The Swap(21)

“Let’s get back to the boys.” She turned and picked up two of the glasses. I grabbed the other two and trailed her back to the living room.

The men were lolling on the sofa, their pupils huge, their smiles wide. Freya handed a glass of water to my husband and sat beside him. I took her previous seat next to Max, placing both our glasses on the coffee table.

“Thanks,” he said, and smiled at me.

Glancing at Brian, I saw the same wide grin affixed to his face. We were all tripping by then.

“Music!” Freya said. “I made a playlist. Max, get my phone.”

My seatmate got up, towering over me for a moment on his way to find his wife’s device. I sank into the firm sofa. It felt like I was floating on a raft in a calm sea. I closed my eyes, my smile still in place.

The music came on—something cool and modern, vaguely South American. My eyes fluttered open, and I saw Freya get up and dance across the room toward Max. Her body moved fluidly, her arms above her head, her eyes closed. On her face, a beatific smile. Max was smiling, too, his eyes on his wife’s undulating form. Should Brian and I get up and dance? Was that part of letting loose on psychedelics? I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay put on my floating couch. I looked at my husband, but he was watching our hosts, seemingly rapt by the two beautiful people before him.

“Come dance,” Freya called, and Brian stood up. He held his hand out to me, but I shook my head. I didn’t want to move; wasn’t sure I could move. So Brian went without me.

The music washed over me in a wave of vibration and color. I turned my head to watch my husband and our two closest friends swaying, giggling sporadically. Max and Freya were focused on each other, their bodies moving in time with the beat. Brian looked awkward, shifting side to side like a seventh grader at a sock hop, but he was smiling, going with it. He caught my gaze and beckoned me to join him, but I shook my head. I felt extremely high, but safe, warm, comfortable on the sofa.

And then, something shifted. The pleasant fog turned into something darker, colder. I found myself shivering, my teeth almost chattering. My jaw was tense, and my stomach had turned sour. Oh shit. . . . It was happening again. I’d been an idiot to think the ’shrooms would affect me differently this time. I didn’t have the stomach for drugs. And I couldn’t barf on this pristine white sofa. I staggered to my feet.

“I need to lie down somewhere.”

I hadn’t meant to yell, but I must have. Freya stopped dancing, and all eyes turned toward me. But no one spoke. No one moved. And then, I crumpled to the floor.

? ? ?

Somehow, they got me to the guest room in the basement. I was unable to take in the magazine-worthy decor, but I appreciated the serene palate, the cool, quiet air. I was aware of Brian in the doorway, but it was Freya who sat next to me, pulled a blanket up over me.

“You’ll be fine, babe. You just need a little time-out.”

“I might puke,” I said, glancing at the creamy blanket. So much white. White everywhere.

“Max is getting a bucket. You might feel better if you throw up.”

“I don’t want to,” I moaned.

Max must have delivered the bucket to Brian, because my husband set it beside the bed. He kissed my forehead. “I’ll check on you in a bit. Get some rest.”

I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to want to stay. When we’d done ’shrooms in college, he’d sat on the kitchen floor of my apartment for hours, rubbing my back as I heaved uncontrollably. Now, years later, he was abandoning me to dance and have fun with Max and Freya. But I couldn’t say that. For one, I didn’t want to be a buzzkill, the reason the night of fun was ruined. For two, my mouth was too dry to speak.

So I let him go.





17


low


I tried to put their antics out of my mind. I ate dinner with my mom and my brothers, but the roasted yams were tasteless, and the chickpeas turned to dust in my mouth. In my room, I tried to read a memoir about a survivalist family in the wilds of Alaska, but I couldn’t concentrate. I wasn’t jealous exactly. I was angry at being used, at being sent away like an errand girl. It should have been me getting fucked up with Freya and Max, not boring-ass Jamie and her nerd husband. So maybe I was a bit jealous.

Around eleven, I gave up on the memoir and went out to my truck. I told myself I was just going for a drive, just trying to cool off so I could get some sleep. But I went through town, past the school, along the coastal road on autopilot. When I reached the secluded pullout, I parked the truck and got out.

I crept down Max and Freya’s tree-lined driveway. My pulse was pounding in my ears, adrenaline surging through my body. If they caught me—lurking, watching, spying—I would lose everything: my job, access to the pottery studio, and worse . . . my friendship with Freya. I had an excuse at the ready—I’d say I dropped my house key earlier and had come back to find it. That I’d parked on the road so I didn’t disturb their mushroom trip. But I wasn’t going to get caught, not this time.

Walking past Jamie’s Mazda sedan, I moved to the east side of the house. Massive windows were designed to let morning light into the living room and bedrooms, but in the darkness, they afforded me unobstructed views inside. I planted myself in the dense brush and I watched them. They were dancing . . . though the guys weren’t really dancing, they were more like swaying, their eyes on Freya. She was beautiful, sensually moving to the music. But where was Jamie? Peering into the bedroom on the lower floor, I detected a motionless lump under the covers. That would be her.