The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  “I danced my ass off,” Freya said, crunching her toast. “But I crashed not long after you did. Those ’shrooms were potent.”

  “They were,” I croaked. “I was really messed up.”

  “I noticed,” she teased. “They hit me hard, too. Sometimes, I can party all night on mushrooms. But these ones put me right to sleep.”

  My brow furrowed slightly. “What about the guys?”

  “They stayed up for a while, I think. When Max came to bed, he said Brian was passed out on the sofa.”

  I tried to slot the puzzle pieces into place, but my brain was spinning. If Freya had gone straight to sleep not long after I had, did that mean she hadn’t made love to my husband? Had Max come to my room while Brian snoozed on the couch? Had he told me we were having a couples’ swap to trick me into having sex with him? He seemed earnest and authentic, but not long ago he had broken a man’s neck. Manipulating a woman into sex was nothing compared to that. Not that I had presented much of a challenge. I’d been so hot for him, I’d been eager to believe his story.

  I looked at my friend shoveling eggs into her mouth like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Where are the guys now?” I asked.

  “They took the canoe out. They’ll be back in a half hour.”

  I couldn’t sit there for half an hour smelling Freya’s breakfast and pretending everything was normal. I needed to see my husband. I needed to go home. I needed to salvage my marriage. To tell him that I had made a terrible mistake. Unless… unless he had made the same mistake. But would Brian and Max take the boat out together if they had swapped wives last night? I felt sweaty, dizzy, and off-kilter. I stood.

  “I need coffee.”

  “God, I’m a terrible host.” Freya jumped up. “Latte? I have oat milk or regular milk.”

  “Finish your breakfast. I can make it.”

  But she was already hurrying to the kitchen, already digging in the fridge. “I’m full. And the coffee machine is a pain in the ass.”

  “I’ll have regular milk with it, please.”

  As Freya fiddled with the coffee maker, my confusion increased. My friend was completely comfortable, entirely casual. If she had slept with Brian, if she knew I’d slept with Max, wouldn’t there be some residual awkwardness? A modicum of guilt? But there was none.

  “Regular latte for Janey,” Freya said, imitating a Starbucks barista.

  “Thanks.” I smiled despite myself and sipped the milky coffee, hoping to clear my head. I was still unclear on the nights’ events, but I knew one thing: I would never take magic mushrooms again. They had messed with my judgment, skewed my moral compass, and left me in a haze of confusion and regret.

  “Let’s have our coffee on the deck,” Freya said. “The sun is gorgeous.”

  I followed her onto the expanse of cedar where a large, white (of course) outdoor sofa was covered with dusky blue throw pillows. We settled into our seats, sipping our lattes and watching the morning sun sparkle off the bright blue water. Freya closed her eyes, held her face up to bask in the rays. She was smiling slightly, at peace, content.

  “Freya,” I began, my voice strangled by the thickness in my throat. But I had to know what we had done last night.

  She opened her blue eyes. “There they are!” she said, pointing to the canoe in the distance. She stood up and waved. The two figures in the boat waved back, then resumed their paddling. As they glided toward us, I studied my husband’s expression. Max and Freya may have been untroubled by a sexual swap, but I knew my partner. If Brian had slept with Freya, if he knew I’d had sex with Max, he would have felt even worse than I did.

  But Brian appeared to be immersed in the rugged beauty around him. He looked placid and content, not upset, jealous, or angry. Max’s expression was blank, harder to read. He seemed singularly focused on the physical action of propelling them to shore. I was the only one among us experiencing confusion and turmoil.

  Freya sat back down and smiled at me. “I’m so glad we met you guys.”

  “Me too,” I said, and my voice shook. Because I meant it, with all my heart. Freya was my salvation, my new life, my fresh start. She and Max were our best friends. Whatever I had done the night before—whatever we had done—didn’t matter. We couldn’t lose them.

  “What were you going to say before?”

