The Swap Page 3
“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.
5 maxime beausoleil
I didn’t know the tall, gangly teen drinking wine in our living room, but I didn’t want her there. Freya shouldn’t have been serving alcohol to a kid. And she shouldn’t have been smoking pot with one, either. (I could smell it, even from the second floor.) We’d had enough trouble and controversy. We couldn’t handle any more without coming apart. But Freya had always liked to be adored, craved it even.
When I first met her, I didn’t know she was famous. She was beautiful and effervescent, like expensive champagne. Back when I drank, I was a beer guy, but no one can turn down really good bubbly. She was a social media celebrity, an influencer. I wasn’t on social media, didn’t even know that you could make money that way. But Freya had turned posting about nightclubs and clothes, workouts and makeup into a lucrative career.
We met at a charity fundraiser in Beverly Hills. I was with the LA Kings then, and the whole team was there. I believed in giving back, in using my celebrity to raise money and awareness for important causes, but I was never comfortable at these events. I grew up in a small town in the Yukon with a population under fifteen hundred; LA was like another planet. And people acted weird around me. Grown men turned into excited little boys. Women fawned and flirted. That fundraiser was for a children’s hospice, so I pushed my unease aside. I like kids, and the thought of them getting sick, even dying, hurt my heart. So I was standing on the lawn of this mansion, soaking my lips in a sickly signature cocktail, when she approached me.
“You’re obviously one of the Kings,” she said. “You any good?”
This was early in my career, before I was written off as the team enforcer, the muscle, the vigilante. I was a physical player, but also a strong face-off man with a powerful slap shot, so I said, “Yep.”
“I’d better get a photo with you then.”
I obliged, letting her nestle under my arm, holding her phone out as instructed. She curled herself into me, smiling coyly at the camera. She was transformed on the screen; polished and pouty and perfect. I thought she was more beautiful in real life, when she was animated and real. After I snapped a couple of photos, she took back her phone.
She looked at the images. “We look good together.” She didn’t seem to require a response, so I didn’t give her one. Her eyes were on the screen, her fingers tapping on the keyboard. “What’s your name?”
“Maxime Beausoleil. My friends call me Max.”
“Are you on Insta, Max?
“No.”
She looked up then. “Are you a caveman or something?”
She was condescending, borderline rude. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I found it attractive.
“I get enough attention,” I said.
Her eyes roved over me. “I’ll bet you do.”
She tapped away at the device again and then proffered it to me. I looked at the photo of the two of us. I was smiling, ever so slightly. I hadn’t even realized it. And then I read the caption:
Just met my future husband.
And that was it. We were together.
Women have always been attracted to me. I’m tall and fit. My face is handsome, except for the long scar that now slices across my upper lip, a constant reminder of the stick to the face that changed everything. Freya used to say it was sexy, it made me look like a warrior. But it’s been a long time since she’s said that. And, of course, I have money. Not as much as I used to, but still… a lot. When I first started playing, I gave in to the attention. I thought it was harmless. But I learned the hard way, how much trouble a one-night stand can cause.
So I was ready for a relationship, tired of flings and hookups. Freya and I were good together. We looked the part. We had physical chemistry and common interests (like fitness and nutrition). And we complemented each other. I was quiet; Freya was talkative. I was big; she was tiny. I was organized; she was flighty.
But there was a darkness inside of me, a violence that I’d always struggled to contain. The steroids made it worse, but there were plenty of guys in the league who took them and didn’t maim anyone. During that fateful game, Ryan Klassen hit me in the mouth with an intentional high stick, and I saw red. I wanted to hurt him. Maybe I even wanted to kill him, just for a moment. When I went back on the ice, I slammed him headfirst into the boards. I thought I’d get a penalty, maybe a game misconduct. I didn’t know I’d ruin his life. And my life. And Freya’s.
She would never forgive me, and rightly so. I didn’t deserve it. But that didn’t mean I’d stop trying to make it up to her.
Freya knew that. And she used it.
6 low
I woke up sometime during the night. Or maybe it was early morning. It was dark outside the window, a crescent sliver of moon and an abundance of stars visible from where I lay. My mouth was dry and cottony and tasted liked I’d eaten a bale of that pink fiberglass insulation that people use in their attics. (Not that I’ve ever done such a gross thing, but I can assume that’s how it would taste.) It took a few seconds for the evening’s events to come back to me: Freya inviting me into her house; pouring me many glasses of red wine; introducing me to her big, hot, surly husband. I’d gotten drunk. And then I’d gotten stoned. I probably was still drunk and stoned, judging by my clouded brain and my queasy stomach.
My eyes grew 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.
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.
Got tied up at school. Can I come tomorrow?
Within a minute, she replied.
Of course! You can come anytime.
And then, three heart emojis. Three.
With a small smile on my face, I turned off my phone.
