The Swap(48)

But now, it made sense. I was scared of losing Freya, terrified of returning to the lonely, solitary existence that predated her. If she chose to banish me, to replace me with Jamie again, I would have no one. The thought filled me with heaviness and darkness.

Pulling into our rutted driveway, I noticed an unfamiliar car parked next to the chicken coop. It wasn’t unusual for my parents or Gwen to have visitors; friends who joined them for potluck meals, or drinks. These friends could sometimes turn into lovers when invited to one of the infamous “sauna parties.” But since Eckhart had been born, my family’s social life had shriveled in the face of his demands.

With my lights and tripod under my arm, I struggled into the house. As soon as I opened the door, my mom called to me. “Swallow? Is that you?”

“Yep,” I replied, kicking off my shoes and propping my equipment in the entryway.

“You have a visitor.”

There was only one person it could be.

“Hi, Low,” Thompson said, as I entered the living room. He was seated on a chintz armchair facing my mom, who was breastfeeding Eckhart, but he jumped to his feet. What was he going to do? Hug me? Kiss my cheek? Shake my hand? I took a step back.

“What are you doing here?” I muttered.

“You haven’t returned any of my texts or DMs, so I thought I’d stop by. Do you want go for pizza or something?”

“It’s three thirty. I’m not hungry.”

“We could go for a drive. Or watch TV. Or play a video game.” He looked toward my mom. “We can go to my place, so we don’t disturb the baby.”

“I’m good,” I said.

My mom suddenly pulled her breast from Eckhart’s mouth with a loud suctioning sound. “Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a sec?”

Uh-oh.

Alone in the kitchen, Eckhart reached out for me. I’d been ignoring him since Freya had taken me back, but apparently, he still remembered our time together. I took him and jiggled him on my hip, as my mom launched into her whispered lecture.

“Why are you being so rude to that boy?”

“I’m not being rude, I’m being honest. I’m not hungry. And I don’t want to watch TV or play video games.”

“You complain that you don’t have friends, and then you reject a perfectly nice, age-appropriate companion.”

I hadn’t audibly complained about my lack of friends since the ninth grade, but I was unable to point that out since my mom wouldn’t stop talking.

“Why do you want to spend all your time with a pregnant woman twice your age? I thought she was teaching you pottery, but now . . . what? You take pictures of her?”

“I’m her photographer,” I grumbled, as Eckhart pulled at my hair. “For her Instagram.”

“Has she hired you?”

“We have a partnership.”

“You used to photograph Eckhart and nature and animals. Now, you only shoot Freya. It’s like she’s the only thing that interests you. It’s not healthy.”

“Freya is famous on Instagram. We’re building her brand together.”

My mom shook her head, her expression chagrined. “None of that is real, Swallow. It’s superficial nonsense. You know that.”

I was instantly defensive. “What would you know about reality? You hide out in your free-love hippie universe and pretend that there’s no such thing as social media, or celebrity. But it exists, Mom. And it matters. You’d get it if you weren’t so . . . irrelevant.”

I watched my mother’s face turn red with anger, hurt, and disappointment. She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to slap me or burst into tears. But she did neither of those things. She spoke in a trembling voice.

“Go eat pizza with that boy, or so help me . . .”

She took my brother from my arms and stormed out of the room.

“Fine!” I called after her. “God!” I thumped back into the living room, where Thompson, who had clearly heard everything, sat looking pale and frightened.

“Let’s go,” I barked.

He jumped to his feet and followed me out of the house.





43


We drove to the pizza joint in separate cars. I wasn’t planning to stay long. But eating pizza with Thompson was preferable to being at home with my outraged mother, who by now would have told my dad, Gwen, maybe even Vik about my insolence and moral turpitude. My parents were probably strategizing an intervention at this very moment. I would hide out with Thompson until they all cooled off. Hopefully, they’d smoke a joint to de-stress themselves and then find the whole thing laughable.

I arrived first and slid into a booth without ordering. Thompson would want to buy me a piece of pizza; it made him feel chivalrous. Plus, I had no money since having ordered the lighting kit for Freya.

My stout colleague soon joined me. “This is where we sat last time,” he said, slipping into the seat across from me. “I guess this is our booth.”

I managed not to roll my eyes.

“I know you said you weren’t hungry, but can I tempt you with a slice?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Meat-lovers and a Coke?” He tapped his head like this was some great feat of memory.

“Yep.”

While I waited, I checked Freya’s Instagram. She had a new post: a selfie of her and Jamie cuddled up on her white sofa. My stomach turned sour as I took in the image of the two women. Freya held the camera, looking natural and pretty and pleased with herself. Jamie was smiling, but I could see that she was self-conscious. The lighting was terrible, the perspective off. Freya and I were supposed to be creating a beautiful, professional-quality page, not posting crappy selfies. But the worst part was Freya’s comment.