The Arrangement

by Kiersten Modglin

  I didn’t want him to get hurt in the process of me trying to clean up my mess of a marriage, and that was what was happening. He was interested in me, and I’d purposefully chosen a man who seemed caring. A man who would make me feel listened to.

  This was all my fault. I hadn’t expected the guilt to weigh on me so heavily.

  At the end of business, after the branch had closed and the tellers had balanced out their cash drawers, I closed the door to my office, locking it up and making my way toward the alarm console. “You guys ready?”

  “Yep,” came the reply. The tellers, Tara and Brendan, walked around from behind the counter and hurried toward the door, laughing about some joke I wasn’t privy to. I’d worked my way up from their position as a teller myself, to a lead banker, and three years ago, I’d become the branch manager. The moment the change took place, I found myself no longer allowed to join in on the laughter. No longer invited in. I’d become the boss, which apparently meant I was to be feared, not welcomed into the closest circles. They were nice enough to me, sure, but I couldn’t help noticing, despite having worked with most of them for years, that the moment I took the position, suddenly conversations stopped when I walked into the room. Laughter faded. I became the figure of authority, and no longer was I considered a friend.

  I hated it. I missed the laughter. I missed getting to come into work and relax with a coworker between customers. But my ambition had separated me from those I knew and turned me into someone else. At least, that’s how it seemed in their eyes. I still felt like myself. The version of myself that needed friends more than ever.

  I typed in my code and jogged across the spacious lobby, waiting as Brendan locked the door behind me and the three of us departed the building together. “Have a good night, you two.”

  “You too. See you tomorrow,” Tara called, waving her hand over her head. I let out a heavy breath as I sank into the car. There were days, not so long ago, when I’d rush out of work to pick up the kids from daycare or after-school care. Now, though, they were all so busy with their after-school programs, sports, and friends, I had nowhere to rush to.

  So, I sat. And I thought. Which was most often a dangerous thing. I thought about Stefan, whose messages sat unopened on my phone. I thought about Peter, who had never looked at me the way he looked at me that morning. At least he was looking at me again, I reasoned, but not in a way that made me proud.

  My phone buzzed, and I looked down at it. Unknown caller.

  It was the second blocked phone call I’d received that day. It wasn’t all that unusual for me to receive spam calls, but still, it bothered me. I pressed the button to ignore the call, dropping the phone back into my cup holder.

  I had no need to feel guilty for what I’d done—or hadn’t done, more like. We made an agreement, and my date’s steam-level was grade school at best. I didn’t cross the lines we’d made way for me to cross, so what was the nagging feeling in my chest I couldn’t seem to shake? Why did I feel like I’d ruined something? My marriage? There was no way it could be ruined beyond the point that it already was. My children? Oblivious to what we were doing. My team at work had no idea what I’d been up to. So what was the feeling eating away at me? Shame. I sat with the feeling long enough to recognize it, though it didn’t belong there. It didn't apply to me. I had no reason to feel ashamed. Not yet.

  I wondered who Peter had been talking to, who he’d chosen to take on his first date the next evening. For some strange reason, the feeling didn’t make me sick. There was no jealousy in my wonderment. In fact, I felt more bitter that he hadn’t been jealous of my date than about my own lack of feelings for him.

  Once I was bored with the thinking and feeling, I pulled my car out of the parking spot and out of the lot and headed for home. It felt like I was watching my life unfold before me, rather than living it myself. Was this what a midlife crisis felt like? I didn’t feel nearly old enough for a midlife crisis, but that was what the ache seemed to be. The indescribable ache of watching my life pass me by and realizing the best years were behind me. Once, there had been things I looked forward to: birthdays, holidays, vacations. As I’d gotten older, the birthdays came and went with less celebration, the kids preferred cash to gifts on holidays, and they’d rather us order out than spend time cooking a meal together. Though we’d always made it a point to take two week-long vacations a year, the kids were much less interested in doing the dorky family things that we used to enjoy so much—burying Peter in the sand, taking pictures in the shark’s mouth at Sharky’s, searching for sand dollars together, buying oversized cups from Pineapple Willy’s, and building sand castles. Instead, Dylan and Riley now preferred to run headfirst into the ocean and spend their time testing the limits of how far out they could make it. Maisy, our reader, would don a hat and sunglasses and spend her time with her nose in a book, while trying not to get sunburned. We were no longer the family we’d once been, and I wasn’t sure when that happened.

  I supposed that was what had made me so afraid. I didn’t know when my life had become what it was. It all felt like I’d woken up one morning and looked around at my half-grown children, my stagnant career, and a husband who wanted nothing to do with me, and I realized I had no idea how we’d gotten here.

  Twenty mind-numbing minutes later, I pulled into our long, gravel driveway. The house was surrounded by acres of forest, miles away from town. We’d longed for privacy and nature when we’d decided to buy our first house, having both grown up in the city with very little yard to play in. As an added bonus, Peter had designed the house himself when we’d found the perfect plot of land. It was his first project after graduation. Though we couldn’t afford much at the time, it was cute enough and had been a wonderful home to start and grow our family in. The house was pale brick with red shutters. There was a swing set in the side yard that hadn’t been played on in years and a sandbox next to it that was more grass than sand these days. Inside the garage were five bicycles, most of which had flat tires and cracking seats. The reminders were everywhere—things were changing. They’d never be the same. I pulled down the mirror and looked over my face, brushing the tears from my cheeks. I didn’t have time to fall apart. Not right then.

