My Wife Asked for an Open Marriage, Then Called Me the Open One

I stood beside the karaoke room's brass microphone stand while six women in glittering dresses waited under the blue lights, and I held a clipboard against my chest. "This group stays," I told the event coordinator. "Bring in the next six." The women traded quick looks. One of them, a redhead with a silver star painted at the corner of her eye, grinned and lifted her hand as if she'd just won a prize. My assistant, Gabe, tapped the clipboard with his pen. "Six more?" he asked. "You want to see the whole roster tonight?" "I want to hear the whole roster tonight. We have a six-hour gala, and I'm not putting a single singer on stage because she smiled at the booking manager." Gabe nodded toward the camera mounted in the corner. "Just checking. The angle makes this look like a very different kind of audition." "It's a private room at a karaoke lounge," I said. "Everything looks suspicious from the hallway." My wife stepped into that hallway before I could say more. Claire had a way of arriving as if she'd been expected, even when she hadn't. Her cream coat was buttoned to the throat, her dark hair tucked behind one ear, and her expression was set in the polished calm she used with donors and investors. "Are you choosing them all?" she asked. "I'm choosing the singers who can carry a set without a backing track." The redhead gave Claire a friendly wave. Claire didn't wave back. Our company, Hartwell House, owned three event spaces in Bellwether Bay. The Larkspur Room was the oldest, a private karaoke club tucked behind the waterfront hotels. It had soundproofed suites, a small stage, and a liquor license that took me eleven months to secure. It was not a place where I expected my wife to find me surrounded by women in sequins. It was, however, where Claire had told me to conduct auditions for the Harbor Light Foundation's winter gala. She looked at the clipboard in my hand. "And you need another six?" "I need options. The foundation's paying for a professional show." "Of course." Her gaze moved to the singers. "Keep all of them, then." I heard the edge in her voice. I also saw the small black phone in her hand, its camera pointed down. "Are you recording?" I asked. "I was checking a message." "Your phone was aimed at the room." She gave me a small, weary smile. "It's aimed at the carpet now." The singers were still waiting. I didn't want them to hear the fight I could feel coming, so I turned to Gabe. "Take them to the greenroom. We'll get through the next round, then I'll call you." When the door closed, Claire stepped farther into the suite. "I'm not fighting with you in front of staff," I said. "Neither am I." She set her phone on the table. "I want to talk about us." The words should have warned me. Instead, I looked at the clock. The gala was in three weeks, and the foundation's event director was already sending notes about the stage schedule. "I can talk at home." "I'd rather talk now. I've been thinking about it for months." I studied her face. "About what?" "Opening the marriage." The words landed harder than the demand for another six singers. "Open how?" "I don't want to make a rule we can't both live with." She crossed her arms. "I'm tired of pretending that wanting something outside the marriage means we don't love each other. We could agree to see other people. Honestly. With boundaries." "Are you asking to see someone?" Claire's eyes held mine for a beat, then shifted to the clipboard. "I'm asking whether we can have an adult conversation without turning it into an accusation." That wasn't an answer. I had been married to her for nine years. I knew the difference between a pause and a no. "You've already met someone." "I haven't done anything behind your back." "That's not what I asked." She pressed her lips together. From the hallway came the soft rise and fall of a singer testing a chorus. "Adrian and I have been talking," she said. "He understands the work I do. He understands what it costs." Adrian Vale was the managing partner at Northline Capital, the firm considering an investment in Hartwell House. He had joined our business calls six months earlier and started texting Claire directly about schedules, then ideas, then things that had nothing to do with schedules. I'd noticed. I'd asked her about it. She'd called me paranoid. "Has something happened between you?" "No." She spoke too quickly. "Not physically." "Claire." "I want permission before anything happens. Isn't that what you said you wanted? Honesty?" "I didn't say that." "Not in those words." I glanced at the phone on the table. The camera was dark, but I no longer trusted what it had been pointed at. "Not here," I said. "Not tonight." "Then when?" "When you can tell me whether you're asking for an open marriage or telling me you've already chosen Adrian." Her jaw tightened. "I'm telling you I don't want us to become cruel to each other." "Those aren't the same thing." A knock sounded at the door. Gabe leaned in. "Sorry. The next group is ready." Claire picked up her phone. She put it in her coat pocket without looking at me. "Think about what I said," she told me. "I'm thinking about it." She walked out before I could ask her to stay. I heard her heels cross the hallway, then the outer door click shut. Through the glass partition, I watched Gabe guide the next six singers toward the room. I could have called off the auditions. Instead, I opened the door and waved them in. "Let's hear what you've got," I said.