The Swap(51)

“Sure.”

I followed him inside.

As the former athlete made me a latte from their high-end machine, I watched him. He knew that Freya’s baby wasn’t his, couldn’t be his, but he was keeping her secret. Could he love another man’s child like it was his own? Was he that desperate to become a father? He’d always seemed indifferent to the baby’s pending arrival, but maybe I had misread him. Maybe Freya had convinced him that their baby was a miracle. Or maybe, Max just went along with whatever Freya wanted.

He handed me the steaming mug of coffee and watched me take my first sip. And then he said, “Do you think Freya’s ready?”

“For what?”

“The birth. The baby. All of it.”

“She doesn’t have much choice,” I said with a chuckle.

But Max didn’t smile.

“She never talks about it. It’s like she’s in denial about what’s going to happen. Childbirth can be traumatic. And a baby needs constant care and attention.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?” I offered, my chest warmed by my own altruism.

“Could you? I want to make sure she’s mentally and physically prepared. Freya isn’t . . . naturally maternal.”

“Once the baby comes, the hormones will kick in and she’ll be a great mom.” I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I was enjoying my role as sage.

“I hope so.”

“And the baby will have its daddy,” I said, watching his reaction. “You’ll be there for both of them.”

He breathed out through his nostrils. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this, either.”

“Why not?”

I wondered if Max would confess to me, admit that Freya’s baby wasn’t his. We were not close, but the secret must have been eating at him. Opening up to me would give him some relief. And strengthen my position in their family unit. But Max just muttered, “I’m not really dad material. Not after what I did to Ryan Klassen. Not after all I put Freya through.”

“Leave it with me,” I said, setting my half-empty mug on the counter. “I’ll make sure Freya’s prepared.”

I headed for the door.





46


The studio was sweltering despite the February chill. Freya had cranked the heat to allow her to wear a unique pottery uniform. Instead of her usual smock and baggy jeans, she wore a fitted white tank top that strained over her belly, and a colorful sarong wrapped low around her hips. Her hair was pulled up into a messy but artfully arranged bun. The clay was wedged, packed into a ball, and waiting on the wheel. Her metal container of water and a sponge were on hand. She was ready for me.

“Hey, babe,” she said, all sweetness and light. “I’m sorry about yesterday. Jamie and I had a lot of catching up to do.”

#bestfriends #backtogether #grateful

“About what?” I groused. “It’s not like she’s done anything interesting in the past month.”

“She wanted to talk about the baby,” Freya said, with a slight eye roll. “You know she’s barren, so this is the closest she’s going to get to having one of her own.”

Closer than she thinks. Jamie thought she was this baby’s pseudo aunt. She had no idea she was its stepmother.

“Jamie wants us to do a step-by-step birthing plan. But she’s going to be in the delivery room with me, so I figure she can take charge of things.”

The last thing I wanted was to witness Freya’s delivery. I’d caught unfortunate glimpses of my siblings’ home births and they’d scarred me for life. But Jamie’s role as amateur midwife annoyed me. I didn’t like the thought of her coaching and supporting Freya through this disgusting, but purportedly special, event.

“Let’s get started,” I retorted.

Freya gave me a quizzical look, but obliged. She positioned herself at the wheel, flicked it on, and within moments she was transformed. I would later learn that Freya, in Norse mythology, was the goddess of fertility, the most beautiful of all the deities. I watched the sensual, artistic pregnant woman at work. Her name fit her perfectly.

I walked around her, taking a series of short videos from varying angles and of varying lengths. Her hands worked slowly, delicately, lifting the clay, shaping it, creating a tall, paper-thin vase. Midmorning sun shone through the studio windows, bathing her in an ethereal light. Once posted, this video would illicit nothing but praise for Freya’s talent and beauty. No one would mention Max’s lethal hit, the ugly lawsuit, Freya’s social media obsession. When she was throwing, Freya was untouchable.

The fluted vase complete, she stopped the wheel and looked up at me. “How’d I do?”

For the first time, I noticed the weariness on her face. Her eyes were puffy, her skin wan under her flawless makeup. I saw her vulnerability in that moment, her insecurity, and it only made her more beautiful to me.

“You were magic,” I said.

She smiled at me, grateful and relieved. “Thank God.” She took the wire garrote and sliced her creation off the wheel. As she placed it expertly on a wooden bat, she said, “You’ve been amazing, Low. But we need to take a break.”

My stomach plummeted with dread. “Did my mom call you?”

She looked up, bemused. “No . . . But that’s going to be my last post for a while.”