The Swap(8)

My eyes accustomed to the light, and I took in my surroundings. I was in a tastefully furnished guest room, on the lower level of the house. How had I gotten there? Had I been able to stumble down the stairs of my own volition? Or had Max carried me down there? Had he held me in his strong arms like a long, limp spaghetti noodle? At that moment I realized that my jeans and flannel had been removed. I wore only a yellowing bra and a matronly pair of cotton underpants. Who had undressed me? Shame burned my cheeks and throat. I wanted to get up and leave, but I couldn’t drive in my condition. Rolling over, I decided to sleep for another hour or two, then make my escape.

As my eyes closed, I heard a bang. And then another. It didn’t alarm me. It could have been the wind or a wild animal knocking about outside. Living in the woods came with a nighttime soundtrack. It was the noise that followed that made me sit bolt upright in bed. A scream, almost a roar—agonized, enraged, in pain. It was a woman. It was Freya.

I had to go to her, had to do what I could to help her, protect her, save her. I clambered out of bed, but the room tilted, and my stomach flipped. Oh God. I was going to be sick. I couldn’t puke in this pristine guest room with its seagrass rug, its snow-white duvet, its Wedgwood-blue accent pillows. But if Freya was in physical or emotional pain, she needed me. I didn’t know if Max was there, if he was hurting her or helping her. I sat back down and dropped my head between my knees, just for a moment, until I regained my equilibrium.

But when I raised my head, a few second later, the noise had stopped. No more banging or wailing . . . just silence. Had I dreamed it all? Were auditory hallucinations a side effect of the red wine–pot combo? I didn’t usually drink, and I rarely smoked the stimulating sativa strain at night. Perhaps it had all been a vivid, disturbing dream? I didn’t want to go prowling through the dark and silent house, searching for a scream that may not have happened. I lay down again, and soon, I was asleep.

? ? ?

When I awoke, the sun was high in the sky. I had overslept big-time. There would be no clean getaway; I would have to face Freya and Max. Finding my pants and shirt folded neatly on a wooden chair, I dressed and slipped into a nearby bathroom. I peed, splashed water on my face, and patted at my unruly hair. There was a green tinge to my complexion, but I knew it would soon be obliterated by the pink of embarrassment. Freya had offered me a glass of wine, and somehow, I’d ended up in a coma. It was humiliating. And would highlight the fact that I was too young, too childish, too inexperienced to be Freya’s friend.

She was at the kitchen window, wearing oversize sweats, her hair sexily unkempt. Her hands gripped a steaming mug of coffee as she stared out at the sparkling ocean view. She was so still, mesmerized by the beauty or just lost in thought. I wondered if I could sneak past her and leave without a word.

And then she turned. “ ’Morning, party girl.” There was an amused, mocking tone to her voice.

“’Morning,” I muttered, inching toward the front door. “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t normally drink. And I shouldn’t have smoked up.”

“Don’t worry, hon. We’ve all been there.” She walked toward the fancy espresso machine. “Coffee?”

My stomach churned. “No, thanks. I should go.”

“Okay,” she said breezily.

“Apologize to Max for me.”

“He’s out in the kayak. You have nothing to apologize for, but I’ll tell him when he gets back.”

I nodded and moved toward the door but stopped. There was something I had to ask.

“Last night . . . I thought I heard you scream.”

“Really?” she said, with a smirk. “You must have dreamed it. That pot was strong. I had crazy dreams all night.”

I had no choice but to believe her. And so I did.





7


For a few days, I was too ashamed to go to the pottery studio. I’d made a fool of myself, shown how immature and inexperienced I was. As I drove home after school one afternoon, not long after that crazy night, I felt a distinct sense of melancholy. My time with Freya had been the highlight of my mundane existence, and I’d ruined it. When I got home, I noticed the text messages. From her.

Are you coming today?

Is everything okay?

And then:

I miss you

A warmth spread through me as I read her words. I wasn’t used to being missed. When I’d spent the night in Freya’s guest room, my parents hadn’t even bothered to call me. Even though staying out all night was highly out of character, they had not panicked that I’d been in a car crash, mauled by a cougar, abducted by a pervert. That morning, when I’d finally shuffled into the house in my bedraggled state, my mom, my dad, and Gwen were having coffee in the kitchen.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” my mom said teasingly.

Gwen chimed in. “Uh-oh. The grad parties have begun!”

“Want some eggs?” my dad offered. “The amino acids will help your hangover.” He was a plumber by trade but considered himself something of an expert on the healing power of food.

My stomach churned. “No, thanks,” I grumbled. For my parents to think that my classmates would suddenly embrace me because the end of school was imminent just showed how clueless they were about my life. I hurried to my room.

But now, Freya was worrying about me, asking after my well-being, missing me. I was tempted to run out to my truck and drive directly to her studio, but it was getting late. So I texted back.