. Shame that my kids had no idea what we were doing or why.

  Ainsley was a catch, plain and simple, and I was very worried I'd forgotten that to the point that I might not be able to get her back. To the point that I might lose her. As I thought about it, I made up my mind then and there. When she arrived home that evening, I was going to tell her that agreeing to the arrangement had been a mistake. I was going to tell her I wanted to end it. I wanted to go back to who and what we were before. I didn’t care what she did on her date; I just didn’t want to do it anymore. The idea of another man looking at her, touching her, kissing her, tasting her… It was enough to drive me insane.

  I cleaned up the rest of our dinner in a hurry. I was angry and frustrated and trying to avoid looking at the clock on the wall. When I was done, I got on Facebook, scrolling through my newsfeed with glazed-over eyes. I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t focus on anything but the worry.

  I searched for Ainsley’s profile, clicking on her albums. There were so many memories there. I looked through them, bitter tears in my eyes. She’d documented everything: us taking the children to the zoo, first days of school, Christmases, birthdays, soccer tournaments with Riley, guitar lessons with Dylan, dance with Maisy. There were photos of the days and early weeks when we’d brought each of them home, the quiet moments we spent just appreciating the little lives we’d brought into the world. Further back, there were a few photos of our wedding. We looked so happy then. I wished I could feel that again. Feel the way I made her eyes light up in the early days. How long had it been since she looked at me that way? I had no idea, and that was painful.

  I should’ve tried harder. Fought for her more.

  As I stared at the photos, knowing she was sitting across from another man in a dimly lit restaurant—or, God forbid, that they’d made it even further than that and relocated somewhere more private—I realized I’d given up on her. Not consciously, but somewhere along the line, I had. Why hadn’t I made more of an effort to make sure the date nights she so desperately desired happened? Why hadn’t I been more open and honest in couples counseling? Why had I cancelled more sessions than I’d attended? She’d fought so hard for us, making suggestion after suggestion, and I’d just let them all fall through the cracks. I’d never put in any effort. Was I too late now?

  I was so angry with myself.

  So furious.

  I picked up my phone. I wanted to stop her before things got out of hand. There was still time. I selected her name from my contacts and listened to it ringing.

  Please pick up. Please pick up. Please pick up.

  After three rings, I was sent to voicemail. She’d ignored the call. Panic swelled in me, traveling from the knot in my stomach to a newly forming balloon in my chest. I looked back at the doorway to the kitchen. My chance to fix this was in there. My chance to fight for her before we took this step. Before she slept with him. Would she be furious with me for breaking the rules? Chances were, absolutely. But I didn’t care. I didn’t want her to be with him. I didn’t want anyone else to have the opportunity to make her happy.

  I reached the refrigerator and grabbed the envelope from the top. The envelope was dusty, and I made a mental note to clean the top of the refrigerator for her once everything had blown over.

  Without allowing myself to think about it too much, I tore open the envelope, making no effort to hide the evidence. I pulled the note out and unfolded it. Her scrawled handwriting could be seen through the paper.

  I turned it over, reading with disbelief what she’d written.

  No.

  I read it again, shaking my head.

  Sorry, honey.

  Rules are rules.

  I checked both sides, looking over it for more. I should’ve known she wouldn’t trust me not to check. I groaned, slamming my hand onto the counter, the note crumpled in my palm.

  What had I done?

  It was just after one in the morning when she arrived home. I was asleep on the couch when she came through the door. I jolted, taking a good look at her, ice-cold dread ricocheting through me. Her lipstick was gone, but that could’ve been from eating and drinking. Her hair looked the same, her clothing was not rumpled or disheveled.

  I let out a sigh of relief, thankful that she was safe. That she’d come back to me. But I couldn’t deny the innate curiosity roaring through me.

  When I sat up, she smiled at me, ducking her head a little bit. I had so much I wanted to say, so much I’d saved up, but at that moment, no words would come. I couldn’t bring myself to give her the speech I’d prepared, not when she looked so unbelievably happy.

  “How did it go?” she asked, keeping her distance from me.

  “Everything was fine here,” I squeaked out. My body shook from all I was trying to conceal—the anger over the note, the fury at myself for letting her leave, the relief that she was home, the worry about what she’d done. My mind raced with possibilities and endless questions, each fighting to be heard and answered.

  “Are the kids asleep?”

  I nodded, my lips pressed together as if I were physically holding in the inquisition I wanted to unleash.

  “Okay, well…I’m going to go take a shower, then.” A small, sly smile played on her lips again, causing bile to rise in my
throat. What was she showering off? Better yet, who was she showering off? I knew then that she’d slept with him. That it had been done. She’d betrayed me in the worst way.

  I knew it wasn’t betrayal. I understood it was agreed upon. But that didn’t make it any less painful. Permission to break my heart didn’t make the ache any less devastating. I don’t think I ever responded, though she walked away. She made her way down the hall, and I could hear her humming as she went.

  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.