The Swap(54)

And then a link.

I was alone in the kitchen, my laptop set up on the small pine table. We had had an early dinner, now I was paying invoices while Brian watched TV in the living room. If I’d asked his opinion, he would have told me not to click. He’d warned me many times about phishing and viruses. But I didn’t call out for advice as my mouse hovered over the words and I debated whether the message was safe and legitimate. Something told me to take the risk. And so, I clicked.

An article from the Calgary Herald filled my screen. I had an aunt in Calgary, had visited her on a few summer vacations when I was growing up. It was an archived story from several years ago, about NHL hockey player Max Beausoleil. He’d been involved in a paternity suit; a woman had sued him for child support. My brow crinkled with confusion and concern. Did Max have another child out there? Did Freya know about it? Why had they never mentioned it?

As I continued to read, I learned that Max had disputed the mother’s paternity claim. An attractive blonde, Paula Elphin, maintained that they’d slept together when Max played for the Kings. He was newly married to Freya then. Of course he’d deny it. Even if he had Freya’s blessing to sleep around, the optics were bad. But it was his defense that made my pulse race and the back of my neck break out in a sweat.

Maxime Beausoleil claimed to be sterile.

His lawyer had submitted a doctor’s note into evidence. Complications from mumps, it said, a rare but plausible cause of infertility. The baby couldn’t possibly be Max’s—or so he declared. But the judge hadn’t bought it, had insisted on a paternity test. At the time of writing, the results were pending.

I immediately searched for a follow-up article. I had to know if my best friend’s husband had a child out there. Perhaps its existence explained Max’s long and frequent absences? But why had the kid never come to visit? It would be in elementary school by now. I knew that Freya had hated children, but her pregnancy had changed things, had changed her. This child, if it were Max’s, would be welcome now.

But if it wasn’t his . . .

A specific Google search provided the answers I sought. The test results proved that Max was not the father of Paula Elphin’s baby. So did that mean Max was sterile, as he’d claimed? The judge had ordered only a DNA test, not a fertility test. Max’s ability to father children was irrelevant to the court. But it was not irrelevant to me. Because if Maxime Beausoleil was not the father of Freya’s baby, who was?

And who had sent me this article?

Suddenly, Brian was behind me. “Almost done?” he asked breezily.

I turned to face him, my chagrin and confusion evident. “I—I just got this e-mail.”

“From whom?”

“I don’t know.”

Brian took a seat, and I slid the laptop to him. He read the first article, his brow furrowed with confusion. Without a word, he clicked to the second piece, his face growing darker as he read the results of Max’s paternity test. I saw him put the pieces together in his brain, watched him scramble with the possibilities.

“What does this mean?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

Brian stood. “It means we need to talk to Max and Freya.”





49


brian


My hands held the wheel in a vise-grip, and my foot felt heavy on the gas. I was conscious not to speed, not to be reckless as we drove toward the cliffside home. If my driving reflected a lack of urgency, a sense of calm, it might translate to my wife and me. But Jamie was practically vibrating in the seat beside me, nerves and apprehension coming off her in waves. And I felt sick to my stomach. Because this encounter, this confrontation, was going to be brutal. It was going to change our lives, one way or another.

Neither of us spoke, neither of us articulated what that article could mean for us. And for the baby. After my initial suspicions about its paternity, I had put the child—and its parents—out of my mind. Freya had provided the dated ultrasound image, and it had looked authentic. But it could easily have been doctored with some Wite-Out and a scanner. I had wanted so badly to believe its veracity, been desperate to disconnect from that toxic couple and put the night of the swap behind us. But if Max could not father children . . .

Despite our struggles, I still wanted to be a dad. Jamie may have grieved longer and more openly, but I still ached for a child. I’d always envisioned myself with a little girl on my shoulders, tossing a baseball with my son. But not this way. Please, God, not this way.

Freya had charmed me at first, I’d been a pawn to her beauty and sex appeal, but now I saw through it. She was manipulative, even scheming. She got off on playing with people. I’d watched my wife careen from jubilance to despair and back to restrained delight as Freya embraced her, dumped her, then lured her back in. I should have been angry at Max for sleeping with my wife, but he was just Freya’s puppet. That night was all her doing.

Had Freya wanted to get pregnant? Had she orchestrated the couples’ swap so she could conceive? She wasn’t the maternal type, didn’t seem to have a clue about kids. But this pregnancy had reignited her Instagram career. And got her so much attention—from Jamie, Max, even Low who, as far as I could see, was Freya’s volunteer PA. But would Freya go this far? Would she get pregnant with my baby just to fuck with us all? She’d have to be a psychopath.

And now, this woman I despised was carrying my child. I knew it in my gut, had known it all along if I’d been honest with myself. I glanced at my wife, and she looked back, meeting my eyes. She knew it, too.