The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  What I had realized the most during her absence was that I missed her. Despite the toxic stew of emotions surrounding that night, Freya was the most vibrant, exciting person I had ever met. Without her, my life whittled down to Brian, whose mind was preoccupied with his novel; the store, which was struggling; and Low, who was… Low.

  And I couldn’t walk away from Freya’s baby. The poor little thing needed me. Freya knew nothing about infants or children, seemed remarkably naive and uninformed about the process of birthing and rearing a child. While she was fun, stylish, and cool, she was also self-absorbed, flighty, and irresponsible. She had told me, numerous times, that she was out of her depth and would need my help with the baby. And I believed her.

  I’d had several texts from her while she was in Mexico—breezy notes wishing I was there, wishing she could have a margarita, wishing she didn’t look like a “beached whale” in her bikini. She sent photos, too—belly shots mostly. She was also posting them on Instagram. Though I wasn’t very active on the platform, I’d noticed her photos and the outpouring of admiration they prompted. There were nasty comments, too, but the majority were supportive, adoring, worshipful.…

  My responses to Freya’s texts had been brief and ambiguous as I grappled with my feelings. I’d been too upset to confront her before she left, but as the date of her return approached, I found emotional clarity. I wanted Freya and the baby in my life, but there could be no more secrets, no more deception. We had to face our issues head-on.

  She texted me the day after they got home.

  I’m baaaaaaack. Coffee? Lunch? Drink?

  We needed privacy for this conversation; a place where we could be completely and utterly alone.

  Could you come by the store?

  Late January was a retail no-man’s land. Freya responded instantly.

  Will Low be there?

  My only employee had minimized the incident that led to her fallout with Freya. Her baby brother had been keeping her up at night, she’d told me, so she’d temporarily camped at the studio. A noise had woken her, and she’d rushed to the main house in concern only to find Freya and Max in the kitchen. A pottery bowl had broken, Freya had cried out in dismay. It sounded so benign, but Freya had been incensed by the invasion of privacy. Low had to have seen more than she was letting on.

  I was certain that Low had caught Freya and Max in flagrante in the kitchen. My friend may have been sexually provocative, but she was not an exhibitionist. And she was pregnant. That would have made her feel more vulnerable. Freya was vain about her appearance. She must have been mortified and embarrassed, so she had cut Low off. What else could it have been?

  I texted her back.

  We’re closed Tuesdays. I want to talk to you. Alone.

  As I hit SEND, a frisson of foreboding traveled through me. If Freya could excise Low from her life over a misunderstanding, she could do the same to me.

  * * *

  Freya arrived at the store dressed in white to set off her tan. Her bump had grown in the six weeks since I’d seen her. It rode on her tiny frame like a perky basketball. Her hair looked even blonder; her eyes even bluer. On her arm was a bulging canvas bag that she set on the counter before sweeping me into a long, genuine hug.

  “God, I missed you.” She had a way of expressing intense, even intimate sentiments in a casual, offhand way. “And the baby missed you, too.”

  She placed my hand on her taut belly. There was nothing for a moment, and then I felt it move. Freya’s child was rolling over, shifting position, letting me know he or she was there. A host of tangled emotions filled my chest. I already loved this baby.

  “Wow,” I whispered.

  “I brought you something.” From the bag, she extracted a bundle of newspapers. Inside was nestled an exquisite piece of hand-painted Mexican pottery.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I saw it and thought of you right away,” she said. “I was terrified it would break, so I brought it as extra carry-on luggage. I had to charm the flight attendant to let me keep it in my lap.”

  I was touched by her thoughtfulness. “Thanks,” I said, my voice husky. But I couldn’t forget that she had manipulated my husband into her bed. “Have a seat.” I indicated the stool behind the counter. “We need to talk.”

  “Sure.” She perched, like a little pregnant bird, on the edge of it. “What’s up?”

  I took a deep breath. “I know you slept with Brian.”

  “And you slept with Max.”

  My cheeks burned with humiliation. “Yes, but you told Brian that I was bored with him. And desperate to have sex with someone else.”

  “That’s what you told me, Jamie. That day when we were walking in the forest.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You said you had wanted to be with other people and have other sexual experiences, but you and Brian got together so young.”

  “That didn’t mean I wanted to swap husbands!”

  “So you didn’t enjoy it?”

  My face was practically on fire now. “I—I didn’t say that. But my husband is hurt and upset.”

  “He seemed to be having a good time to me.”

  Jesus, she could be mean. My voice wavered as I continued. “And then you got pregnant. Brian was… concerned.”

  “The baby’s not his,” she snapped, hopping off the stool. “I showed him a dated ultrasound photo.”

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me? Why sneak around behind my back?”

  “That was Brian’s idea,” she said darkly. “He said it would hurt you too much if he got me pregnant, and not you.”

  My chest constricted and my throat closed. Even the suggestion of it hurt.

  “Look,” Freya retorted, “I was trying to do something nice for you. I don’t appreciate being treated like some kind of villain for spicing up your stale marriage.”

  “It wasn’t stale,” I said, but my words wobbled.

