The Swap(6)

“I’m grateful for the stuff I’ve been through. I can read people now. I can tell who’s a shallow hanger-on, and who’s a true, quality friend.” She drank more wine. “I’m more complicated and interesting now. Strife builds character, you know. People who have never experienced hardship just don’t get it.”

I was so desperate to grow our connection, to show her that I was complicated and interesting, too, that I decided to share the details about my unconventional family.

“My parents are polyamorous,” I blurted. “They have a girlfriend who lives on our property.”

Freya stared at me for a beat, and then her face lit up. “Oh my god . . . Do you live in a sex cult?”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“But your parents are swingers.”

“Poly is different. They have multiple relationships, but everyone is in love. And they just have a normal amount of sex, I think. At least now that they’re middle-aged.”

Just then, a man walked into the room. He was tall—much taller than I was—and muscular. He was all right angles: square jaw, square shoulders, big strong arms and legs. . . . He was wearing sweats (but expensive sweats) and a fitted black T-shirt. A few curls of dark hair peeped out from under a black knitted hat. His eyes were brown, almost black, and his skin tone was warm. (The next day, when I googled him, I found out that he was Métis, a descendant of Indigenous peoples and French settlers.) He had a bit of dark stubble above his lip and on his chin. He was serious, unsmiling . . . and ridiculously attractive. So this was Freya’s husband.

“Hey, Max,” Freya said. “This is Low. She lives in a sex cult.”

I blushed to my ankles. “No, I don’t!”

“Hi,” Max muttered, as if living in a sex cult was like living in a duplex.

“N-nice to meet you,” I managed, my heart thudding audibly in his presence.

Freya asked him. “How was your run?”

I noticed that he was sweaty and breathing heavily. My heart began to flutter. My romantic feelings may have been ambiguous, but at that moment, in the presence of this aggressively masculine specimen, I was decidedly hetero.

“Good,” he said, pulling off his hat, revealing thick black waves of hair. Jesus Christ.

“Join us for a drink?” Freya suggested.

His face darkened. “I’m going take a shower.”

“You’re no fun,” she said to his departing back. And then to me: “He says he’s quit drinking, but I’m not buying it. Anyway . . .” She stood, picking up my glass, which, to my surprise, was empty. “More for us.”

“No, thanks,” I said, but she was already in the kitchen, already refilling both of our glasses.

“You can’t let me drink alone, Low.”

Freya returned and handed me the glass. She’d brought the bottle with her, which I instinctively knew was a bad sign. Or was it a good sign? I felt giddy and relaxed and happy, and I didn’t want it to end. So I went with it.

“So . . . ,” Freya said, continuing her inquiry, “are you excited for your graduation?”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “School sucks.”

“I hated it, too.”

“Really?”

Freya was so pretty, so charismatic. She had to have been popular.

“I couldn’t wait to get out into the world and start my life for real. Are you going away to college? Traveling?”

“I’m taking a gap year,” I said, my practiced answer. “I’ll hang out here and figure out what I want to do with my life.”

My teachers and counselors had pressured me to apply to colleges. I’d focused on general arts programs at West Coast schools and been accepted by all of them. I’d even been offered scholarships to a few, but I had deferred, citing a need for a break. My parents thought I should travel for a year—preferably to Eastern locales that would open my mind and prompt a spiritual awakening. But I was too intimidated. I had never been accepted by my peers. Why would I think that a world full of strangers would embrace me? And now, I had Freya. For the first time, I felt warm and welcome and accepted.

“I’m glad,” she said, draining the bottle into both of our glasses. “I like having you around.”

“I like being around.”

I wanted to grab the words out of the air and swallow them back down. Freya’s proclamation had sounded casual and breezy; mine sounded creepy and obsessive. And needy and gross. So I changed the subject.

“I have a joint.”

I didn’t smoke a lot of pot. Or maybe I just didn’t smoke a lot of pot compared to my dad and the cool kids at my school. But I usually had a joint in my wallet, just in case. A few tokes could enhance a sunset or take the edge off a stressful social situation.

“Fun,” Freya said, standing up. “I’ll get a lighter and an ashtray. And another bottle of wine.”

Though I was a novice drinker, I knew that cross-fading (combining pot and alcohol) was a bad idea. No way would I be able to drive home now. But I had set something in motion that I couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. So I reached for my wallet and extracted the blunt.

I’d worry about getting home later.





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