The Swap(36)

“I don’t know that it is.”

“We’ve struggled before, and we always get through it. Together.”

He sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

“But . . . why was Freya out here?”

He pulled his hand from my grip. “How the hell would I know?” he snapped. “She’s your friend, why don’t you ask her instead of accusing me?”

Brian jumped into his truck and peeled out of the parking lot, all plans for his run abandoned.

? ? ?

Alone in my car, I felt chastened and ashamed. I was transferring my own adulterous behavior onto Brian. It had so consumed me that I couldn’t see that my husband was hurting, that he needed my support. All my energy had been focused on Freya and the baby, in making up for what I’d done to them in some small way. But I had betrayed Brian, too. And he needed me now.

That quick, lightening glimpse of Freya flashed through my mind. It could have been a blond tourist in a white Range Rover, but I knew it was my friend. Her presence in the middle of the island was a coincidence, nothing more. Freya was probably visiting a pottery student on one of the properties in the area. Perhaps she’d gone for a scenic drive to clear her head. Or maybe she was buying some weed? No, not in her condition. She wouldn’t. Would she? Freya was a risk-taker, a rule-breaker. But she had to know that pot was not good for her baby.

When I got home, I parked next to Brian’s vehicle and entered the house. I heard the shower running. Instead of washing away his sweat, he was washing away his anger and disappointment. I’d reheat our lunch, maybe open a bottle of wine. We could sit and talk, and I would listen, really listen. From that moment on, I would be caring and supportive, there for my husband in his time of need. I hung my sweater on the hook next to Brian’s running shell, and that’s when I saw it.

A long, pale blond hair clung to the shoulder of my husband’s black jacket.





31


brian


Jamie bought it, thank God. If she had found out that my trail run was just an excuse to meet Freya, it would have hurt her too much. And despite what I had done, I didn’t want to cause my wife any pain. That’s why I had to be so careful, so discreet. If Jamie found out what was going on, it would crush her. All the lying and sneaking around . . . it was meant to protect her and her feelings.

I turned off the shower and reached for a towel, drying myself vigorously. My body felt stronger than it had in a long time, harder and leaner. Still, it couldn’t compare to Max Beausoleil’s physique. He would always be bigger, tougher, more masculine than I was. But maybe she didn’t want that. Maybe his perfection bored her. It was possible . . . doubtful, but possible.

My robe was on the back of the door, and I wrapped it around me. It was winter, and the old bungalow was drafty. If my books ever took off, I would buy a new house on the water. At the rate I was going, that wasn’t going to happen. The book had structural problems that needed my full attention, but my mind was consumed with thoughts of Freya. It was her fault that the book was a mess in the first place. She had come into our lives and turned everything upside down.

I emerged into the hallway in a billow of steam. The air was chilled, almost icy. Jamie should have turned on the furnace. In bare feet, I moved to the living room thermostat, where the real source of the cold front sat on the sofa, her mouth set in a grim line.

“Stop lying to me, Brian.” Jamie’s voice trembled with hurt and anger. “I know you were with Freya at the canyon.”

There was no point denying it. “It’s not how it looks,” I said quickly. “We were just talking.”

An incredulous laugh erupted from Jamie’s throat. “Do you really expect me to believe that? How long have you been fucking my best friend?” The vulgarity was out of character, but appropriate, given the circumstances. But I chose different words.

“I’m not . . . sleeping with her,” I said. “I slept with her. The night you slept with Max.”

My wife’s olive face blanched as guilt, confusion, and shame flitted across her features. But I knew my own pallor was even paler, even sicker. Articulating what happened that night, saying the words out loud, made me want to puke.

Jamie swallowed audibly. “Why did you lie to me? I’ve been racked with guilt.”

“Poor you.” My sarcasm was cutting. “Freya told me how much you wanted Max. She told me you were bored with me, desperate to have sex with someone else. That you’d missed out on so much, because of me.”

“No. . . .” But her voice was weak.

“Freya said the swap would make you happy. That no one would get hurt. But I got hurt, Jamie. The thought of you and . . . him.” My throat clogged, and I couldn’t continue.

“No.” It was firm this time. She got off the couch and rushed toward me. “Freya twisted my words. I never wanted to be with Max. But he said you and Freya were already in bed together. I was high. And I was weak. So I just . . . I went along with it. But I’ve hated myself ever since.”

She tried to hug me, but I folded my arms, backed away. I wasn’t ready to forgive her. Or myself.

“I wanted to talk to you about it afterward,” my wife continued. “I wanted you to know that I only want to be with you. Ever. But you went out in the boat with Max. You acted like everything was normal.”