“Okay, okay, Mom,” she said, and I understood what was happening. “I will. Yep, love you too. Mmkay. Love you. Yep. Okay, bye.”
She lowered the phone from her ear, rolling her eyes. “Sorry, my mom was telling me about her book club again. It’s very scandalous there.” Glennon leaned forward with a wink, wrapping her arms around me. “It’s so good to see you, babe. Sorry it’s unannounced. I’d planned to call on the way over, but you see how that turned out.”
I stepped back, allowing her inside. “You never have to call, you know that. What are you doing out so late?”
“I wanted to check in. It’s been a while since we hung out. Seth’s at a work retreat thing.” She sighed, taking off her coat and tossing it onto the coat rack next to the door. “I figured I’d come over and bother you and Peter for a while.”
We walked into the kitchen together instinctually, our ritual whenever she came over. She grabbed the wine glasses while I pulled out the chardonnay. I preferred red, but the bottle had been opened a few nights ago and needed to be drunk. “Well, bother away. It’s just me tonight. Hope that’s okay.”
“Where’s Peter?” she asked over her shoulder, setting the glasses on the counter as I filled them and she wandered away to the pantry, which consisted of an entire room down the hall.
My answer was loud, meant to reach her there. “He’s out. Work thing, I think.” I hadn’t told Glennon about what we were doing, though I’d always told her everything else, because I was embarrassed we’d even gotten to this point. Glennon and I were real with each other; we understood our respective marriages better than most counselors, but this felt like too much. When she returned to the room, she had a bag of caramel corn and one of cheddar popcorn.
“More snacks for me, then. Are we salty or sweet tonight?”
“Salty,” I said with a laugh. “Always salty.”
“Mm, you read my mind,” she agreed, tossing the bag of caramel corn onto the countertop. “Speaking of salty, how are things? Got any salt to spill?”
I laughed. “I think you mean tea.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Is that what the kids are calling it? I swear to God, I can’t keep up anymore.”
“Tell me about it. I need a translator to have a conversation with my three these days.”
She chuckled. “Whatever. I feel like it’s been a year and a half since I’ve seen you. How are you?”
“We got together for drinks last week,” I pointed out.
“Much too long.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “Speaking of the kiddos, where are they? Sleeping?”
“Well, they’re supposed to be asleep, which means they’re all up there playing on their phones like usual.”
She walked toward me, taking the glass of wine as I held it out to her, her amber eyes locked with mine. “Is everything okay? You seem down.”
The smile I gave her came on like a sneeze—quick and instinctual. It was a wall, meant to hide any form of worry or insecurity. “Everything’s fine.”
She knew better. “Fighting with Peter again?”
I shook my head. Glennon knew all about the fights, because all too often, it was her I ran to afterward. To vent, to cry, to weigh options when things were at their worst. It was Glennon who suggested the date nights and who pushed us to try therapy. Like a bossy older sister, she took the reins when my relationship began to go off course and tried to help bring us back someplace good.
“No, honestly,” I told her, taking a sip of wine to cover whatever readable face I was sure I was making. “Everything’s fine. What about you? How’s Seth?”
Her smile was stymied by my words, falling to a flat line of thin lips. “Jesus, that bad? You can’t even talk to me about it?”
I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, knowing there was no way around it. When I didn’t say anything right away, she put her hands up. “Hey, no pressure, love. I won’t force you. Just…you know I’m here, right?”
I was surprised to feel a lump forming in my throat, and I looked down, avoiding meeting her eye as I tried to collect myself. When I looked back up, I sniffled and nodded, and she took the hint, turning away. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a second bottle of wine. “I think we’re going to need this. I have tea to give you.”
I smiled when she said it wrong, but didn’t bother to correct her. It was far from my biggest problem. I hated feeling like I had to keep something so huge from her, but I couldn’t tell her what we were up to. I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t figured out what to say.
“It’s all about Seth’s new assistant. Have I told you about her?” She wrinkled her nose in what looked like disgust. “Donna.” I shook my head. With that, she let out a laugh and the conversation shifted easily, back to our usual banter. We headed into the living room and relaxed on the couch, sipping wine and bingeing terrible TV for the next several hours.
As the time passed, I realized it was the most fun I’d had in a long time. I always seemed to have more fun with Glennon than Peter. Maybe that was the problem. When was the last time I had fun with my husband?
Chapter Ten
PETER
When I got home that night, I was sure I reeked of sex. My hair was mussed, my clothing wrinkled, and I knew the guilt would tear away at my expression. How would I ever meet my wife’s eyes again? I approached the door, surprised to see a light on in the living room. When I opened the door, there was stifled laughter that died out immediately.
Glennon was there. The last person I needed in my house right then. I wondered what Ainsley had told her about our arrangement. Hopefully nothing, probably everything. The agreement was that we wouldn’t tell anyone, but those promises never seemed to include her best friend.
“Hey, honey,” Ainsley said, her cheeks pink with wine, her tone slow and husky, as it often got when she’d had too much to drink. “Have fun?”
My own cheeks grew pink then, as my eyes darted from Glennon to Ainsley and then back. I didn’t know what she knew, and I didn’t want to deny it if she did know. God, this is embarrassing.