  I forced a smile and shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  20

  Letting go of that night was easier said than done. My guilt consumed me, destroying my appetite and my sleep. At work, I was groggy and out of sorts. I would catch Low watching me, her eyes narrowed, mouth in a grim line, like she knew what we had done. But she couldn’t have. I didn’t even know for sure. At night, I woke in a pool of sweat, confused and aroused by vivid dreams of Maxime Beausoleil. I googled magic mushrooms flashback and found out it was a thing. Was I destined to be tortured by memories of making love to my best friend’s husband?

  Meanwhile, Brian seemed relatively normal. If he had been unfaithful to me, it would have shown on his face, manifested itself in his behavior. I was on high alert for any changes in his actions or mood, but he seemed his usual cheerful self. One day, he popped into the shop to say hi.

  “Did you get your hair cut?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He touched his exposed ears. “I needed a trim.”

  “It looked fine before,” I said, feeling a stab of jealousy. Who was he trying to impress—Freya? Was she a sucker for a tidy haircut? Max’s hair was quite long, but maybe she wanted something different on her side guy.

  Brian looked puzzled. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to go to the barber.”

  “You don’t.” I smiled and tried to cover. “I just like it a little longer.”

  Low skulked by us then. I thought I saw a flicker of amusement on her face, but I must have imagined it.

  I’d canceled my forest walks with Freya that week, claiming I had to do inventory. I wasn’t ready to be alone with her in such a private setting, wasn’t ready to have the conversation that needed to be had. I had slept with her husband, and I needed to know if she had slept with mine. But I was a mess: jealous, confused, riddled with regret.… I needed clarity. The only person who could give it to me, without risking a relationship, was Max. But how could I get to him alone?

  And then, eight days after that fateful night, I saw my opportunity. It was a Wednesday, often our slowest day of the week. Low and I were puttering around the shop when I saw Freya’s white Range Rover pass by. I moved to the window and watched her pull into a parking space in front of the day spa. She got out of the car, in her ball cap and sunglasses, and headed inside.

  “Low, I need to run an errand,” I said, adrenaline surging through my body. “Can you hold down the fort for an hour or so?”

  “Sure.”

  I practically ran to my car. If Freya was having a facial, I had an hour-and-a-half window. If she was having a pedi, it was more like forty-five minutes. I raced toward her home, knowing this was my chance to catch Max alone. He could tell me what really happened that night. If Brian had slept with Freya it would be painful to hear. If he hadn’t, my guilt would be compounded. But anything was preferable to my current muddled state.

  Pulling up behind Max’s black SUV, I scurried to the house. I was shaky, sweating, and I stumbled on the concrete steps, but that didn’t slow me down. Clambering to the door, I rang the bell and waited, my heart hammering in my ears. I would finally know the truth about that night, one way or another. When Max didn’t answer, I rang again, and again, stabbing the button repeatedly. Still, no one came.

  Fuck… Fuck, fuck, fuck. Max’s car was there, so he couldn’t be far. Maybe he was in the shower. Or out in the kayak, or windsurfing. I would go down to the beach and look for him, wave him to shore. If he wasn’t too far out, we’d still have time to talk before Freya returned. As I was making my way toward the water, I remembered Freya mentioning Max’s motorcycle. If he’d gone for a ride, he might not be back for
hours. Damn it.

  The sound of a door closing behind me stopped me in my tracks. I turned to see Max exiting the garage wearing a wet suit. Well, half a wet suit. The top of the neoprene garment hung around his waist, leaving his massive chest and shoulders bare. His hair was wet, slicked back from his face. He was a ridiculously attractive man, but I felt no lust, no attraction as I hurried toward him. All I wanted from him was the truth about what happened that night.

  “Jamie,” he said, clearly surprised to see me. “Freya’s not here.”

  “I know that,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I was about to say that no, I wasn’t okay. I was troubled, stressed, confused… And then I saw them. Those four precise puncture marks above his right nipple. I had felt them as I ran my hands over his body, as I kissed him, as I made love to him. It all came flooding back to me in a rush of heat and remorse.

  “What happened that night?” I said, my voice barely a whisper, my face burning.

  He let a heavy breath out through his nose, his handsome face troubled. “I’m sorry. I thought—” But he didn’t finish his sentence because we both heard it; a vehicle was approaching. Seconds later, Freya’s white SUV pulled up and stopped beside his dark model.

