The Swap(35)

He grabbed his car keys and hurried out the door.

I slammed the tray under the broiler. Something was up with my husband, beyond writer’s block. He was pulling away from me, I could feel it. He was distant and distracted; didn’t want to eat, talk, or connect with me. His rigorous exercise routine made it clear that he would rather work on his body than his marriage. We still had sex, on schedule. It was still good—hotter than it had been when we were trying to conceive. But despite his attentiveness and vigor, my lover seemed emotionally detached.

As I cleaned the kitchen, my anger eased to a simmer. We were both under immense stress, I reminded myself. When Brian fixed his manuscript, when business picked up at the store, we’d find our way back to each other. We always did. A relationship like ours was built for the long haul. I was making too big a deal over a shared sandwich. Washing the knife and cutting board, I let my resentment run down the drain with the soapy water.

The oven timer dinged and as I turned toward it, I spotted Brian’s inhaler on the counter. My husband’s mild case of asthma was made significantly less mild with strenuous exercise. He never worked out without his inhaler, but his distraction was so complete that he’d forgotten it. If he had an asthma attack alone, in the middle of the forest, an hour from home, it could be serious.

I flicked off the oven, picked up the inhaler, and hurried to my car.





30


My Mazda hurtled down the winding road toward Hyak Canyon. It was a forested stretch of highway, rarely used except by a few residents of homesteads set back in the woods and miles apart. I was slightly uneasy in this largely deserted swath of trees. There were rumors of meth labs on this part of the island, of illegal marijuana crops. The canyon and its running trails were in a national park, but the surrounding area had a dark, criminal energy.

Brian’s inhaler rattled in the console. If I didn’t catch him before he started his run, I’d be too late. My husband usually stretched his quads and hamstrings before he took off, a process that could take anywhere from five to fifteen minutes. My foot pressed down on the gas. I hoped Brian was doing an extralong warm-up today.

As I rounded a bend, a vehicle flew past me. It was white, an SUV. I caught a glimpse of light blond hair as the driver passed, her eyes focused on the winding road ahead.

Freya.

What was she doing out here? The area was almost deserted, except for the rumored meth cookers and pot growers. Freya couldn’t have been hiking the rugged canyon trails in her condition. She had no reason to be in this area. Unless . . .

My stomach churned. Was something going on between my husband and my best friend? If so, what? Did they know what Max and I had done? Were they plotting to destroy us? To abandon us? Or . . . had my husband lied to my face about that night? Had he and Freya slept together, too?

The thought of Brian making love to Freya made me sick. She was so beautiful, so small and blond and perfect. My husband would have been enraptured by her, like I had been with Max. I’d been excited by the newness, turned on by the differences. Brian would have felt the same way. He’d have compared me to Freya, and I would have fallen short. Were they in love now? Having an affair? My mind and stomach reeled with the possibilities.

About seven minutes later, I pulled into the gravel parking area. Brian’s truck was alone in the lot, and he was beside it, pacing in a circle. He was decidedly not stretching his hamstrings. He looked up as my car approached, and our eyes met.

My husband was not happy to see me.

I got out of the car and marched toward him.

“What are you doing here?” He couldn’t hide his dismay.

I’d left his inhaler in the console. I suddenly didn’t care if he had an asthma attack. “What’s going on with you, Brian? Why was Freya here?”

“Freya?”

“I passed her as I was driving. Is something going on between you two?”

“Are you serious?” He snorted. “You think I’m sleeping with your pregnant best friend?”

“It would explain a lot! You’re distant and moody. You won’t talk to me. You’re always running. Or so you say. . . .”

“I was going to run, but I forgot my inhaler.”

“I brought it. That’s why I’m here. But now I’d like to know what the hell is going on with you.”

He turned away from me, dragging his hands through his cropped hair. Then he whirled around, his face dark and angry.

“You want to know what’s going on with me, Jamie? My book is a disaster, and I don’t know how to fix it. If I lose this deal, we’re fucked. Your store doesn’t make enough money to support us, so I’ll have to go back to teaching. There won’t be any openings on the island, so we’ll have to pack up and move. You’ll have to sell the store. We’ll both have to give up on our dreams. All because I’m a fucking failure.”

I saw the pain on his handsome face. It was genuine. He was telling the truth.

“I run all the time because it’s the only thing keeping me off antidepressants,” he growled. “Would you rather I self-medicate with drugs or booze?”

“Of course not. And you’re not a failure.”

“You won’t be saying that when we lose everything.”

I closed the distance between us. “I didn’t realize you were in such a dark place.” I reached for his hand. “It’s all going to be okay.”