The Swap(44)

I hadn’t seen Max in a while. He always seemed to be out on the water, out for a run, or away dealing with business matters. His presence still made me feel strangely feminine, but I was wearing my photographer’s hat. This was about getting a beautiful photo of the parents to be.

“No. No more photos with Max,” Freya said. She moved forward and grabbed my camera. She scrolled through the images, deleting those that didn’t please her. “When I post photos with him, I get half the likes. And that’s when I get nasty comments. People still hate him. He’s a liability.”

“Maybe you’d like a photo for yourselves,” I said. “You could get it framed.”

Freya ignored the suggestion. “Once the baby is born, we can post one of those shirtless dad, naked baby photos. Gauge the reaction.” She raised her eyes to mine. “That is, if we’re still together.”

“What do you mean?”She sighed as she handed the camera back to me. “I’ve been thinking about leaving him.”

My stomach churned with panic. “Leaving him?”

“Max has got a lot of demons. I know he’s trying to deal with them, but . . . I’m not sure he’s emotionally or physically present enough to be a father.”

I swallowed. “But you’d stay here, right? On the island? With the baby?”

Freya leaned back on the railing. She looked remarkably casual despite the gravity of her words. “I’ve been thinking about going back to LA. My dad’s there. I can hire a nanny and rebuild my career.”

“You can do that here,” I blurted. “We’re taking great photos together. You’re getting more sponsorships. People love you again.”

“My followers want the image,” she said. “The hair, the nails, the body. Facetune can only do so much. I won’t have time to take care of myself with the baby. And there are basically no domestic workers on the island. I can’t even get a housekeeper on a regular basis.”

“Order a nanny from one of those foreign agencies,” I said. “There are women in war-torn countries who are desperate to come here. They can take care of the baby and cook and clean. Then you can work out. And go to the salon. And get your nails done. And we can do our photo shoots. We can do photos with you and the baby. Everyone will love you. And it.”

Freya sighed, her eyes on me. “It would just be easier in LA.”

“Please. . . .” My voice was hoarse with desperation. “You can’t leave. I . . . I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

But I did know. She had punted me from her life once before, and I had nearly done myself in. If she left for good . . . it could be fatal. I had always tried to hide the depths of my devotion, downplay the intensity of my feelings, but they were on full display now. I was trembling. I felt physically sick.

Freya smiled at me then, and her eyes moistened. It was real emotion, real gratitude; she couldn’t fake that. If she’d been that good an actress, she’d have done more than a few commercials and a corny Christmas movie. This was authentic.

“Oh, Low . . . ,” she said, stepping toward me, “you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” And then she kissed me.

Freya had stood on tiptoes and pecked my cheek on numerous occasions. But this kiss was different. It was on the lips. And while she didn’t quite slip me the tongue, she lingered there, her lips pressed to mine, longer than a friend would. It awakened something inside of me, a feeling that started at my knees, traveled up my inner thighs, and into my groin. It was desire; it was lust. I had never felt so alive.

I had shared my feelings with Freya, and she had reciprocated them. With a warm, moist, lingering kiss. That kiss . . . that kiss would stay with me, haunt me, and, eventually, taunt me.

It would change everything.





39


jamie


As the one-month anniversary of our “break” approached, I pondered the content of my text to Freya. Should I lead with the business angle? Tell her that I was eager to stock more of her pottery for the summer season? It would make me sound less pathetic and emotionally needy. And Freya would be flattered that her pieces were so popular. But it might seem cold and aloof after the heated conversation we’d had. I didn’t want her to think all I cared about was our professional relationship, because that was a lie. Eventually, I decided to be honest. Because I could live without Freya’s pottery but not without her friendship.

Precisely one month after she’d proclaimed us “on a break,” I reached out.

Hey. Been thinking about you and wondering how you’re doing. Coffee soon?

My iPhone indicated that she had read the message, but she did not respond.

She was in the middle of something, I told myself. Maybe she was in the studio, working on new pieces for my summer stock. Or she was embroiled in one of her Instagram photo shoots. Or about to have a bath. Or a nap. Or a massage . . . She would answer me soon, I told myself. Freya had to be missing me, too.

But she had still not responded by the end of the day. I locked up the shop, went home, and poured myself a glass of wine. Brian was bustling around the kitchen, making a stir-fry. He was chatty and chipper, talking about the “breakthrough” he and his editor had made on the climax of his novel. I pretended to listen, nodding along, my mind entrenched on my precarious friendship.