The Swap(34)

jamie


Over the next few weeks, I became Freya’s personal assistant. We took a trip to Seattle to pick out baby furniture. We painted the walls of the planned nursery a pale buttery yellow. (I did most of the painting; Freya didn’t want to breathe the paint fumes, and Max was away dealing with some business.) I bought Freya baby books, and when she wouldn’t read them, I read them myself and provided a verbal summary. There were back rubs and foot massages; casseroles and spur-of-the-moment ice cream deliveries. I still felt the ache and longing for a child of my own, a child I would never have, but I wanted to be there for my friend in her delicate time. And doting on her distracted me from my envy, resentment, and guilt. Almost.

I’d been able to avoid Max for the most part. Despite the impending arrival of his son or daughter, he was spending long hours on the water. He’d been traveling, too—a golf weekend with old teammates in Arizona, a trip north to visit family, frequent jaunts to the mainland to deal with business or legal affairs. The timing seemed odd to me, but Freya pointed out that Max would be on house arrest once the baby arrived. When he and I did cross paths, we were cool and civil. It was almost like nothing had ever happened between us.

But at night, he still came to me in my dreams. Torrid, sexual dreams that left me sweaty and aroused and hating myself. What if I murmured Max’s name in my sleep? Could Brian tell what imaginings caused me to toss and turn? I never fantasized about Maxime Beausoleil when I was awake. In fact, I disdained him. But my subconscious refused to let him go.

We still hadn’t socialized as couples since that fateful night. Freya had suggested it a handful of times, but between their travel schedules, my responsibilities at the store, and Brian’s writing deadline, it hadn’t come to fruition. My husband had been working on his manuscript, the second in the series, all summer. He’d delivered it in October, on schedule, but a month later, his editor called.

“She says it lacks the tension of the first book,” he complained. “She says the last half is fucking garbage.”

“Really? She said it’s ‘fucking garbage’?”

“She may as well have,” he grumbled.

“I could read it,” I offered lamely. “Maybe a fresh pair of eyes would help.”

“Yeah, like you’re going to solve the problems my professional editor can’t.”

His ego was bruised, his confidence shaken. And he was worried about money. Brian’s advance checks were metered out in installments: a percentage when he signed the contract, another on acceptance of the manuscript, more on publication. Hawking Mercantile had had a decent summer, and we’d budgeted our money to last until he received his next payment. We’d assumed that would be shortly after his delivery date. But that sum would now be delayed—weeks, months, even years. As long as it took for Brian to make the book good enough to publish. And from what I could see, he was barely writing.

Instead, he was working out. A lot. There was something almost manic about his need for exercise, and it didn’t sit right with me. It had started slowly, shortly after we began spending time with Freya and Max. I’d noticed a general uptick in my husband’s self-care: regular trips to the barber, green smoothies for breakfast, twenty-five push-ups each morning. But now he’d added trail running to his repertoire, spending an hour or more in the forest on rugged terrain. His favorite route was in Hyak Canyon, a twenty-five-minute drive from our cottage. By the time he drove there, ran for an hour, drove home, showered and changed, it was three hours he could have spent writing.

I was enduring financial anxiety myself, but I didn’t have time to gallop around in the woods. When I wasn’t at the store, I was working on the books, trying to keep the business in the black. Reduced winter hours helped. Hawking Mercantile was currently closed on Mondays and Tuesdays and had reduced operations for the rest of the week. Low worked only Saturdays, until business picked up. Brian had suggested that I lay her off until July, but I’d be able to give her more shifts during the Christmas shopping season. Low gave me the freedom to run business errands (to the bank, to the accountant, to the store to replenish the cookie cupboard), and to be available if Freya needed me.

A perk of my diminished schedule was more time with my husband. Between the store and his novel, we had been existing in separate orbits. These extra hours would close the gap between us, get us back on track. I envisioned lunch dates, walks, even some afternoon delight.

But it didn’t turn out that way.

It was a Monday, early in December. Next week, I would open the store for Christmas shopping and would be spending more time away from home. I’d decided to make Brian his favorite lunch. It would be nice to share a midday meal together before I returned to extended retail hours. As I grated cheese onto a piece of bread and tuna, Brian entered in running gear.

“I’m going for a run in the canyon.”

“But I’m making tuna melts.”

“I’ll eat later.” He was already lacing up his shoes. “I need to burn off some steam.”

The block of cheddar I’d been grating hit the counter with a thud. “I don’t know how you’re going to fix your book if you never spend any time writing.” It came out snarkier than I’d intended, but I was hurt. I didn’t even like tuna melts. This lunch was for him.

Brian righted himself and looked at me. I’d expected anger or defiance or a lecture on the creative process, but all he said was: “I need to do this.”