  “Hey, you,” she chirped to me, hopping out of the Range Rover. “What are you doing here?” In her hand was a small bag from the day spa.

  “Finally finished inventory,” I said. “I thought I’d sneak away for a quick cup of tea with you.”

  “Great. Come on in.”

  But I couldn’t. Because I knew what I had done with her husband, and yet, I was still wondering what she had done with mine. I needed clarity… But not from Freya.

  “Low just texted,” I lied, already moving to my car. “The burglar alarm is going off and she put in the wrong code. It’s locked up. I’ve got to help her.”

  “Oh no,” Freya said. “Let’s get together soon. We can all have dinner.”

  “Yes. Definitely.” A quick wave to Max, then I backed up and peeled out of the driveway.

  * * *

  My husband was in his office, working on his manuscript… if staring at the screen while he stretched his arms overhead could be considered working on it.

  “I’m plotting,” he always said, when I caught him staring at the floor or the ceiling or even his phone. He swiveled in his chair when I walked in.

  “Hey, babe. What are you doing home?”

  I hurried toward him and knelt beside him. “You know I love you. No matter what.”

  He gave me a bemused smile. “I love you, too.”

  “I’m going to ask you something. And I want you to be honest with me.”

  “Okay.”

  “The other night…” My voice faltered. “Did anything happen between you and Freya?”

  “Anything like what?” Brian rolled his chair back a few inches. “What are you getting at?”

  I cleared the knot from my throat. “I went to bed so early. I just wondered… if… you guys…”

  “God, Jamie. We were on mushrooms not ecstasy.” He rolled forward and took me by the shoulders. “You know I have never wanted to be with anyone else. Since the day I met you… you’re the only one for me.”

  Looking into his warm hazel eyes, I saw his sincerity. And I hated myself. “Sorry.” I sat back on my heels. “I guess the drugs made me paranoid.”

  He kissed my forehead. “You don’t need to worry about me.” Then he swiveled back to face his manuscript.

  So now I knew the truth. I had not participated in a consensual couples’ swap; I had betrayed my husband and my best friend. I should have spun Brian’s chair around to face me, should have told him what Max and I had done, but I was a coward. Instead, I got up, went to the kitchen, and poured a glass of water. I gulped it down, hoping to dilute my regret and self-loathing, but it didn’t work. Setting the empty glass on the counter, I gazed out the window at the waxy leaves of our camelia bush, its early pink blooms already dead and decomposing at its feet.

  Max Beausoleil had lied to me. He had tricked me and manipulated me. I should have been enraged, but I couldn’t blame this all on him. I knew how much I’d wanted him that night, how eager I’d been to believe what he told me. If I confronted him and accused him, it could damage his marriage to Freya. She claimed to be open-minded and sexually adventurous, but those were just words. There was no way she’d be chill about her husband bedding her best friend while she slept upstairs. She would hate Max. She would hate me. The thought filled me with dread.

  And Brian… Oh God, poor Brian. The thought of hurting him made my stomach ache.

  I made a decision, then. What Max and I had done was over. It did not need to be discussed, dissected, or analyzed. Dragging it into the light was not worth jeopardizing my marriage or my friendship. I loved Brian too much. I loved Freya too much. So, I buried it.

  Like a body.

  autumn 2019

  21 low

  On October 5, I came home to find Gwen, Janine, my dad, and a midwife wearing a white turban helping my mother give birth in a wading pool. I turned around and walked back out, drove into town, ate three slices of pepperoni at the pizza joint, got an ice cream cone, and savored it in my truck parked at the boat launch, then went to the convenience store for a slushie. Finally, when a couple of hours had passed, I drove home.

  “Meet your new baby brother,” my mom said, cuddling a mint-green bundle to her chest. “This is Eckhart.”

  “After Tolle,” my dad elaborated. Like there were other Eckharts the poor little bugger might be named after.

  He was very small and practically fuchsia and shriveled like a prune. I touched his soft cheek and his tiny hand. He grabbed my finger in his little fist and brought it to his mouth. He was cute. I might like this kid more than my other brothers. And then he started screaming. I didn’t realize then that he wouldn’t stop for four months.

