The Swap(47)

I’d love that!!!

Three exclamation points was too much. I deleted two and hit send. Freya’s text had instantly dissipated my funk, and I couldn’t hide my delight.

The waitress dropped a menu on the table, then, but I didn’t need to look at it.

“I’ll have the Buddha bowl, please.”

“Sure, hon.”

I looked toward the bar. Maxime Beausoleil was gone.





41


low


Freya wanted to do a live video in her pottery studio. “I want to show off my artistic, wholesome side,” she said. “I’ve had some nasty comments saying I’m too shallow and superficial to be a mother.”

It was a form of virtue signaling, but it was an effective one. Freya was always beautiful, but when she was at the wheel, her delicate hands creating art, she was magical. No one could watch her work without becoming mesmerized, almost hypnotized. And no one would say an unkind word when they saw her talent. I knew that Freya craved the acceptance and validation of strangers. Despite her many gifts, her life of privilege, she needed it.

My digital camera did not record video, so I’d have to use Freya’s iPhone. It was newer and better than my phone. But I brought my tripod for stability. And I’d cleaned out my bank account and ordered a portable studio lighting kit online to ensure the most flattering environment for the video. It came with two lights on stands that I could set up in the dim space. We were filming in the afternoon when the light was low. If I did my job right, I could get a sensual, Ghost kind of vibe.

As I drove to her house, I felt a giddy sense of anticipation. We would spend the day in the studio again, where our friendship had been born. That space would always hold a special place in my heart. Jamie had asked if I missed making pottery. I’d shrugged off the question, but I did. Photography was my creative outlet now, but it wasn’t tactile like pottery. I missed getting my hands dirty, missed the earthen smell of the clay. Unlike traditional film, digital photography meant no waiting, no surprise at the end. When I dipped a vase or a bowl in glaze, fired it in the kiln, I never quite knew what would come out. My mind flitted to my beloved pinch pots, their crushed bodies in the garbage bag, but I shook off the memory. I should never have made Freya so angry. I knew better now.

I parked at the bottom of the drive and lugged my equipment toward the pottery shed. Freya had asked me to meet her there at three, but when I tried the door, I found it locked. Peeping through the windows, I saw that the space was dark, the wheels covered in canvas, the clay sealed away in plastic bags. At first, I thought I had gotten the date wrong, but I would never mess up a session with Freya. She must have fallen asleep. Or maybe she was feeling sick.

Propping the lights and tripod against the building, I marched toward the house. As I passed the matching SUVs, I spotted the small blue Mazda. It was Jamie’s car, previously concealed from my view by the larger vehicles. My stomach constricted, and I tasted something metallic on my tongue. It was jealousy. Jamie and Freya were friends again. What did that mean for me?

As I reached out and rang the bell, I tried to calm my racing heart. Freya had told me I was the best friend she had ever had. And she had kissed me on the mouth. I didn’t need to feel threatened by Jamie. What I had with Freya was much deeper, more intense than a simple friendship. And Freya needed me now. Her Instagram was her top priority, and I was essential to its success. Jamie was extraneous.

The door opened and there Freya stood, tanned and gorgeous in a white button-down maternity shirt. “Hey, Low.” She appeared confused by my presence.

“Hi.” My voice was somewhat strangled. “I thought we were filming you in the studio today. You told me to come at three.”

“Shit,” Freya cursed. “I totally forgot. I’m sorry, hon. Jamie’s here.”

“I’ll go get set up,” I suggested. “You can meet me there when you’re done with her.”

“She came for lunch,” Freya explained. “We had a lot to catch up on.” Then she leaned toward me and whispered. “Now I can’t get rid of her.”

But I wasn’t buying it this time. I knew that Freya would go back inside, roll her eyes, and say the same about me.

That was Low. She always shows up here wanting to photograph me. I can’t get rid of her.

She was playing us off against each other. Why hadn’t I seen it before?

“Right,” I said, backing away, trying to hide my pain.

But Freya didn’t seem to notice. “Thanks for understanding, doll. I’ll text you to reschedule.”

With that, she closed the door in my face.





42


I drove home fast, recklessly, my camera equipment rattling in the carriage of my truck. Freya had no respect for me or my time. True, I had nothing else to do, but I’d spent my hard-earned money (plus sixty bucks I’d stolen from Leonard) on lighting equipment to make her look beautiful. And she didn’t even care. She’d dismissed me like a servant, chosen time with Jamie over time with me. I hated her.

“Anger is just misplaced fear,” my mom and dad were fond of saying. When I was little and would throw a tantrum, they’d ask: “What are you afraid of, darling?”

I’m afraid I’m going to bite you if you keep talking to me in that condescending tone.