Chapter 4

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.