  “It’s colic,” my mom said, as she bounced and jiggled the angry purple creature that was my brother. “He’ll grow out of it.”

  “When?”

  “Don’t start, Swallow! Don’t fucking start.” And then she burst into tears.

  I’d really misjudged my new sibling. I liked him even less than the other ones. What did he have to be so miserable about? He had my mom, my dad, and Gwen at his beck and call. They spent every moment of the day trying to make him comfortable: feeding him, burping him, changing him, swaddling him, swinging him, singing to him, and taking him for walks and car rides, even boat rides. Nothing pleased Eckhart. He was an asshole. An infant King Joffrey.

  To remove myself from the noise and chaos, I spent more and more time at the pottery studio. I had nowhere else to go. The tourist trade had dwindled with the summer and so had my employment. Jamie had apologized profusely, but she couldn’t afford to keep me on full-time. I only worked weekends now, or the occasional midweek shift if she had plans or was away. It was virtually impossible to find off-season employment on the island, but I had a plan.

  I had been working in the studio several days a week for seven months. My wheel work was passable, but I didn’t have Freya’s delicate touch, I couldn’t replicate her unique creations. But I’d discovered a talent for handwork, pinch pots to be precise. I had made a perfect little cup and then decided to add an oversize lid that made it look like a toadstool. It was a decorative, whimsical piece, but when you removed the cap, it was a perfect container for earrings, pills, or paper clips.

  “That is so adorable,” Freya had gushed. “If you make a few of these, I bet Jamie would sell them.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ll talk to her,” she said, with a wink. “I got you the job, didn’t I?”

  I let myself imagine a lucrative toadstool pinch-pot business. Jamie would sell them at her store, and eventually, I’d take a trip to the mainland and find some retailers there. Photography had been my favorite class at school, and I’d excelled at it. With
those skills and Freya’s social media expertise, we would build the brand online. They would take off, become a trend. I’d continue to make them by hand, each one unique, expensive, a collector’s item. I’d taken to adding intricate embellishments—a butterfly, a bumblebee, a caterpillar—so each piece was one-of-a-kind. I envisioned toadstool pinch-pot world domination.

  No one would work harder or longer than I would—24-7 if necessary. The studio was already my favorite place to be, and now, it had become my refuge. Unbeknownst to my hosts, I had been sleeping in the unfinished attic space. It was accessible through a trapdoor in the ceiling that had a drop-down ladder. The room was only about five feet high at its center, and I had to share it with a few dusty cardboard boxes, some bits of lumber, and a length of ductwork. But they made better roommates than Eckhart. (Since I no longer had to get up for school in the morning, my parents had decided I should share a room with my constantly wailing brother. They probably hoped it was the kick I needed to leave the nest.)

  I didn’t tell Freya and Max that I was spending most of my nights on their property. On some level, I must have known that setting up my sleeping bag and pillow in her studio space without permission was crossing boundaries. They might resent the lack of privacy, might think that spending my entire day at the studio and then the entire night in the attic justified them asking for some sort of rent. Part of me thought they’d be fine with it, might even offer me a piece of foam to sleep on or a bedside lamp. But I couldn’t risk it. So, around seven o’clock each evening, I went home for dinner and a shower. And then, at around eleven, when Eckhart’s nightly screamfest was well underway, I parked my truck on the side of the main road and slipped silently into my newfound attic bedroom. In the mornings, I rose early, ate a bagel or a doughnut or a croissant from a stash of breakfast food I’d left there, and cleaned up in the studio bathroom. Then I went straight to work building my pinch-pot empire.

  Freya usually joined me around ten, after her yoga class or power walk with Jamie. We puttered around the studio, throwing, firing, glazing, trimming… Now that she was so comfortable with me, Freya didn’t keep up her constant stream of chatter. In fact, some days, she barely said a word, seeming morose, or introspective. On others, she was crabby, stomping around, slamming down pieces, then cursing aloud when they chipped or broke. Seeing her vulnerability, her anger, her realness, didn’t make me adore her any less.