Things We Tried On Ch 07

Thinking back, it really was something extraordinary. We've never had anything like it since -- not even close.

I know how it sounds, but the truth is, it felt like a four-way marriage. That's the only way I can describe it. A real four-way love relationship. And sure, that kind of thing can be messy, complicated -- but it can also be beautiful in ways that are hard to explain.

Most of the time, swinging is just a clever way of scratching an itch -- a new and improved itch-scratcher with shinier toys. But what we had back then... it wasn't just scratching. It was something warmer. More dangerous, maybe. More honest, too. There was the sex, of course -- God, the sex -- but that wasn't the whole of it. Not by a long shot. There was connection. Emotion. Intimacy. It changed things. It changed me.

Sometimes I wonder if something like that could ever really work, like actually function, if you gave it the right environment. One of those hippie communes, maybe. The kind you read about -- where everyone lives together like some messy, sun-drenched tribe, and the kids run wild and happy and free. Where people sleep where they want and love who they want, and there are no whispered secrets in the dark.

I'm not a hippie -- not even close -- but I have to admit, that idea... it still pulls at me. Even now.

I can hear Barbara laughing when I first said that out loud. "You? In a commune?" she said, with that wicked smile of hers. I played along, of course. I always played along.

But I meant it. I still mean it.

I remember when it became something more than just swapping partners like polite, perverted party favors.

It was a Saturday night. Late summer. The kind of night that wraps around you like a silk scarf -- warm, soft, just a little damp. Barbara had made sangria. Archie was already a little drunk, laughing too loudly at one of Ken's jokes. The four of us were on the deck, watching the sun slide into the trees.

I remember the air smelled like ripe peaches and citronella candles. I remember Barbara's bare foot brushing mine under the table. I remember the exact pitch of her voice when she asked if I wanted to take a walk.

Just us girls.

We didn't say much as we walked. Just the crunch of our feet in the gravel path, the clink of ice in her glass, the hum of insects in the trees. I kept sneaking glances at her -- Barbara. Her sundress swayed around her knees, thin enough that I could see the outline of her thighs when the light hit just right. She didn't wear a bra that summer, I'd noticed. Ever.

I took a sip of sangria, trying to ignore how warm I was getting.

"You ever think," she said, finally, "that this is more than just... fun?"

I felt my heart do that little trip-stumble thing it did when I wasn't ready for her.

"What do you mean?" I asked, buying time.

She turned to face me, barefoot now, standing in the middle of the path. Her eyes were glassy, but not from the wine. She was serious.

"I mean us. The four of us. This thing we're doing. Doesn't it feel like it could be more than just... rules and weekends?"

I didn't answer right away. I couldn't.

Because the truth was, it did feel like more. It had for a while. But I'd been pretending it didn't, telling myself it was just sex, just adventure, just harmless fun between adults who trusted each other.

But now here she was, saying it out loud, and I couldn't un-hear it.

"Sometimes," I admitted, "I think about what it would be like if we all just... stopped pretending. Moved in together. Raised our kids like one big chaotic family. Ate dinner at the same table every night."

Barbara smiled. Not her teasing smile -- something softer. Real.

"I knew you felt it, too."

Then she stepped forward, took my glass from my hand, set it gently on a nearby stone wall, and leaned in. Not rushed. Not forceful. Just... close. I could feel her breath against my neck.

"You don't have to keep playing it safe with me," she whispered. "Not tonight."

When her lips touched mine, I didn't pull away. I didn't even hesitate. I kissed her like I'd been waiting all summer. And maybe I had.

**********

The thoughts that went through my head were... well, a little insane. I found myself considering everything -- abortion, divorce, starting fresh somewhere far away. As if any of it would actually fix the mess I felt inside.

I guess I wasn't being very rational.

At one point, I thought maybe we should try something more... traditional. You know, standard cheating. Separate lives, quiet little affairs on the side. Polite lies, harmless omissions. Meet someone for coffee, say you're working late.

"Maybe we should just do it the old-fashioned way," I remember thinking. "Sneak around. Pretend it's all innocent."

But even in the fantasy, it rang false.

