The Swap(46)

“Kind of,” I said.

My assistant didn’t respond, just picked up the dustcloth and went straight to work. I sipped my tea, watching as she headed to Freya’s remaining pieces. She always took care of them first, always carefully, even lovingly. As she wiped the inside of a beautiful, jade-green bowl, I spoke.

“Is Freya making more pottery?”

Low kept her eyes on her work. “We’re too busy with her Instagram. Social media is her first love. She only got back into pottery because she wasn’t allowed to post anything after Max’s trial.”

She was being more forthcoming than usual, so I continued. “Do you still make pottery?”

Low kept dusting. “Freya said I can use the studio, but it’s not the same without her. She doesn’t have that much energy now. She’s only got a month and a half till the baby comes.”

“Two and a half months,” I corrected her.

My employee looked up and met my eyes. As usual, they were unreadable. “Right.”

I drank the last of my tea. “I’m going to run some errands and grab lunch,” I said, shrugging on my raincoat. “Text me if it gets busy.”

“I will. But it won’t.”

? ? ?

The flat gray sky and cold drizzle fit my outlook perfectly. I huddled into my North Face jacket, the hood restricting my view of the deserted streets and naked sidewalks. I had no errands to run, but I needed to get away from Hawking Mercantile. At times, my supposed dream job felt like a prison, complete with physical and financial shackles. I was irritable, depressed, and hungover, and I needed to get out of my cell. And I needed fries.

When Freya and I ate lunch at the Blue Heron, we always ordered salads or Buddha bowls, but I knew there was a burger on the menu. I’d looked at it, coveted it on occasion, but hadn’t wanted to order it in front of my slim, healthy friend. Today, I had no one to impress. I was going to drown my sorrows in grease.

Shaking the raindrops from my hood, I entered the quiet restaurant. It was 11:40—on the early side for lunch, and the horrendous weather had kept would-be customers at home. The waitress, a fiftyish woman with a rosy face, recognized me.

“Table for two, hon?”

“Just me today,” I said, self-pity clogging my throat. Just me.

“Sit wherever you like,” she said, taking a tray of dishes toward the back. “I’ll be right with you.”

Freya and I had always sat near the window, always enjoyed taking in the view with our salads and lively conversation. But today called for a dismal back corner to accompany my burger and silence. I was moving toward a vacant table when I saw him. Max Beausoleil was standing near the bar, his hands in his pockets, waiting for a take-out order. I wanted to turn around, to duck into the restroom, but he looked up then and saw me.

“Hey,” he said, and goddammit, my stomach fluttered. I’d put what we did out of my mind, but my body still remembered.

“Hi.” I felt self-conscious of my bedraggled state, my wan pallor, my sour breath, until I looked into his handsome face. Max’s right eye was bruised, a dark crescent under his lower lashes, turning shades of yellow, purple, and green as it healed. “What happened?” I blurted.

His response was instant, practiced. “I was canoeing. Got an oar in the eye.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

I swallowed. “How’s Freya?” Did he know that his wife wasn’t speaking to me? Had she told him that Brian and I couldn’t handle what we had done that night? That guilt, jealousy, and insecurity were tearing us apart?

“She’s good,” he said. “She was craving an acai bowl.”

“I’m glad she’s eating healthy. For the baby.” I forced a smile. “You must be getting excited.”

“Yep.” But he didn’t sound excited; he sounded eager to leave. He looked toward the kitchen, willing his order to come.

“I’m going to grab a table,” I said. “I’m on my lunch break. I need to order some food.”

“Good to see you, Jamie.”

“You too,” I said as I backed away. “Take care of that eye.”

Alone at the quiet table, I tried to compose myself. Max still made me feel nervous and guilty and attracted and confused. But today, he roused something else in me. Concern. Even pity. What had happened to his eye? Was it really an accident with an oar? I thought about those puncture marks on his chest, healed to a four-pronged scar. How had that happened? Was someone hurting him? Was he hurting himself?

My mind couldn’t fathom a situation of abuse or self-harm. Not with this gorgeous couple who looked so perfect from the outside. But Max’s injuries were odd, their explanations unsatisfactory. He was still at the bar; I could sense his presence. I considered going back to him, to discern if he was really okay. But I couldn’t bring up the scar on his chest without addressing the taboo subject of our night together. My face got hot just thinking about it. And then my phone buzzed.

I picked it up thinking it was Low. We must have gotten an unforeseen rush of business. But it was Freya. My heart pitter-pattered as I read her words.

Sorry for the delay. Misplaced my phone.

I’ve missed you. Would love to see you.

Come for lunch next week?

Relief flooded through me, and the corners of my mouth twitched into a smile. Freya had missed me, just as I’d hoped. She wanted to see me. I was back in.