Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

PETER

W hen 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.