Because once you've lived in that strange electric openness -- where honesty is weapon and balm and turn-on all at once -- it's hard to stomach the hypocrisy that comes with garden-variety adultery. Even if the marriage is permissive, even if nobody's really hiding anything... it's not the same.

It's not free. It's furtive. Measured. Quietly poisoned by guilt and performance and the ever-present need to pretend that the primary relationship is untouched.

And we'd already crossed that line. I could imagine trying to go back. But I couldn't imagine surviving it. There's a purely physical part to it, too. And we shouldn't pretend there isn't.

We wanted the big thrills -- the rush of group sex. The way it made our bodies feel lit from within, electrified. That hunger didn't just vanish the day we decided to stop. It stayed curled inside us, quiet but coiled, waiting for the right spark to set it off again.

And it did -- right around the time that mess with John and Amy started.

The Johnsons.

Amy Johnson and I had known each other for a while. PTA meetings, mostly. She was one of those women who never missed a chance to volunteer, always there with her clipboard and her flawless hair, like some kind of suburban Valkyrie. I showed up now and then--just often enough to look like I cared.

John worked at one of the agencies handling Archie's company's account. We made the connection one night over drinks when someone said, "Small world," and we laughed because it really was. The Johnsons didn't live far either--same side of the neighborhood, a few streets down.

We didn't see them often, not back then. That was during the quiet phase, when we were pretending to be done with everything. You remember. Eyes forward, polite smiles, dinner in front of the TV like nothing had ever happened.

But somehow we managed to get very close to the Johnsons.

They were a good-looking couple, no two ways about it.

John was about my height, but built like a fireplug--short, stocky, and solid. He had these massive shoulders that made him look like he could lift a car, and his heavy frame gave him a kind of comic, bear-like charm. His olive skin always looked sun-kissed, like he'd just come back from vacation even when you knew he hadn't gone anywhere.

And those eyebrows.

"Does he always look like he's judging someone?" Archie had asked once, grinning over his wineglass. "Only when he's awake," I'd answered, and we both laughed harder than we should have.

Amy, on the other hand, was polished perfection. Always. Tall, lean, and composed in a way that suggested ballet classes and a mother who still called to critique her wardrobe. She had that voice--cool, amused, a little too practiced.

"Do you think they know?" I asked Archie once, watching the Johnsons from across a backyard brunch. Amy was laughing at something John said, her hand resting lightly on his forearm.

"Know what?"

"What we used to be. What we still are, underneath."

Archie sipped his coffee and shrugged. "I don't know. Amy's got that look, though. Like she's tasted something wild once and wants it again."

I didn't answer right away. My eyes stayed on her, on the way she leaned into John just a little too casually.

"She reminds me of me," I said finally. "Back before everything broke open."

He glanced sideways at me, and his voice softened. "So... what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking," I murmured, "that maybe we don't need to stay quiet forever."

Anyway, one Saturday night we got a sitter and met up with the Johnsons for dinner at a little Italian place just outside of town -- the kind of spot with flickering candles in old Chianti bottles and a maître d' who acted like every guest was an old friend who owed him money.

The evening had that determined kind of energy, like we'd all decided ahead of time we were going to have a good time whether the universe liked it or not. And somehow, that decision made everything better. The food wasn't great -- I remember the pasta being a little too soft, and the sauce a bit too sweet -- but we laughed like it was a feast. Even the cheap wine tasted like something rare and expensive.

"Isn't this the wine with the little straw skirt?" Amy asked, twirling the bottle between her fingers with mock fascination.

John grinned. "That's how you know it's authentic," he said. "They wrap it up so it doesn't escape before dinner."

Archie chuckled, swirling his glass. "Honestly, I think I drank this same Chianti in college. Only then it came with a headache and a failed exam."

"Well," I said, raising my glass, "here's to second chances."

We all clinked glasses, the candlelight catching in the wine like little red sparks, and for that brief moment, everything felt light and effortless. Four people choosing to enjoy each other's company. No drama. No big revelations. Just the quiet kind of happiness you don't always recognize until it's gone.

Whether it was fine wine or not, we certainly drank enough of it. Two bottles between the four of us, plus a round of Manhattans before dinner and cordials afterward -- amaretto, I think, in those tiny glasses that make you feel more sophisticated than you are.

