Chapter 5

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.

He didn't ask any questions, though I knew he wanted to. There were a few times when he stopped, standing in the middle of our bedroom as we both got ready for the day, and stared at me. His mouth would hang open as if he was trying to coax the question from his depths.

Each time though, without a word, he'd end up walking away. He didn't ask what I did or how it went…he didn't ask anything, but it was there in his face. The questions. The burning desire to know everything. It made it more exciting in a way. Peter and I had been together for so many years, sometimes it felt as if we no longer had secrets. Until that moment.

Finally, we both knew we had secrets again, and we'd only be creating more. I smiled to myself as I slid the maroon lipstick over my lips. He was watching me again, but I pretended not to notice. The truth was much less exciting than whatever he'd cooked up in his head. Maybe that was why the process would work—if it did, when it did. Because all he'd be able to think about for the next several days, weeks maybe, was me with someone else. Someone else doing his job, someone else loving me like he should have. Perhaps the jealousy would give him motivation to improve.

"I've got an early morning," he said, breaking the silence. It was the first sentence either of us had spoken since our alarms had gone off at five that morning. "Can you get the kids to school?"

"Mhm," I said, not nodding as I continued to glide the lipstick across my lips, making sure the lines were razor sharp.

He took a step toward me, and I lowered the tube, placing the lid back on it and meeting his eye in the mirror. To my surprise, he placed a hand on the side of my head, leaning down and pressing his lips to my temple. "Have a good day," he whispered before standing back up.

"You too," I said, turning around to look at him. "I'll see you tonight."

He nodded but didn't look back as he crossed the room and opened the door. Within seconds, he had disappeared and I was left alone with my thoughts, which I'd been trying to quiet.

The truth was, my date with Stefan went fine. He was nice, polite. He paid for my meal and drinks, asked about my career, told me about his. We talked about dating after a long-term relationship, and he only mentioned his late wife once. He held my hand as he walked me to my car. Everything was there. Everything was perfect.

But I didn't go home with him. He didn't ask me to, but I knew he would've taken me up on it if I'd mentioned it. I'd watched his gaze trail down the length of my dress or the stretch of my exposed cleavage when he thought I wasn't looking. He wasn't a pig about it, don't get me wrong. But he was a man who hadn't been with a woman in a very long time, and that was clear.

So why didn't I go home with him? He was attractive, sweet, interested… But the truth was, I couldn't turn off the guilt I felt. Not about Peter. We'd agreed to this. He wasn't going to feel guilty about it when it was his turn. Instead, my guilt manifested about Stefan. I knew my night with him would be just the one. I didn't plan to see him ever again. Our date hadn't meant anything to me. It was purely to meet a need.

Perhaps I read him wrong and that was all he wanted too, but from the questions he asked about my life, the things he shared about himself, I got the impression that he was truly trying to get to know me. He mentioned more than once that I was the first woman he'd taken on a date in a long time, only one of those times specifying since his wife had passed away. It felt huge. It felt like I was stringing him along. I didn't want to be the first woman he slept with after his wife died and then break his heart by never contacting him again. It felt wrong. And as much as this process was supposed to be about healing Peter and me, I felt awful that Stefan had gotten caught in the crossfire.

Once my makeup was finished, I spritzed my face with setting spray, ran my flat iron over my hair a few strokes more, and pulled on my black slacks and blouse with a pearl necklace to top off the outfit. I stepped into my favorite nude heels and headed for the door. The kids were bustling around the house, and Dylan crossed in front of me, dressed in only his boxers.

"Have you seen my green hoodie?"

"Good morning, Mom. How are you?" I asked sarcastically.

"This is serious!" he said. I was starting to think irritation was the only tone he knew. "I can't find it anywhere. Riley's been taking my stuff!"

"I have not!" The faint argument came from beyond the closed door in the bedroom to our left. Riley swung open his bedroom door, completely dressed, with half of a Pop-Tart in his hand. "Mom, I didn't touch his stuff!"

"When did you have it last?" I asked Dylan.

"Friday at school, but I brought it home to be washed, and I never got it back."

"Did you check the laundry room? Maybe it's in the dryer."

"It's not, I checked!" he grumbled, casting an angry look at his brother. "Riley keeps coming into my room and taking my stuff. That hoodie is my favorite. I have to find it."

"I haven't touched your—"

"Okay, boys," I cut off the impending argument. "We don't have time for this. I'm sorry, Dylan, but you'll have to wear a different hoodie today. I'll find it this afternoon, okay? We have to get going, or we're all going to be late."

"Ugh, Mom, I can't go to school without it!"

"Well, that's a problem because you're going to have to," I said, walking away from the argument before anything else could be said. "Come on. We have ten minutes."

The boys groaned but separated back toward their rooms as Maisy appeared in the hallway, dressed and ready to go. She had two library books and three school books in her arms. "Morning."

"Morning, sweetheart. How did last night go? Did you finish your project?"

She nodded. "Yep, all done. How was your work thing?"

"It was fine," I told her simply. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Oatmeal. Where's Dad?"

"Oh, he had to get to work early." She twisted her mouth in deep thought, and it occurred to me then: did the children know something was up? Did they suspect that Peter and I were avoiding each other? Had we done a terrible job acting like things were still normal? Tonight would be a good time to prove them wrong, all of us together as a family. "Did you need something from him?"

"Huh? Oh, no. Nothing. I hadn't seen him this morning."

"He wanted to say goodbye, but I think we're all running a bit behind." I was always making excuses for him, I realized. Like it was ingrained in me. Not that Peter was an absentee father. He was far from it, in fact. He came home on time, rarely worked overtime, and was with us during the weekend. He was as involved as I was, and yet I felt the need to overcompensate and explain away the few failings he had. Why was that? What had he done to warrant my intense worry that the kids would see him as less than perfect? Did he do the same for me? I doubted it.

"Okay, well, I'm going to make my tea before I head to the car. Do you want anything?"

She shook her head. "I'll meet you in the garage."

As I made my way into the kitchen and put the kettle on for my morning tea, I heard the boys coming out of their rooms. I turned around, surprised to see Dylan wearing the green hoodie he'd been looking for.

"You found it, then?"

"It was hanging up by the door," he mumbled, opening the cabinet and pulling out a small bag of Doritos. I'd argue it wasn't a good breakfast, but I didn't have the energy. Instead, I watched him shove it in the front pocket of his hoodie as he stalked out of the room. Within a few minutes, my tea kettle began to squeal, and I placed an English Breakfast Tea bag into my travel mug and poured the hot water into it, sealing the lid and grabbing a protein bar from the cabinet above the refrigerator. As I did it, I remembered the note. It was on my mind when I came home last night, but I didn't dare check it in front of Peter. I didn't want him to know I'd been expecting him to open it. I pulled the white envelope down, not surprised but definitely disappointed to realize I was right. The envelope had been torn open; he'd made no effort to seal it back or hide the evidence.

I ripped it in half and tossed it into the trash can, wondering how he must've felt when he saw what I'd written.

I sipped the tea, hardly aware of it scalding my mouth as I rushed out of the house. Though I wanted to unpack why my husband hadn't trusted me, why he'd broken the rules so early into our arrangement, I had to get the kids to school and myself to work before we were all late.

Life wasn't going to slow down because of our crisis.

I just had to learn to keep up.