The Swap(4)

Since her marriage, Freya had lived in Montreal, Las Vegas, and New York. “I loved it there,” she told me. “In my heart, I’m a New Yorker.”

“You’ve lived in a lot of places.”

“My husband was a professional hockey player. When he got traded, we moved.”

My family did not watch sports. Our motto was: Cooperation, not competition. (Yes, my family had a motto that was embroidered, framed, and hung in our entryway.) Hockey, in particular, was too violent and pugilistic . . . though I’m sure my spaz of a brother, Leonard, would have loved it. But I knew enough about pro sports to be impressed. By the money, the fame, the athletic prowess.

“Has he retired now?” I asked.

“Sort of,” she said, eyes on the perfect cylinder forming under her expert touch. “He was forced to leave a couple of years ago. After he killed someone.”

Abruptly, I pulled my hands from the tower of clay, my precarious structure caving in on itself. “Oh my god.”

Freya’s voice was nonchalant. “It was an illegal hit. Broke the guy’s neck. He was paralyzed from the waist down. And then . . .” She finally released her vase and looked up. “He overdosed on his pain meds.”

It was wrong to be relieved—it was still terrible, a man was still dead—but Freya had made it sound like cold-blooded murder.

“So, it wasn’t your husband’s fault,” I said.

“Tell that to the dead guy’s family,” she snapped, and her face darkened. “They sued us for millions. It wasn’t enough that Max’s career was ruined. That he pled guilty to assault charges. We’ve been harassed online and in real life. We’ve had to move to the middle of fucking nowhere and still . . . they had to make us pay.”

Freya hated these people who had lost their son, their brother, their uncle; she had no compassion, no empathy for them. Perhaps I should have taken note. But I didn’t. Instead, I stammered, “I-I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Low.” Freya looked at me for a long moment. “You know, if you want to come to the studio more often, you’re welcome to. It’s hard to get much done in just one session a week. Besides”—she smiled, and she looked ridiculously pretty—“I enjoy your company.”

Something bloomed inside of me, spreading warmth to my stomach, my chest, and my throat. Her attention nourished me. It filled the empty place in my soul, cast light into the dark shadows of my psyche. Even if I had known then how it would all end, I wouldn’t have walked away.

I couldn’t.





3


I know what you’re thinking: I was in love with her. And I was, in a way. But a crush is far too simplistic a term for what we shared. Romantic love doesn’t even begin to convey our bond. Freya and I had a soul connection. I know that sounds like something I read in one of my parent’s New Agey books (and it is), but it’s also the truth. My friendship with Freya felt complex, profound, and eternal. She made me feel like a whole person, for the first time in my life.

My sexuality, at seventeen, remained undefined. I had, on occasion, had crushes on boys and, as often, on girls. These feelings had all gone unreciprocated, though, which prevented me from declaring a preference. And while I longed for a romantic relationship, it wasn’t about sex for me. I wanted intimacy and connection but felt no need to get naked and swap bodily fluids. I might have been biromantic asexual. Or maybe I was a bisexual late bloomer. There was no pressure to label myself. I was raised in a progressive community, in an unconventional family. I was taught to have an open mind. My polyamorous parents led by example.

My mom and dad had a girlfriend named Gwen. They had been with her for most of my life. Gwen lived in a cottage at the edge of our property line. In the summers, Gwen’s lover Janine moved in. Janine was not a poly so her relationship with my parents was strictly platonic. She was a teacher on the mainland but spent her summers with Gwen working on her short-story collection.

A few other lovers had come and gone, but the only other repeat offender was Vik. He kept a double-wide mobile home on the island’s northern tip and traveled a lot, but he occasionally shared my mother’s bed, and, when Janine was in the city, sometimes Gwen’s. (My dad and Vik were close friends but not romantically involved.)

The thing was, it worked for everyone but me. My parents and their partners really loved one another. They were caring and considerate of everyone’s feelings, warm and affectionate to us kids. My brothers had never known any different, so they loved Gwen, Janine, and Vik like stepparents. Or aunties and uncles. I was less enamored.

Perhaps it was because I was the eldest. I’d had loving, stable, normal parents until I was five. Then, they sat me down and told me things were about to change.

“You know how Mommy and Daddy love each other?” my mom began.

I nodded.

My dad picked it up. “We feel that we can love other people that way, too.”

“Like Grandma?” I asked.

They’d exchanged an amused look. “We love Grandma but not in that way,” my mom said. “We want to love other people in a mommy/daddy way.”

My father clarified. “When mommies and daddies are only allowed to love each other, that’s called monogamy. We feel that’s unnatural. It’s an outdated biblical construct that’s been perpetuated by conservative elements in modern society.”