“Mhm,” I said, deciding to get away as quickly as possible. I darted from the room and headed for the shower, my heart pounding with nerves and embarrassment. I heard them giggling again as I shut the door, and I realized what a fool I’d made of myself. As soon as the moment had passed, I felt the shame.
Like always.
That was how it happened. I’d always believed people assumed men were the ones who made the decision to cheat. That it was a conscious decision. Maybe for some men it could be, I didn’t know. I hadn’t exactly done the polling. For me, cheating on my wife had never been something I planned on. I wasn’t proud of myself for what I’d done. Not that night or any of the nights before. And, to my surprise, it didn’t feel any better now, just because I had permission.
The first time, it was a combination of bad timing—we’d had one of our worst fights that night—and too much alcohol. I’d wanted something to make me feel…something? Better, happier? Anything. I’d felt so numb in my marriage for so long. I loved my wife, but the love had faded. It was dulled by years of putting the children, the house, and our careers first. I needed to be reminded of what excitement felt like.
After it happened, as in immediately after, I swore it would never happen again. I felt sick. Disgusting. I hated myself. I couldn’t bear to think about what I’d done. Like a murderer, I wandered through my life, waiting to be caught. Every phone call, every text made me jumpy. I wondered would this be the call to end everything? Would this be the text where she would tell me she knew the truth? That she knew what I’d done? That it was time to face the music?
But the truth was, weeks went by and she never found out what I’d done. I’d gotten away with it.
In some ways, I wished I hadn’t. Maybe that would’ve been better somehow. I would’ve been able to apologize. Maybe therapy would have fixed the one mistake. Instead, I got away with it and, when presented with another opportunity, I took it
without a second thought. I ran with it, welcomed back into the warmth of the moment as if it were an old friend. It felt good. I’d missed it.
But the second it was over, the shit feeling from before was back. I hated myself even more, if that were possible. I was disgusted with who I was becoming. I thought there was no way I’d get away with it a second time. I thought she’d surely find out about it this time.
But she didn’t.
Not the second time or the third. Not the fifth or the eighth or the tenth.
Eventually, I lost count as I made my way through the cycle. Each time, I thought—no, I swore—it would be the last time. I vowed I’d risked it too many times, and I never would again. And I believed it for a little while. But the wanting would always return. The opportunity would present itself, and I would jump at the chance to take it. And the guilt cycle would continue.
Now, even with permission, I’d fallen into the same set of steps I’d followed so many times before. First there was the shower, where I’d scrub my skin until it was red and raw, trying to scrub away any evidence, any trace that I’d done what I had. Then, I’d avoid her eyes, avoid her questions, and hope to get some sleep. Tomorrow, it would be easier, and each day after that even easier. But tonight would be hard, full of panic and worry—everything from STDs to pregnancy, but this time was different because I had one less thing to worry about. I didn’t have to fret about Ainsley finding out. She already knew. She’d all but shoved me into Mallory’s bed. So why didn’t that knowledge make it easier on me? I wished I could understand it.
When I was done with my shower, and my skin was sufficiently red, raw, and scalding hot, I turned off the water, wrapped the towel around my waist, and ran a hand through my damp hair. There was less of it there than before; it was beginning to thin. Maybe not noticeably enough for someone else to realize it, but I knew it. The same way I knew my waist had begun to bulge over my pants ever so slightly. The way my legs burned a little extra when climbing the stairs and I found myself out of breath sooner. I was getting older. There was no denying it. My kids would remind me even if I tried to hide it.
I’d never been one to consider dyeing my hair. I’d always said I’d let the grays come as they did, but as they’d recently started coming in, I was starting to see the appeal. A box of brown dye could buy me a few more years. It was hard to deny the temptation. I made a mental note to look up reviews on brands when I had a moment at work.
I wiped the mirror dry and stared at myself. I still looked the same, despite the changes. I’d developed wrinkles by my eyes and on my forehead, but all in all, I was still the same guy. Wasn’t I? How much had I changed, really?
Like that, I was wondering what Mallory thought of my performance that night. It was a shame she’d never know what I could do years ago, what I looked like then. It was unfortunate my best days were behind me, but I still liked to think I had a few good years left. A least a decade, right?
I turned away from the mirror and made my way across the room. When I opened the door, the cold air from the bedroom hit me, and I shivered. Ainsley was sitting in front of her vanity, running a brush through her long, red hair.
“Fun night?” she asked in a singsong voice.
“Looks like you’re the one who had a fun night.”
She giggled, placing her fingers in front of her lips. “I may have had an extra glass of wine or two.”
“Or three or four,” I murmured, pulling open my drawer and producing a clean pair of boxer briefs and pajama pants. I dropped the towel, turning away from her slightly as I pulled the clothes on. When I reached for the drawer again to search for a T-shirt, I felt her hands on my back.
I jolted, glancing over my shoulder at her. “Jesus, I didn’t see you move.”
She smiled, her eyes bloodshot. She had had a lot to drink. She trailed her fingers across my forearms, up my biceps, her gaze following her hands. She reached my neck, then my jawline.