  “If you and Brian are too uptight to handle what we did, or if you’re too jealous that I’m having a baby, we don’t have to be friends.”

  “I want to be friends,” I said quickly. “Brian’s just… still feeling raw about what happened that night. But he’ll get over it. He just needs a little break from you guys.”

  It felt like a betrayal of my husband, but it was also true. Freya’s friendship was so valuable to me, that I would deal with my issues immediately. Brian would take more time.

  But Freya was angry. “I think we could all use a break.” She snatched up the empty canvas bag. “Enjoy your new vase.”

  I watched my only friend storm out of my store and out of my life, the emptiness already making my stomach ache.

  35 low

  Thompson had fulfilled his mission. He had reached out to Freya, and she had contacted me. I took a sip of kombucha, leaned back on my bed, and read Freya’s message for the twelfth time.

  Love your photos @The_Hawkeye_61. I’m a local influencer looking to take my page to the next level. Interested in a partnership?

  Partnership. I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but I liked the sound of it. Freya and I would be a team. I’d portray her as a wholesome, maternal beauty; rebuild her brand as a pure, angelic Madonna. No one would care about the dead hockey player, the illegal hit, the ugly lawsuit. Freya would get more money and swag, bigger and better sponsorships. And in return, I’d get… what? More followers? A free camera? I didn’t care about any of that. I just wanted to be close to her again. I wrote back.

  Would love to discuss. Can we meet?

  Within seconds she had invited me to her home.

  I debated whether I should reveal my identity before I turned up at her house. What would she do when she saw me on her doorstep? She was capable of extreme anger, even violence. But Freya wouldn’t physically attack me. I’d spent months analyzing the scene I’d witnessed in her kitchen that night and concluded that Max must have deserved her wrath. He must have done something cruel and horrible, may have even hit
her. Freya wouldn’t throw crockery at me or chase me with a barbecue fork. But there were other ways she could hurt me… with her words and disdain.

  But if I revealed myself through a message, she might shut me down instantly. She could block me from her Instagram page, and I would lose all access to her. It wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. With my heart in my throat, I drove to her house. I parked my truck behind her Range Rover and walked, on spaghetti legs, to the front door.

  Freya answered the bell seconds after I rang it. She looked gorgeous with her tanned skin and white-blond hair, her face fuller from the pregnancy. It made her appear softer and sweeter. But the smile flew from her lips, and her blue eyes narrowed at me. She looked like a very pretty, very pregnant viper, ready to strike.

  “What are you doing here, stalker?”

  “I-I’m the photographer,” I stammered, “I’m Hawkeye Sixty-one. It’s me.”

  There was a brief pause where I could almost see her slotting the pieces into place. “Oh my god,” she said with a disdainful sneer.

  “You’ve seen my page,” I said quickly. “I’m good. Really good. I’m the best photographer on this island.” I didn’t know if this was true, but then neither did Freya. “And I want to help you.”

  Her expression remained stony, but she didn’t slam the door in my face, so I kept going. “I’ve created some Instagram presets just for you. And I’ve gotten really good at using Lightroom. I can turn you into a work of art, Freya. I can make your page cohesive and professional and mind-blowing. You’ll get a million followers. Even more.”

  There was a spark of interest in her eyes, but they remained wary. I knew what I had to do, what I had to say. Swallowing my fear, I apologized.

  “I’m sorry about before. I should never have slept in the studio without your permission. And I shouldn’t have… spied on you and Max. On your… argument.”

  Freya folded her arms. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  “I screwed up. I know that. I will never cross your boundaries again. I’ll totally respect your privacy.”

  Her eyes were like ice, but my cheeks burned under her gaze. I could feel sweat on my forehead and upper lip, as I wrapped up my pitch.

  “I want us to be creative partners. I don’t need money or credit. I just want to take beautiful photographs of you and make your Instagram amazing. Together, we can take you to the next level. Everyone will forget all the bad stuff that happened, and you’ll be a huge star.”

  She inhaled through her nose, her swollen chest and belly rising as she deliberated. I stood before her, my pulse pounding in my ears. If Freya turned me down, that would be it. There would be no more chances.

  Then she dropped her arms and took a step back. “Come in.”

  And just like that, I was back where I had longed to be for three months.

  36

  Februarys are long and wet in our part of the world, so we took a lot of photos indoors. This served double duty in showing off the beauty of Freya and her magnificent home. My subject hoped she’d capture the attention of some interior-design magazines. She was keen for a feature on her stunning abode. Freya had already received a new sofa in exchange for three tagged photos featuring it. I photographed her curled up on it, in pajamas, reading a Deepak Chopra book I’d borrowed from Gwen. (Freya had requested a prop that would make her look “deep”). In another, she featured the stain-resistant technology by holding a large bowl of chocolate ice cream that I ended up eating. In the third, I shot her naked, a blanket strategically covering all but her shoulders, legs, and belly. (This also satisfied the requirements of the pricey skin-care company sending her boxes of body lotion.)

