The Swap Page 16

  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 quivering 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—”

  My mom cut him off, blurting. “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.

  “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 #backtog
ether #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 you.” 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.”

  I was relieved my parents hadn’t contacted her, but… “Why?”

  “I’m fat and disgusting. I don’t want people to see me like this.”

  “You’re still beautiful,” I assured her. “Just in a different way.”

  She ignored the compliment, wiping her hands on a towel. “Why would your mom call me?”

  I lowered myself onto a stool facing her. “My parents kind of freaked out on me today. It was about you.” I saw her brow crinkle. “They think we’re like… lovers or something.” My delivery was tinged with incredulous humor, but my cheeks were burning, my pulse racing. Just saying the word lovers prompted a mixture of embarrassment and delight.

  Freya laughed. “Oh, shit. Really?”

  It was a joke to her. She couldn’t imagine being with me that way. But that kiss…

  “I know,” I covered. “I told them it wasn’t like that. That we’re just good friends. But they think our friendship is abnormal. And unhealthy.”

  She set down the cloth. “I can see their point.”

  What?

  “I’m so much older than you. I’m about to squeeze out a kid any second. Your parents are probably wondering why the hell you’re hanging out me.”

  Because you’re my best and only friend. Because we have a soul connection. Because you kissed me.

  Freya said, “If we don’t see each other for a while, they’ll cool off.”

  “I don’t care what they think,” I replied. “And I’m an adult. I do what I want.”

  She sighed. “I’m exhausted, Low. I need some time alone before all hell breaks loose. And this would give you a chance to spend some time with kids your own age.”

  She was dismissing me again. Sending me away with a smile. I watched as she detached the splash pan and headed for the bucket of clay refuse. She dumped the mud into the pail, then rinsed the tray in the sink. Her expression was weary but content, like we’d just had a normal conversation, like she hadn’t just stabbed me in the heart. She turned the water off and faced me.

  “And then, after the baby’s born, we can legitimize things.”

  I’m embarrassed to say that her words filled me with hope. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but as a girl raised by multiple parents, I knew there were possibilities. I could be Freya’s girlfriend. Or Freya and Max’s girlfriend. I’d only recently felt stirrings of sexual desire, but I wanted to be a part of this. Whatever this was.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and… I’d like you to be our nanny.”

  Fuck.

  She smiled at me as she pumped lotion into her hands, worked it between her fingers. “We’re so comfortable with you. And you know so much about babies. We’d pay you, of course. And then your parents couldn’t be upset.”

  What I felt in that moment was a disappointment so crushing I could scarcely breathe. For the first time, I knew the truth. Freya didn’t see me as a friend or a soul mate. She viewed me as an employee. A kid she could hire to take care of her brat while she worked out and got her nails done and hiked/drank wine/had lunch with her real friend, Jamie. Her #bestfriend. I was not an emotional person, not prone to tears and outbursts, but I felt my chin wobble.

  She was watching me, waiting for a response. I would tell her that I knew the truth about her baby’s father. I would demand that she let me move in with her, insist that she treat me like a friend, an equal. Freya would be angry at first—I knew this about her. She would scream and yell, throw pottery at me or even slap me. But then she would take me back. She’d have no choice.

  But she wouldn’t love me; not the way I wanted to be loved.

  “You’re hurt,” Freya said.

  She knew me after all. She could read my pain.

  Freya moved toward me. “I still want you to be my photographer, Low. We’ll still do our photo shoots when you’re not taking care of the baby. You can take pictures of the kid, too. You’ll be my nanny and my artistic partner.”

  I croaked a single word in response. “Okay.”

  “Thank God.” Freya smiled at me, a bright, genuine smile. “Max and I were starting to freak out a bit.” She placed her clean hands on her bump and sighed. “Will you post the video for me? I need to go lie down.”

  I wouldn’t see her again for three weeks.

  47 jamie

  It could have been the promise of spring in the air, the crocuses peeping their sleepy heads aboveground, tightly furled buds appearing on the naked trees. It might have been the slight uptick in business as tourists came to the island for long weekends, braving the still unpredictable weather and sporadic ferry schedule. But I knew that my positive outlook and lightened mood were due to my reunion with Freya. Everything else was just gravy.

  She had invited me to lunch and put my world to rights. As it turned out, she had been pining for reconciliation as much—if not more so—than I had.

  “I really missed you this past month,” she said. “I actually considered moving back to LA.”

  “Oh my god,” I gasped. “I thought about going back to Vancouver.”

  Freya grasped my hand and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry for what happened that night. I was wrong to disrespect your values. Let’s forget about everything and never fall out again.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  “Thank God.” She leaned back in her chair and rested her hands on her belly. “The baby and I need you.”

  My throat clogged, and my eyes got moist. “I need you, too.” The show of emotion was embarrassing but real. Before I could fall
apart entirely, the doorbell rang, allowing me to compose myself. Freya returned shortly.

  “It was just Low,” she explained with a roll of her eyes. “She’s a very enthusiastic photographer.”

  I’d been jealous of Low and Freya, but not anymore. Low was just a kid with a crush; I could see that now. Freya and I were grown women.

  “Poor girl,” I said, feeling for my awkward assistant. “I hope she can find some friends her own age.”

  “I know,” Freya agreed, tucking into her salad. “I’ve been pushing her in that direction. It’s for her own good.”

  “It is,” I said. But I knew it would be hard for Low to make new friends when her world seemed to revolve around photographing Freya.

  Our level of intimacy had not been damaged by our recent estrangement. In fact, we were even closer after we reunited. No subjects were taboo anymore, nothing needed to be hidden or avoided. Our husbands may have felt differently (I know mine did), but I no longer cared if we were “couple friends.” Our female friendship was all that mattered.

  We texted constantly. Freya was open and funny. She felt like an elephant. She had terrible gas. She was horny but couldn’t stand to be touched. When the store was closed, we met for leisurely strolls or lunch at the Blue Heron. It was easier to meet on neutral territory. But one Saturday, Freya summoned me to her house on my lunch break.

  “Can you come over? I’m so bored, but I’m too fat to get dressed.”

  When Low skulked into the store at eleven, I took my leave. I didn’t tell her where I was going, but she knew. I could see it in her narrowed eyes, her tense posture. And like Low, I had no one else but Freya.

  I’d picked up Buddha bowls for us, and Freya opened a bottle of rosé. “The baby’s basically cooked,” she said, as she poured herself a small glass. “A bit of wine won’t hurt it.” A May due date meant she was early into her third trimester. I’d read so many books on gestation that I would have abstained completely if I were expecting. But I wasn’t about to object. As close as I felt to her, I was still afraid of setting her off.