“What are you doing?”
At my voice, her eyes flicked up to meet mine, batting at me from behind her thick, dark lashes. “Appreciating my sexy husband. Is that not allowed?”
I swallowed, not sure when the last time she referred to me as sexy was, and gripped her waist, pressing our bodies together. It felt slightly wrong, after having just been with Mallory, but—
“Don’t,” she said, interrupting my thoughts.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t think…” She pressed up onto her toes, kissing my lips. The kiss was soft at first, but then her lips parted and she sank into me, exhaling deeply. I felt the fire starting in the base of my stomach as she pulled the shirt from my hands and tossed it to the floor before running her fingernails down my back, then through my hair.
I inhaled her scent as I pushed her toward the bed. There was something different about her—wild and untamed, like how I remembered her from years ago. When we reached the bed, we broke apart and she untied the hot pink robe she was wearing and let it fall to the floor. Ordinarily, she’d be wearing a T-shirt and pajama shorts underneath, but that night, there was nothing. Nothing but her.
I took in the sight of her naked body. In recent years, we’d taken to having sex in the dark, usually under the covers. It was rare I was able to look at her like this, got to appreciate her like I was getting to now. I felt the heat traveling from my stomach, spreading throughout my limbs and appendages, filling me with desire. I leaned down, cupping her breast and pressing my lips to hers again.
For the first time in a long time as we moved together, I couldn’t seem to bring up a single thought. There was only her. I didn’t worry. I didn’t stress. I didn’t think about work or the kids or the house or money. I just existed with her. I moved above her, within her. She took me in wholly, her eyes locked with mine. There was passion there that I hadn’t seen from her in years, and though I had no idea what brought it on, I didn’t care. I wanted her like I’ve never wanted anyone in my life.
Maybe her plan had worked after all.
Chapter Eleven
AINSLEY
Peter and I didn’t talk most of the morning, though we were both still glowing from our night together. I didn’t want to dissect what had happened, or why it happened, so I chose silence and he didn’t press me for conversation. I was sure he was running through millions of questions in his mind too, but for the moment, it seemed best that we both sit with our thoughts and feelings until we knew what to do with them.
I dropped the kids off at school before heading toward the bank, my mind elsewhere. As I was driving, I heard my phone buzz from the cup holder and glanced down at the built-in screen on my dashboard.
2 New Dater Messages, it said, and I stared at the name, Stefan.
So, he hadn’t given up yet. It was Friday, and all I wanted to do was make it through the day and to the weekend unscathed. But I knew the next week would bring a new set of challenges. I needed to connect with someone new by Tuesday. I needed to get the point across to Stefan, make him realize I wasn’t going to respond, that I couldn’t, and apparently that was going to be harder than I’d expected.
All too soon, I was at the bank and waiting on the all-clear signal from one of the bankers that said it was safe for us to go inside. When it arrived, a small slip of pre-agreed upon pink paper taped to the front door, I stepped from my car, grabbed the phone, my purse, and my tea, and headed toward the building.
Once I was inside, I glanced down at the screen, reading his message from within the app.
Checking in again. Can you at least let me know you’re getting these?
The next one said, I’m guessing I did something wrong—sorry about that. I told you I was rusty at this dating thing. Anyway, I wanted to apologize for whatever it is. You don’t have to respond, but I had a lot of fun with you, and I hope I didn’t offend you somehow. Have a great weekend, Ainsley. I hope you find what you’re looking for.
I nodded, lowering the phone as guilt and worry washed over me. P
oor Stefan. This wasn’t what I wanted.
“Good morning,” I called to Brenda as she refilled the coffee pot on the far side of the lobby. I heard the clang of the vault door as the tellers opened it, beginning to remove their cash drawers and set up for the day. The building was eerily quiet for the most part, the sounds fresh and stunning in the stark silence. Before our customers arrived, before we opened our doors, it was always quiet. Most days, we were all still trying to wake up and get in our first few cups of coffee before the morning huddles and the craziness set in.
I put my key in the knob of my office door, twisted it, and froze, my body going icy. I grabbed the phone from my pocket again. No.
I reread the message. It wasn’t possible.
No. No. No.
There it was. Why hadn’t I caught it the first time? Have a great weekend, Ainsley. I sucked in a sharp breath, my arms lined with goose bumps as the question rang out in my head: Why had he used my real name?
Chapter Twelve
PETER
I was on a call with a contractor when Gina stepped into my office. She walked forward and took a seat across from me, hands folded on her lap and one leg crossed over the other. The black fabric of her top stretched across her chest, and I watched as she leaned forward, rubbing a hand across her bare calf. When she met my eye, there was a mischievous look in her eye.
“Hello? Peter? Did I lose you?” the voice on the other end of the line called.
“Sorry, Jim. No, I’m here. And yes, that’s fine. I can revise the blueprints to fit in the extra closet. Send me over the specifications, and I’ll see about getting it approved by the end of next week.”
“Excellent. I’ll let the client know. Thanks.”
“Talk soon.” With that, I lowered the phone from my ear. I cleared my throat as I set it down, ending the call. “Sorry about that. Can I help you with something?”
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