The restaurant had a broken-down three-piece band set up near the bar. One man hunched over an accordion like it owed him money, and the other two wrangled hurdy-gurdys that sounded like they hadn't been tuned since the Roosevelt administration. The music wasn't any better than the food or the wine, but -- like them -- it somehow felt better than it was. The illusion of elegance, I suppose, helped along by dim lighting, a decent buzz, and the easy rhythm of shared laughter.

We ended up dancing. Not ballroom, exactly, just a kind of lazy swaying that passed for dancing when you'd had a few drinks and weren't trying to impress anyone.

Naturally, we changed partners. We'd done that before with the Johnsons -- a casual, friendly sort of switch -- and it never meant anything. But that night, something was different. Subtle. Charged.

No obvious flirting. No loaded jokes or lingering glances. But there was a kind of undercurrent, a sense that we were all orbiting something unspeakable and magnetic.

John took my hand with a smile. "May I?" he asked, tipping his head just enough to make it feel like a gentlemanly invitation and a dare.

"Of course," I said, slipping into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He was warm, solid -- built like a tree you could lean against. His hand settled on the small of my back, just firm enough to claim me, and I felt the heat ripple up my spine almost immediately. We started to move, slow and close, the band grinding out some barely recognizable Italian ballad behind us.

"So," he said softly, close to my ear, "what do you think? Best Chianti you've ever had?"

I laughed. "If you asked me five minutes ago, I would've said yes."

"And now?"

"Now I think the company is better than the wine."

There was a pause -- just long enough to say something without words -- and then I felt it. That unmistakable, involuntary press of him against me.

I stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, letting the moment wash over me like warm surf. I wasn't sure if he knew what he was doing to me. But I knew what I was doing to him.

I shifted slightly, just enough to brush against him -- casually, like I might have done anyway, but with a precision that made it feel like a game played in half-steps.

He didn't say anything. Just kept dancing, kept his hand on my back. But his breath changed -- not loud, not sharp, just a little shallower.

I leaned in a bit more, let my body press closer.

If I could've made him come in his pants without ever breaking eye contact, I think I would've counted it as a personal triumph. But I didn't quite manage it.

When the music stopped, we stepped apart slowly, like waking up from a shared dream.

Amy and Archie were still dancing nearby, talking and laughing like nothing unusual was happening. But when I caught Archie's eyes across the floor, there was a flicker -- just for a second -- like he saw something. Like he knew.

I smiled at him, slow and sweet, and turned back to John.

"You dance well," I said.

John grinned. "I only dance like that when I'm inspired."

Amy and Archie were getting along pretty well.

Not as well as we were, mind you -- Archie was too tall, Amy too petite, like he had to stoop into her orbit. And he didn't have that same hunger I felt on the dance floor, that need to press against skin and see how far it could go without breaking the moment.

Still, I could see it in his eyes.

Archie was making plans. Quiet, calculated ones. He was sizing up the odds, weighing the angles, and from the way he kept finding reasons to refill Amy's glass or lean in too close during a joke, I knew exactly what he was thinking.

He didn't say it, of course. He didn't have to.

"So," Amy said, brushing her hair behind her ear as she looked up at him. "Do you dance much?"

Archie smiled. "Only when I'm lucky."

She giggled -- light and sweet, like she couldn't help it. "Well, I guess tonight makes you lucky, huh?"

"You have no idea," he murmured, just low enough for me to hear. I shot him a glance across the dance floor. He caught it and grinned like a schoolboy caught passing notes.

No more obvious than John and me.

Subtlety was never our strong suit. And really, if John and Amy had been the type -- if they'd been even a little into the idea -- we probably would've ended up swinging that night. I'm almost sure of it.

But they weren't.

At least, not yet.

When the dancing slowed and the wine wore off just enough to bring in a little common sense, the temperature in the room dropped noticeably. Someone -- probably John -- suggested one last drink at their place. A nightcap. Harmless. Polite.

We followed them back, still buzzing, but the moment had passed.

Amy slipped off her heels the second we stepped inside their house. "My feet are killing me," she said, flopping onto the couch.

John poured scotch for the men and offered us ladies a choice -- liqueur or tea. I took the liqueur, of course. Linda, always the good guest.

