The Swap(24)

Freya sat back down and smiled at me. “I’m so glad we met you guys.”

“Me too,” I said, and my voice shook. Because I meant it, with all my heart. Freya was my salvation, my new life, my fresh start. She and Max were our best friends. Whatever I had done the night before—whatever we had done—didn’t matter. We couldn’t lose them.

“What were you going to say before?”

I forced a smile and shrugged. “I don’t remember.”





20


Letting go of that night was easier said than done. My guilt consumed me, destroying my appetite and my sleep. At work, I was groggy and out of sorts. I would catch Low watching me, her eyes narrowed, mouth in a grim line, like she knew what we had done. But she couldn’t have. I didn’t even know for sure. At night, I woke in a pool of sweat, confused and aroused by vivid dreams of Maxime Beausoleil. I googled magic mushrooms flashback and found out it was a thing. Was I destined to be tortured by memories of making love to my best friend’s husband?

Meanwhile, Brian seemed relatively normal. If he had been unfaithful to me, it would have shown on his face, manifested itself in his behavior. I was on high alert for any changes in his actions or mood, but he seemed his usual cheerful self. One day, he popped into the shop to say hi.

“Did you get your hair cut?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He touched his exposed ears. “I needed a trim.”

“It looked fine before,” I said, feeling a stab of jealousy. Who was he trying to impress—Freya? Was she a sucker for a tidy haircut? Max’s hair was quite long, but maybe she wanted something different on her side guy.

Brian looked puzzled. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to go to the barber.”

“You don’t.” I smiled and tried to cover. “I just like it a little longer.”

Low skulked by us then. I thought I saw a flicker of amusement on her face, but I must have imagined it.

I’d canceled my forest walks with Freya that week, claiming I had to do inventory. I wasn’t ready to be alone with her in such a private setting, wasn’t ready to have the conversation that needed to be had. I had slept with her husband, and I needed to know if she had slept with mine. But I was a mess: jealous, confused, riddled with regret. . . . I needed clarity. The only person who could give it to me, without risking a relationship, was Max. But how could I get to him alone?

And then, eight days after that fateful night, I saw my opportunity. It was a Wednesday, often our slowest day of the week. Low and I were puttering around the shop when I saw Freya’s white Range Rover pass by. I moved to the window and watched her pull into a parking space in front of the day spa. She got out of the car, in her ball cap and sunglasses, and headed inside.

“Low, I need to run an errand,” I said, adrenaline surging through my body. “Can you hold down the fort for an hour or so?”

“Sure.”

I practically ran to my car. If Freya was having a facial, I had an hour-and-a-half window. If she was having a pedi, it was more like forty-five minutes. I raced toward her home, knowing this was my chance to catch Max alone. He could tell me what really happened that night. If Brian had slept with Freya it would be painful to hear. If he hadn’t, my guilt would be compounded. But anything was preferable to my current muddled state.

Pulling up behind Max’s black SUV, I scurried to the house. I was shaky, sweating, and I stumbled on the concrete steps, but that didn’t slow me down. Clambering to the door, I rang the bell and waited, my heart hammering in my ears. I would finally know the truth about that night, one way or another. When Max didn’t answer, I rang again, and again, stabbing the button repeatedly. Still, no one came.

Fuck . . . Fuck, fuck, fuck. Max’s car was there, so he couldn’t be far. Maybe he was in the shower. Or out in the kayak, or windsurfing. I would go down to the beach and look for him, wave him to shore. If he wasn’t too far out, we’d still have time to talk before Freya returned. As I was making my way toward the water, I remembered Freya mentioning Max’s motorcycle. If he’d gone for a ride, he might not be back for hours. Damn it.

The sound of a door closing behind me stopped me in my tracks. I turned to see Max exiting the garage wearing a wet suit. Well, half a wet suit. The top of the neoprene garment hung around his waist, leaving his massive chest and shoulders bare. His hair was wet, slicked back from his face. He was a ridiculously attractive man, but I felt no lust, no attraction as I hurried toward him. All I wanted from him was the truth about what happened that night.

“Jamie,” he said, clearly surprised to see me. “Freya’s not here.”

“I know that,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Are you okay?”

I was about to say that no, I wasn’t okay. I was troubled, stressed, confused . . . And then I saw them. Those four precise puncture marks above his right nipple. I had felt them as I ran my hands over his body, as I kissed him, as I made love to him. It all came flooding back to me in a rush of heat and remorse.

“What happened that night?” I said, my voice barely a whisper, my face burning.

He let a heavy breath out through his nose, his handsome face troubled. “I’m sorry. I thought—” But he didn’t finish his sentence because we both heard it; a vehicle was approaching. Seconds later, Freya’s white SUV pulled up and stopped beside his dark model.