  When I walked inside, the house was quiet. There were no happy footsteps rushing to greet me, to show me their latest masterpieces or tell me about their days. There were days when they were young when I begged for a minute of peace, a minute to breathe, or shower, or think…but this was worse. Back then, I had no idea how much peace I’d have one day all too soon.

  I hung my purse on the coat rack in the hall, removed my peacoat, scarf, and shoes, and headed for the bedroom to change clothes. Once I was comfortable in my pajamas, I headed for the kitchen, where I grabbed the chicken for dinner and the wine for my nerves. I poured a glass and took a sip, the calm flowing through me in an instant.

  As I took another sip and reached for a baking dish to start dinner, I heard the hall door from the garage open and Peter’s footsteps coming up the stairs. He headed toward the bedroom as I set down the glass of wine and prepared the chicken. I was sliding it into the oven when he appeared behind me, his heavy footsteps a warning he was coming.

  “Have a good day?” he asked—all in one breath. His voice was abrupt, as if he’d been rehearsing the question and it spilled out before he was ready.

  I closed the oven door and looked over my shoulder. “It was all right. How was yours?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Listen, I—”

  “I wanted—” I said, stopping as we interrupted each other. “You go.”

  He smiled, shaking his head. “No, you first.”

  “I wanted to add a new rule to our existing rules,” I told him, resting my back against the counter as I lifted the wine glass and spun it in my hand.

  “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?

  I cleared my throat, and she glanced over her shoulder, then released the claws, grabbing a towel to dry her hands as she looked me over. “You look nice, babe,” she said. Her tone was casual. Unbothered. As if I were headed to the grocery store rather than on a date.

  I swallowed and stepped forward. “Does the jacket look…” I adjusted it, pulling on the neck. “Is it too much?”

  She walked toward me, checking that her hands were clean before she laid the towel down on the counter and reached for the collar, adjusting it. “Are you comfortable?” My wife preferred deep shades of red lipstick, colors that matched her hair. She applied them every morning, and by the evening, they’d all but faded from her lips. I could see traces of her lipstick then, near the edges of her smile and in the cracks of her bottom lip. I was struck by the sudden urge to lean down, take her lip between my teeth, and bite down. I couldn’t explain it, the sudden urge to hurt her, but it was there. I wanted to cause her pain. Was that my way of coping?

  “I’m comfortable,” I said, forcing the thought away. “I haven’t worn this jacket enough. It’s still stiff.”

  She ran her hands slowly down my sides, almost sensually, but there was nothing sensual in her eyes. She was slow, methodical, as if I were one of the children trying on an outfit in the dressing room at the mall. She carefully looked over my body in the clothes meant to impress another woman, her lips pressed together. “Well, what if you wore a sweater instead? If you aren’t comfortable, it’s going to show.”

  “I don’t want to look like a bum.”

  She scoffed. “You aren’t going to look like a bum. You look handsome in sweaters. You always have. You can wear the cashmere one your parents got you last Christmas.”

  “I’d forgotten about that one,” I said. “I mean, I think this looks okay though, right?”

  Her eyes bounced up to mine, and I couldn’t tell if there was any frustration in them. When we first moved in together, Ainsley used to complain that I was the only man she knew who required several clothing changes before we could leave the house. I liked to try things on, see how they felt against my skin, see how they looked. Did that make me so different from every other man? I didn’t know, but it was how I worked.

  “You look great,” she repeated. “Don’t be nervous. Do you have everything you need?”

  I nodded, patting my back pocket, where my wallet rested. There was a condom tucked inside, hidden away like I’d done in my teenage years. Was it presumptuous to pack one? I wanted to be prepared, just in case. The thought shot through me like lightning: I might be having sex tonight. I might be having sex with someone who isn’t my wife.

  Why did I feel so excited and terrified all at once? It was enough to make me s
ick. What if I didn’t know what I was doing? I’d only cared about impressing Ainsley for so long, what if I hadn’t been kept up to date on what was in anymore? What if there was some new move I didn’t know about? What if sex had changed somehow? What if my sex had changed? What if I’d gotten lazy? What if I wasn’t as good as she pretended I was?

  I shuddered, forcing the thought away as she interrupted it by kissing my cheek gently, then rubbing her thumb over where the kiss had landed. “Go on, now. Have fun. What time are you supposed to be there? Are you picking her up?”

  I shook my head, clearing my throat. “We’re meeting at seven.”

  We glanced at the clock in unison. It was just after six, so I had plenty of time, but I needed to leave. I needed to get out of her presence, away from her warm, familiar, musky jasmine scent that enveloped the house, and into the groove of things. Groove of things? I cringed—even my thoughts were old and uncool. I was a dad, and it was painfully obvious. I needed to get out of my own head.

  “Okay, I’ll be back later,” I said. She didn’t ask me to write down the name of the girl or the restaurant. She didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, she nodded, turning back to the chicken on the counter and setting to work.

  “We’ll see you then.”

  I walked away, out of the room and through the door. She never asked me about the note she’d written and sealed, but I suspected she didn't need to. My wife knew me too well. She knew every thought before I had it, every move before I made it. Strangely, I found comfort in that, knowing that I didn’t have to be anyone I wasn't with her. Knowing that my being someone different would surprise her, maybe even disappoint her.

  There was uncertainty in the night, the date—spending an evening with someone who didn’t know me at all. It was part of the reason I hadn’t decided to take Gina up on her offer. It felt wrong somehow. Not that I’d expected her to fall madly in love with me, but I supposed I had too much respect for her to ask her out on a date where: a) I would probably be pretty rusty and awkward, and b) I planned to have sex—if my date was up for it—and never call her again.