The Swap(25)

“Hey, you,” she chirped to me, hopping out of the Range Rover. “What are you doing here?” In her hand was a small bag from the day spa.

“Finally finished inventory,” I said. “I thought I’d sneak away for a quick cup of tea with you.”

“Great. Come on in.”

But I couldn’t. Because I knew what I had done with her husband, and yet, I was still wondering what she had done with mine. I needed clarity . . . But not from Freya.

“Low just texted,” I lied, already moving to my car. “The burglar alarm is going off and she put in the wrong code. It’s locked up. I’ve got to help her.”

“Oh no,” Freya said. “Let’s get together soon. We can all have dinner.”

“Yes. Definitely.” A quick wave to Max, then I backed up and peeled out of the driveway.

? ? ?

My husband was in his office, working on his manuscript . . . if staring at the screen while he stretched his arms overhead could be considered working on it.

“I’m plotting,” he always said, when I caught him staring at the floor or the ceiling or even his phone. He swiveled in his chair when I walked in.

“Hey, babe. What are you doing home?”

I hurried toward him and knelt beside him. “You know I love you. No matter what.”

He gave me a bemused smile. “I love you, too.”

“I’m going to ask you something. And I want you to be honest with me.”

“Okay.”

“The other night . . .” My voice faltered. “Did anything happen between you and Freya?”

“Anything like what?” Brian rolled his chair back a few inches. “What are you getting at?”

I cleared the knot from my throat. “I went to bed so early. I just wondered . . . if . . . you guys . . .”

“God, Jamie. We were on mushrooms not ecstasy.” He rolled forward and took me by the shoulders. “You know I have never wanted to be with anyone else. Since the day I met you . . . you’re the only one for me.”

Looking into his warm hazel eyes, I saw his sincerity. And I hated myself. “Sorry.” I sat back on my heels. “I guess the drugs made me paranoid.”

He kissed my forehead. “You don’t need to worry about me.” Then he swiveled back to face his manuscript.

So now I knew the truth. I had not participated in a consensual couples’ swap; I had betrayed my husband and my best friend. I should have spun Brian’s chair around to face me, should have told him what Max and I had done, but I was a coward. Instead, I got up, went to the kitchen, and poured a glass of water. I gulped it down, hoping to dilute my regret and self-loathing, but it didn’t work. Setting the empty glass on the counter, I gazed out the window at the waxy leaves of our camelia bush, its early pink blooms already dead and decomposing at its feet.

Max Beausoleil had lied to me. He had tricked me and manipulated me. I should have been enraged, but I couldn’t blame this all on him. I knew how much I’d wanted him that night, how eager I’d been to believe his words. If I confronted him and accused him, it could damage his marriage to Freya. She claimed to be open-minded and sexually adventurous, but those were just words. There was no way she’d be chill about her husband bedding her best friend while she slept upstairs. She would hate Max. She would hate me. The thought filled me with dread.

And Brian . . . Oh God, poor Brian. The thought of hurting him made my stomach ache.

I made a decision, then. What Max and I had done was over. It did not need to be discussed, dissected, or analyzed. Dragging it into the light was not worth jeopardizing my marriage or my friendship. I loved Brian too much. I loved Freya too much. So, I buried it.

Like a body.





autumn 2019





21


low


On October 5, I came home to find Gwen, Janine, my dad, and a midwife wearing a white turban helping my mother give birth in a wading pool. I turned around and walked back out, drove into town, ate three slices of pepperoni at the pizza joint, got an ice cream cone, and savored it in my truck parked at the boat launch, then went to the convenience store for a slushie. Finally, when a couple of hours had passed, I drove home.

“Meet your new baby brother,” my mom said, cuddling a mint-green bundle to her chest. “This is Eckhart.”

“After Tolle,” my dad elaborated. Like there were other Eckharts the poor little bugger might be named after.

He was very small and practically fuchsia and shriveled like a prune. I touched his soft cheek and his tiny hand. He grabbed my finger in his little fist and brought it to his mouth. He was cute. I might like this kid more than my other brothers. And then he started screaming. I didn’t realize then that he wouldn’t stop for four months.

“It’s colic,” my mom said, as she bounced and jiggled the angry purple creature that was my brother. “He’ll grow out of it.”

“When?”

“Don’t start, Swallow! Don’t fucking start.” And then she burst into tears.

I’d really misjudged my new sibling. I liked him even less than the other ones. What did he have to be so miserable about? He had my mom, my dad, and Gwen at his beck and call. They spent every moment of the day trying to make him comfortable: feeding him, burping him, changing him, swaddling him, swinging him, singing to him, and taking him for walks and car rides, even boat rides. Nothing pleased Eckhart. He was an asshole. An infant King Joffrey.