Conversation turned to mundane things. Work. Kids. Some upcoming PTA fundraiser Amy was dreading. John leaned back in his chair, his fingers brushing mine briefly as he passed me the glass. But it didn't land the same way anymore.

We stayed maybe thirty minutes. Said all the right goodbyes.

Then we went home.

In the car, Archie kept his eyes on the road. "Amy's sweet," he said, like he was testing the waters.

"Mm," I replied. "So's John."

He glanced at me. "You don't think we pushed it too far?"

"Not far enough," I said, smiling faintly. "But maybe next time."

He nodded. Said nothing more.

But I could tell he was already thinking about it. Just like I was.

While Archie was out driving the sitter home, I found myself staring at the empty living room, a half-finished glass of liqueur sweating in my hand. The wine haze was wearing off, but something else was creeping in.

A memory.

One of those awkward, half-funny ones you tuck away and don't think about until just the wrong moment. It was from a couple years back. We came home late, glowing and giggly, only to find the sitter half-asleep on the couch with her bra strap hanging halfway down her arm. She must've been dreaming, because she murmured something like, "That was nice..." when we walked in. Archie and I laughed about it later. But now, for some reason, the memory twisted in my head. I started wondering -- what if she hadn't been dreaming? What if she'd been remembering?

By the time Archie came back through the front door, whistling softly, I was in a mood.

"What took you so long?" I asked, leaning against the kitchen doorway.

He raised an eyebrow. "Traffic. What else?"

"You sure it wasn't the sitter?" I tilted my head, smiling just enough to make it look like a joke.

He blinked. "What?"

"You know," I said with a light laugh. "She's not that bad if you turn the lights off."

Archie shut the door harder than necessary. "Jesus, Linda. That girl looks like a troll who lost a fight with a weedwhacker."

"That's not a no," I said, still trying to keep it playful.

Normally, he'd have rolled his eyes, kissed my forehead, and called me ridiculous. But this time...

"If I did screw the sitter," he said coldly, "at least I'd have the decency to do it lying down. Not up against some guy's leg on the dance floor."

The smile dropped right off my face. "Excuse me?"

He didn't answer, just started taking off his coat.

"Oh, I see," I snapped. "So now you're jealous? After you spent half the evening mentally undressing Amy like it was your part-time job?"

He looked at me, jaw tight. "I didn't even touch her."

"Not physically, no. But your eyes did plenty."

"And yours didn't?" he shot back. "With John?"

I don't even remember what I said next. Something sharp, something petty. Something meant to land.

And it did.

That was the start of it -- the argument. The real kind. Not the teasing, not the passive-aggressive little digs. A real, gloves-off, no-smiles, no-safety-net fight. And if memory serves, it was the first one we'd had like that since we stepped away from the scene.

I'm not exaggerating. It was the first, and God, was it a beaut.

He started it, technically. "You wanted to make it with John, didn't you?"

There was no heat in his voice -- just the quiet weight of something he'd been holding in all evening. Maybe longer.

I looked at him for a long moment. Then I nodded. "Yeah. I did."

He blinked. Just once. "Well, that's honest."

"And you," I said, folding my arms, "you were flirting with Amy all night. Don't pretend you weren't."

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Flirting? Please. Compared to you and John, I looked like a chaperone."

"Oh, come on, Archie. How many secretaries are you screwing at the office these days?"

He didn't flinch. "Probably as many as you're screwing plumbers and TV repairmen."

"Touché," I said, voice like ice. "Guess we're both busy."

We just stood there, staring, each of us lobbing little poisoned darts, calm as hell and twice as cold. No yelling. No slammed doors. Just that cruel, deliberate kind of quiet where every word lands with surgical precision.

It was awful.

And then we ran out of darts.

He sat down at the edge of the bed, sighed. "What the hell are we doing?"

I sat down next to him. "I don't think we've changed, Archie. Not really. We still want other people, not the Smiths. We just pretend we don't."

"Maybe," he said, rubbing his face. "Or maybe it's just a phase. Like getting tired of your favorite meal and ordering something new for a while."

I looked at him. "You think this is just a craving?"

"I don't know what I think," he said. "I just know we're not handling it very well."

We undressed and slid under the covers, not saying much. Habit, maybe. Or a need to prove something -- either to each other or ourselves.