The Swap(28)

“You ruined everything for me!” Freya screeched. She moved backward, picked up a pottery mug off the counter, and hurled it at her husband with a guttural roar. Her arm was impressive, but Max was quick and agile despite his size. He ducked, and the mug missed him by mere inches. Instead, it hit the cupboard behind him and fell to the floor with a crash.

“You’re a stupid fucking animal!” Freya screamed, grabbing a two-pronged barbecue fork. She drew her arm back, and I didn’t know if she was going to rush at Max and stab him or throw the weapon and impale him. Either way, I couldn’t stand there and watch it happen. I turned the door handle and it gave way.

“Stop!” I shrieked, as I burst into the room.

They both turned toward me, and I saw the shock on their faces. It was quickly replaced by fury on Freya’s, something like shame on Max’s.

“What are you doing here?” Freya growled. I had seen her annoyed, irritable, even angry, but this was different. This was unadulterated rage. She was still holding the fork and a frisson of fear ran through me.

“Put the fork down,” I said, keeping my distance.

Freya slammed the utensil down on the counter. “Why are you here?”

Max added, “This is none of your business, Low.”

Suddenly, I realized that I was the intruder, that my help, my interference, was unwanted.

“I—I was working late,” I stammered. “I guess I dozed off. I heard screaming. I came to help.”

“Get out, you psycho.” Freya’s voice was cold.

I looked at Max.

“Go home,” he said softly.

As I slinked across the deck and down the stairs, I heard Freya’s voice. “And don’t come back!”

She didn’t mean it, I told myself. She was angry and overwrought and would regret her words in the morning. What had Max done to warrant her fury? This had to be about the baby. Maybe he was making her keep it? Or making her get rid of it? It had to be something really bad to make her want to fork him like a steak.

When I reached the studio, I grabbed my keys and hurried to my truck. Climbing in, my fingers fumbled with the ignition, my key stabbing blindly in the darkened cab. My breath was coming rapid and shallow. I was on the verge of hyperventilating, on the precipice of a full-blown panic attack. I was in no state to drive, but I had to leave. I had to put distance between myself and the scene at the luxurious home.

As I drove the dark and deserted road up the island, I breathed deeply through my nose, trying to calm myself. Tomorrow, Freya would text me to explain. It was a lovers’ quarrel heightened by the unfortunate pregnancy news. The hormones had made her crazy; she wouldn’t really have hurt Max. She’d thank me for diffusing the situation, apologize for her harsh words, beg me to come back to the studio. She’d promise to have an abortion as soon as possible and then things would go back to normal.

Even after what I had seen, I was still desperate to be a part of their lives.





23


When I got home, my dad was lying on the sofa with Eckhart on his chest. He didn’t question my entrance at 2:40 a.m., didn’t ask where I’d been spending my nights for the past few weeks.

“Be quiet,” he whispered, and pointed at my brother, who was still sniveling even in his sleep. And I was quiet. I tiptoed up to my room, which now had a crib in one corner, and climbed silently into my bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow, Eckhart began to wail.

It was almost noon when I woke to a silent house. Leonard and Wayne had gone to school, and my parents must have taken Eckhart for a soothing walk or a drive. I rolled over and retrieved my cell phone from beside the bed. I knew Freya would have texted me, would have made everything right.

But there were no messages—not from Freya or anyone. My stomach plummeted with disappointment. And with dread. What if last night’s incident would not simply blow over? What if my interference in Freya and Max’s domestic drama was a deal breaker? The thought that Freya could have meant those words—and don’t come back—made me nauseous.

I got up and padded down the creaking stairs to the kitchen, where I found a cold pot of coffee. I turned the machine back on to warm it, indifferent to how long it had been sitting there. Caffeine would make me see things more clearly. It would make me see that Freya was not going to destroy our pure and perfect friendship just because I had witnessed her tantrum. She couldn’t. It meant too much to both of us.

The disastrous state of my family home did nothing to soothe my angst. Cloth diapers hung from a drying rack set up near the extinguished wood fireplace. Baby paraphernalia—blankets, burping cloths, toys, and rattles—covered every surface, interspersed with my school-aged brothers’ books and balls and hoodies and leftover snack plates. A disturbing odor permeated the air, either a bucket of soaking diapers, or a bucket of fermenting sauerkraut. Either was a possibility.

The coffeepot was warm by now, and I poured myself a cup. It tasted like shit, so I added some honey and milk. I gulped the lukewarm concoction, waiting for the caffeine to hit my system, to wake me up and give me clarity. Taking my mug out to the back patio (a few paving stones with a couple of wrought iron chairs), I breathed in the crisp autumn air, let the chill awaken my senses. And it worked. Soon, I could see that I really had no reason to be upset about last night.

As far as Freya and Max knew, I had done nothing wrong. They had no idea I’d been squatting on their property. My excuse of having worked late and dozing off in the studio was completely plausible. And they couldn’t have known I’d spied on their magic mushroom party. They were all high at the time, and otherwise occupied. So, for all intents and purposes, I was the innocent party here. The reason Freya hadn’t contacted me was her own embarrassment. I had seen her at her worst . . . violent, ugly, mean. She was ashamed of herself, and so she should be. But I still worshipped her. She needed to know that.