The Swap(33)

My husband gave me a sympathetic smile and squeezed my arm. “I need water,” he said, and moved to the kitchen.

“She’d always told me she didn’t want kids,” I said, trailing after him. “She sounded like she kind of hated them. But it’ll be different with her own.”

Brian filled a glass with water. “And Max?”

My one-time lover’s name on my husband’s lips elevated my pulse, but I affected a casual tone. “I haven’t seen him, but Freya said he’s happy. He was surprised, but they both feel like this is a new beginning for them. They’ve been through a lot of ugliness. A baby will bring so much joy.”

Brian drained the glass and set it down. “It’s hard to envision them as parents.”

“I thought so, too, until I saw how excited Freya is.”

“A baby will change their lifestyle. No more magic-mushroom parties, for one.”

“Definitely not.” I laughed awkwardly.

We had never talked about that night. My one attempt at a confession had been subverted, and I could see no reason to bring my dalliance with Max into the light now. So I changed the subject.

“Freya’s feeling pretty overwhelmed. But I said I’d help her and support her.”

“You’re a good friend to her.”

“We can have a role in this baby’s life, Brian. We can be its auntie and uncle.”

My husband almost smiled, but not quite. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“I’ll start dinner.”

As he walked to the bathroom, I saw the tension in his posture. This was hard news for him to hear, too. He’d wanted a baby as much as I had, and our best friends—our only friends—on the island were expecting. But he would come around eventually. My acceptance had been expedited by a guilty conscience. Brian’s would take more time.

I grabbed a bottle of pinot noir and poured myself a large glass.





28


low


Revealing Freya’s pregnancy secret to Jamie had not turned out as I’d hoped. I thought Jamie would feel jealous and betrayed, that the ruse would blow up their friendship. I imagined Jamie calling Freya selfish and insensitive, a lying, duplicitous bitch. Her outrage would drive Freya back into my waiting arms. But somehow, Freya had explained away her deceit, had charmed Jamie and won her over. To my chagrin, their friendship seemed to have deepened with the baby news. Jamie acted like an excited aunt. And I was the one left feeling envy and betrayal.

I knew from my parking-lot surveillance at the Blue Heron that the two women met for lunch regularly. I’d also seen them walking into the coffee shop on a number of occasions when I just happened to be driving by. Freya had gone to a yoga retreat for a couple of weeks, but she spent most of her holiday texting with my employer. Jamie stood with her elbows on the counter, tapping away at her phone and giggling. When I joined her behind the till under the auspices of fetching a dustcloth, she hurriedly tucked her phone away, but not before I saw Freya’s name on the screen. Upon Freya’s return, Jamie asked me to man the shop for a couple of days so she and Freya could take the ferry to the mainland to buy baby paraphernalia.

Freya still hated me, perhaps more now than ever. On top of squatting on her property and sticking my nose into her dish-throwing business, I’d broken her trust by revealing her secret. There was no point trying to contact her. She would only reject me, hurt me, crush my fragile spirit. Sometimes, I was still angry over her cruel words and my smashed pinch pots, but mostly, I just wanted her to let me back in. My logical mind told me to let her go, to move on, but my heart pined for reconciliation.

In order to maintain both my distance and connection to Freya and Max, I spent most of my days at the library in town. Our family PC was in the kitchen, and I required privacy (or at least anonymity) for the internet research I was doing. In the afternoons, I sat at one of the library’s four computers and googled Maxime Beausoleil and Freya Light. I didn’t read the toxic news stories about Max’s deadly hit, the contentious lawsuit, Freya’s fall from social media grace. They were all lies, Freya had told me, all skewed to make the gorgeous couple out to be villains. Instead, I selected “Images,” and pored over numerous photos of the attractive pair at galas and fundraisers, at Trader Joe’s or leaving the gym. I sifted through pictures of Max on the ice, of Freya’s endorsement deal with a short-lived vitamin water company, my emotions rocketing from longing to loss, from adoration to misery.

The three to four hours I spent gazing at their images online each day makes it sound like an unhealthy fixation. But I was getting on with my own life, too. For my November birthday, my parents had given me a high-end digital camera. It was secondhand but still in great condition. Though I had never explained the demise of my potting career, my family recognized my need for a creative outlet. And they provided for me.

Vik had taken some professional concert photos. We talked about perspective and lighting and use of space. I was mildly enthusiastic. Maybe reigniting my love for photography would be a way forward for me. I was already thinking less about Freya, spending less time staring at her likeness at the library or on my phone. Photography was an excellent distraction. At least it was supposed to be.

How could I have known it would lead me back to her?





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