The Swap(50)

This knowledge would allow me to reassert my significance in Freya’s life. I didn’t want her to fear me (okay, maybe I wanted her to fear me a little bit), but I wanted her to appreciate me. Because it was me, not Jamie, who had her back. I was her #bestfriend. She should be #grateful for me.

I drove home vibrating with excitement. My parents would be waiting for me with concern and consternation, but I didn’t care. All I could focus on now was telling Freya that I knew her secret. I would have to do it delicately—she couldn’t panic or become angry at me. She couldn’t cut me out of her life before I explained that I would keep her safe. I would take her baby’s paternity to my grave. The dynamic of our entire relationship was about to shift. I would go from the role of sidekick/servant to that of guardian and protector. Because, if Jamie found out the truth, she would blow up Freya’s world.

But I wouldn’t let that happen. As long as Freya treated me right.





45


My parents reserved their lecture for the next morning. They had obviously spent significant time discussing the nature of my relationship with Freya and had developed a theory. They accosted me in the kitchen, still littered with breakfast dishes, the smell of coffee taunting me from behind the scrim of concerned adults.

“We all think you should be spending more time with kids your own age,” my dad began, his eyes darting from my mom to Gwen for moral support.

“Like Thompson,” my mom piped in. “He’s so sweet. And he clearly likes you.”

“I’m eighteen,” I grumbled. “You can’t organize my playdates.”

The adults shared a look that I couldn’t read. Then my mom said, “Yes, you’re eighteen. You’re legally an adult.”

My dad picked it up. “That’s why we were wondering . . . if your friendship with Freya, is uh . . . more like, umm . . .”

My mom rescued him. “Is your relationship with Freya sexual?”

“Jesus,” I snapped, “You guys are sick.” But my face turned three shades of red, revealing my guilty conscience. I couldn’t forget that I’d lurked outside, watching Freya make love to Brian, and Max make love to Jamie. Freya’s kiss still lingered on my lips, still kept me up at night, along with vivid fantasies of a romantic future with her. But my relationship with Freya wasn’t sexual; it was more complex than that.

“You know we’re accepting of your orientation,” said Gwen.

“We wouldn’t necessarily expect you to have a traditional, heteronormative relationship,” my dad added.

But my mom fell apart. “You’re not emotionally mature enough to be involved with a grown woman! A married woman!”

“She’s eight months pregnant, for Christ’s sake!” Gwen shrieked.

“She’s using you!” my dad bellowed. “She doesn’t even pay you for your photography!”

Somehow, I remained calm. “I don’t expect you guys to understand.”

“We’re trying to, Swallow!” My mom was on the verge of tears. “Tell us what the hell is going on with you and that woman.”

But they’d never get it. So, I strolled away from their chorus of protests.

? ? ?

My bedroom was off-limits to me. Eckhart, who started his day at 5:00 a.m. was down for his morning nap, so I went outside and walked toward the beach-access road. As I sauntered, breathing in the pungent tinge of goat and pig feces in the cedar-scented air, I thought about leaving home. About moving in with Freya and Max. I hadn’t forgotten that Freya had been incensed when she’d found me squatting in her pottery studio, when I’d witnessed her attack on Max, but everything was different now. Once she knew that I knew what I knew . . . she would want to keep me happy. And close.

When I reached the beach, I sat on a driftwood log and texted her.

When should we do the pottery video?

She replied instantly.

Now. Before my stomach is too big to get near the wheel.

An afternoon shoot would have given me the opportunity to use my new studio lights, but I didn’t want to linger at home. It was only a matter of time before my parents regrouped, launched another attack on my “abnormal” friendship. Their words would have no impact, of course, but they would irritate me. The harmless but annoying buzzing of the male mosquito. I texted back.

I’ll be right over

The keys were in my truck, so there was no need to go back into the house. My tripod was inside, but I could do a handheld video. I drove directly to Freya’s. Parking in the driveway, I considered heading straight to the pottery studio but decided to go to the main house first. I rang the bell. After a few moments, Max answered the door. He wore faded jeans and a T-shirt, had a mug of coffee in his hand. He looked sleepy and rumpled and gorgeous.

“Hey,” I said, noticing that his right eye was bruised. I tapped my own eye. “What happened?”

“Tree branch in the face.”

Right. “Is Freya here?”

“She’s in the studio.”

The smell of his coffee was tantalizing. My family had blocked the coffee maker with their judgment and concern, leaving me woefully uncaffeinated. “Could I get a coffee?” I asked. Max had always made me nervous, even girlish, but now that I knew his secret, I felt more confident.