  Though I was the photographer, Freya was the art director. “Move closer. I don’t want my feet in the photo,” she instructed me. Or “Stand on my left. I have a zit on my right cheek.” She inspected the photos as we went, insisting I delete or edit any unflattering shots. “Why would you shoot me from that angle?” she’d gripe. “I look morbidly obese.” She didn’t, of course, but perhaps my infatuation was messing with my critical eye. To me, she was perfection in every image.

  She wasn’t always bossy and demanding. She could be inquisitive and considerate, too. One day, as I shot her at the breakfast table eating plant-based protein patties couriered to her in a portable cooler (the same kind used to transport donated organs), she asked after Eckhart.

  “How’s your baby brother doing?” Her lips barely moved as she held a forkful of patty to her glossy mouth.

  “He’s good. Now that he’s finally over his colic.”

  “What’s colic?”

  Jesus. She was in for a rude awakening. I lowered the camera. “It’s when a baby screams its head off for weeks, or in Eckhart’s case, months, for no apparent reason.”

  Freya made a face like she’d actually eaten the unpleasant patty. “Does every baby get that?”

  “No. My other brothers were pretty happy. I think Leonard had it for a couple of weeks, which was pretty manageable.”

  “How do you make it stop?”

  “Sometimes swaddling helps. Or a walk or a car ride. But I think you just have to let it pass.”

  “You know a lot about babies, don’t you?”

  Enough to know I don’t want any, I was about to say, but then thought better of it. Freya was in too deep, and there was only one way out now. She was going to give birth to a baby who would poop and scream and puke and whine and keep her up all night. I didn’t want to scare her. Or scare her more. So I said, “With three younger siblings, I guess I’ve picked up a few tips.”

  Freya dropped the fork, signaling that our shoot was over. “I’m really going to need you after the baby’s born.”

  My jaw clenched as she took the plate and dumped the patties into the trash. I’d spent my life around the stinking little creatures, but that didn’t mean I liked them. Especially this one. Freya’s baby was sure to be adorable, wrapping both its parents around its teeny finger. It would turn them into pathetic, lovestruck sycophants, responding to its every whimper, indulging its every whim. Like some prehistoric giant squid, it would suck up all its parents’ time and energy. I already resented the thing.

  But I liked the thought of Freya needing me. So I said nothing.

  37 jamie

  Freya had said we needed a break. But how long did that mean? It had been almost three weeks since I’d confronted her about the couples’ swap. Freya had to be missing me, too. Like me, she had no other friends on the island, only acquaintances. She had to be craving my companionship as much as I craved hers. Didn’t she?

  I would wait another week before I reached out. A month would have passed then; enough time to let all anger, resentments, and jealousies go. My reason for contacting Freya was two-fold. I missed her. But I also needed to order more of her pieces for the store. Business would pick up in a few months, and Freya’s pottery was among my bestselling items. With the baby coming, she wouldn’t have much time at the wheel.

  But mostly, I just missed her.

  Freya needed me, too. Her due date was rapidly approaching, and I felt she was woefully unprepared for the birth and the baby. If she’d read the baby books I’d given her, she’d have known what to expect, but she’d pronounced them both “gross” and “boring.” It was almost like she was in denial about what was to come.

  About a month after she’d shared her pregnancy news with me, she’d asked me to be present at the birth. “I don’t have a sister. And my mom is a lunatic. I want you there with me.”

  “I’d be honored,” I said, touched.

  “Besides,” she chirped, “I’m going to be knocked out on drugs. You can tell me what happened.”

  I’d laughed, but I wasn’t sure she was joking. Could the island’s small hospital provide the level of sedation Freya was anticipating? Did they even have an anesthesiologist on staff? I had suggested that Freya and I sit down with her doctor and prepare a birthing plan. She’d promised we would after s
he returned from Mexico. But shortly after, she’d cut me off. For her sake, I hoped she’d done one without me.

  While I felt lonely and blue, my husband’s outlook had improved. His exercise had become less manic, and, between marathon phone calls with his editor, he was writing again. Brian was happy that Freya and I had fallen out. He didn’t say so outright, but it was obvious in his chipper mood. And in his suggestions that I replace her with a new friend.

  “Why don’t you join a running club? Or take a watercolor class? It would be good for you to meet some new people.”

  “I don’t have time for running and painting,” I retorted. “I’ve got to do my ordering and scheduling before business picks up at spring break.”

  It was an excuse. I had plenty of time to take up a new hobby, but I didn’t want to act on my husband’s suggestions. On some level, I blamed him for the loss of my best friend. It was Brian’s jealousy and insecurity that had severed my relationship with Freya. I appreciated his devotion to me. I was grateful for his loyalty. But Freya, Max, and I might have been able to close the door on the whole swapping incident and put it behind us. Brian was the one who couldn’t get over it.

  So, I bided my time, working at the store, going for long solo walks in the forest, reading. I had little human contact other than Brian. Of course, I had to respond to the artisans who contacted me, asking, in vain, if any of their products had sold. I dealt with the sprinkling of customers who dropped in for a birthday or housewarming gift. And Low worked with me every Saturday, although my introverted employee did little to assuage my loneliness.