* * *
When I arrived at the studio the next day, Freya didn’t mention my drunken performance, or the scream I had heard (or dreamed). She acted like the night had never happened, chatting breezily about a movie she’d watched recently, and a fish pie Max had made for their dinner. Since our cocktail party, she seemed to take an interest in me. Or, more accurately, an interest in my living situation.
“I’m so glad you opened up to me about your family,” she began, as we pulled our works-in-progress from the drying shelves. “I think polyamory is really modern and evolved. Monogamy isn’t easy. In fact, it’s impossible for some of us.”
For some of us?
“My parents cheated on each other constantly,” she continued. “And they’d get so fucking jealous. Once,” she said, moving to the open door to sand a vase in preparation for glazing, “my mom tried to run my dad’s mistress down with her car.”
“Jesus.”
“She missed her, thank God. Drove into the side of the restaurant.” She set down the sandpaper. “You’re lucky that your parents are mature enough, and self-confident enough to have sex without all the possessiveness and ego.”
She had a point. The free-loving adults in my life never tried to run each other over. So, I said, “I guess.”
Freya resumed her vigorous sanding. “How do you know which guy is your dad?”
“My parents were monogamous when I was born.” I was at the wheel attempting to trim the bottom of a vase. The clay was too dry, causing it to flake and chip under my tool. “Vik and Gwen joined the family when I was about five. Plus, Vik’s Indian. If he were my dad, my complexion wouldn’t look like skim milk.”
“Your skin is alabaster,” Freya said, causing me to flush with delight.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if my dad wasn’t actually my dad,” she continued. “I was going to do one of those DNA tests, but if he found out I wasn’t his, he’d be angry. And what if my real dad was the pool boy or something? Or worse… an agent!”
I chuckled, though I knew nothing about agents.
“Besides, if things with Max and me don’t work out, I’m going to need my rich daddy.”
My carving tool gouged the clay, and I stopped the wheel. Were there problems in Freya’s marriage? Was there a possibility that she and her husband would separate? They looked so perfect together. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever leave a man like Max. Or a woman like Freya.
She didn’t seem to notice my physical reaction. “When you get older, will you have an open relationship?”
My response was instant. “No.”
She looked up from her project.
“I want to be treasured,” I said. “I want to be someone’s one and only.”
Freya seemed taken aback by my vehement response. I couldn’t blame her. Given my lack of romantic experience and prospects, it was surprising that I’d given the question previous thought. But I had. I’d given it a lot of thought.
Despite my lack of partners and sexual interest, I was still consumed by romantic notions. I’ll admit I fantasized about Freya. And, sometimes, about Max. My attraction was aesthetic (I wanted to drink in their beauty) and sensual (I longed to cuddle and hold Freya; to be held a
nd cuddled by Max). One day, I might develop sexual arousal, but what I wanted, now, was a significant other, someone who would adore me, worship me, and possess me.
I’d had to share all my life. I was done with it.
8
In June, I graduated from high school. The ceremony was held in the school gym, decorated with crepe paper streamers and rosettes in our school colors, navy and gold. My entire family was in attendance. From my vantage point on the stage, I could see them: my pregnant mother; my dad; Gwen and her lover Janine; Vik; and my brothers, Leonard and Wayne, filling an entire row of folding chairs. My heart pounded with dread as I waited to receive my diploma. When my turn came, I would have to walk across the stage, shake hands with Principal Graph and pose for a photo. I hoped my entourage wouldn’t clap too loudly, whistle, or cheer, thus drawing attention to their numbers. I felt guilty for being ashamed of them, but I was.
And then there was the issue of my name. My full name that would be announced as I crossed the stage to receive my diploma. As the story goes, the precise moment I slid from my mother’s womb into the tepid paddling pool set up in our cluttered living room, a tiny blue bird had alighted on the windowsill.
“Look.” My mom pointed at it with a trembling hand.
My father saw it, too. “Is it a robin? A sparrow?”
If only.
The doula placed my slippery, squirming body on my mother’s chest.
“It’s a swallow,” she said. “I’ve never seen one perch on a windowsill before. They usually prefer wires or fences.”
Oh, the poignancy! They knew. They just knew. My parents considered themselves artistic, spiritual beings. They convinced themselves that calling me after this little bird was poetic, when really, it was just literal. And kind of lazy.
As a kid, I liked my name. Being named for a bird was unique. I read up on swallows, focusing on their positive attributes like their streamlined shape and their ability to fly all the way to Mexico in the winters. I ignored less-appealing factoids like the property damage caused by their habit of pooping off the edge of the mud nests they built on the side of homes and barns. (Really, this was a sign of a very clean bird, but I still didn’t like to focus on it.) Bird imagery became a personal theme, its form appliqued onto my lunch box, my backpack, and the sleeve of my denim jacket.