The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  One Saturday, she seemed marginally more upbeat. “Can I leave a bit early today?” she asked, as she was wiping a shelf of scented candles in mason jars. “I want to get some backlit photos of Freya for her Insta.”

  “Oh…” I cleared the frog in my throat. “I didn’t know you two were friends again.”

  “Yep,” she said, her tone breezy. “It was all a misunderstanding.”

  “Great.”

  “We’re building Freya’s brand. I’ve been taking some amazing shots of her. She’s going to be more popular than she ever was.”

  Maybe Freya didn’t miss me? Maybe she was consumed by her Instagram celebrity, her days filled with photo shoots and sponsorship deals and swag deliveries?

  “So can I go?” Low asked. “The sun sets so early this time of year. If I leave here at five thirty, I’ll miss the light.”

  “Yeah, of course.” I forced a smile. “Unless it gets too busy, but I’m sure it won’t. I can handle things alone. And close up alone. It’s no problem. You go and get your sunset photos of Freya.”

  A small, triumphant smile twitched Low’s lips, but she pulled it back. “Thanks.” She returned to her dusting.

  As soon as Low left at five, I got out my phone and tapped the Instagram app. I hadn’t looked at Freya’s page since she returned from Mexico. To my surprise, she’d been posting daily. The photos—Low’s photos—were stunning, showing off Freya’s fecund beauty. My former bestie had been photographed in a kayak, against a backdrop of fir trees, lounging on a pebbled beach. She was promoting everything from sofas to breakfast food to skin-care products. Freya was back in the game that had turned on her and tossed her out.

  It was childish to feel jealous of my teenaged assistant, but I did. Low was in, and I was out; we had effectively traded places. It was Low who gave Freya what she needed now, who answered to her beck and call. Had Freya asked Low to help her with a birthing plan? To hold her hand and coach her through delivery? Would Low be there with her camera, taking photos of that precious moment?

  With a heavy lump in my chest, I closed up the store and drove home.

  38 low

  Jamie’s reaction proved what I had suspected: she and Freya were no longer friends. This should have delighted me. Other than Max, who floated on the periphery of our world like a spirit, I had Freya all to myself. But that damn baby was still on its way, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  What had Jamie done to make Freya angry enough to banish her? It didn’t take much, that I knew. I almost felt sorry for my employer, but Jamie was pretty, outgoing, charming. She’d move on, find another friend. For me, there was only ever Freya. And I was not going to screw up again. I was going to be everything that Jamie had ever been to her, and more. I’d make Freya need me, rely on me; I would become essential. Freya would never be able to cut me out of her life again.

  The object of my devotion was waiting for me, wearing one of Max’s flannel shirts and nothing else. The outfit was her idea, but I had to admit it fit perfectly with the milieu. Freya would stand on the deck, the setting sun and a blur of cedar trees behind her. A sexy, pregnant lumberjack. Freya came up with the witty captions, but I might suggest it.

  “Hurry,” she instructed, without so much as a hello. “We’re losing the light.”

  I followed her out to the deck, where she positioned herself at the railing and struck a pose: back arched, pregnant belly exposed, thigh bent to conceal her privates. Angling myself so the sun’s rays were just out of frame, I took a number of shots. With her fair hair and tanned skin glowing in the natural light, she looked like an angel. No, something fiercer and sexier. A fire goddess.

  “Why don’t we get Max to join you for a few shots?” I asked.

  I hadn’t seen Max in a while. He always seemed to be out on the water, out for a run, or away dealing with business matters. His presence still made me feel strangely feminine, but I was wearing my photographer’s hat. This was about getting a beautiful photo of the parents to be.

  “No. No more photos with Max,” Freya said. She moved forward and grabbed my camera. She scrolled through the images, deleting those that didn’t please her. “When I post photos with him, I get half the likes. And that’s when I get nasty comments. People still hate him. He’s a liability.”

  “Maybe you’d like a photo for yourselves,” I said. “You could get it framed.”

  Freya ignored the suggestion. “Once the baby is born, we can post one of those shirtless dad, naked baby photos. Gauge the reaction.” She raised her eyes to mine. “That is, if we’re still together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sighed as she handed the camera back to me. “I’ve been thinking about leaving him.”

  My stomach churned with panic. “Leaving him?”

  “Max has got a lot of demons. I know he’s trying to deal with them, but… I’m not sure he’s emotionally or physically present enough to be a father.”

  I swallowed. “But you’d stay here, right? On the island? With the baby?”

  Freya leaned back on the railing. She looked remarkably casual despite the gravity of her words. “I’ve been thinking about going back to LA. My dad’s there. I can hire a nanny and rebuild my career.”

  “You can do that here,” I blurted. “We’re taking great photos together. You’re getting more sponsorships. People love you again.”

  “My followers want the image,” she said. “The hair, the nails, the body. Facetune can only do so much. I won’t have time to take care of myself with the baby. And there are basically no domestic workers on the island. I can’t even get a housekeeper on a regular basis.”

  “Order a nanny from one of those foreign agencies,” I said. “There are women in war-torn countries who are desperate to come here. They can take care of the baby and cook and clean. Then you can work out. And go to the salon. And get your nails done. And we can do our photo shoots. We can do photos with you and the baby. Everyone will love you. And it.”

  Freya sighed, her eyes on me. “It would just be easier in LA.”

  “Please.…” My voice was hoarse with desperation. “You can’t leave. I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  But I did know. She had punted me from her life once before, and I had nearly done myself in. If she left for good… it could be fatal. I had always tried to hide the depths of my devotion, downplay the intensity of my feelings, but they were on full display now. I was trembling. I felt physically sick.

  Freya smiled at me then, and her eyes moistened. It was real emotion, real gratitude; she couldn’t fake that. If she’d been that good an actress, she’d have done more than a few commercials and a corny Christmas movie. This was authentic.

  “Oh, Low…,” she said, stepping toward me, “you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” And then she kissed me.

  Freya had stood on tiptoes and pecked my cheek on numerous occasions. But this kiss was different. It was on the lips. And while she didn’t quite slip me the tongue, she lingered there, her lips pressed to mine, longer than a friend would. It awakened something inside of me, a feeling that started at my knees, traveled up my inner thighs, and into my groin. It was desire; it was lust. I had never felt so alive.

  I had shared my feelings with Freya, and she had reciprocated them. With a warm, moist, lingering kiss. That kiss… that kiss would stay with me, haunt me, and, eventually, taunt me.

  It would change everything.

  39 jamie

  As the one-month anniversary of our “break” approached, I pondered the content of my text to Freya. Should I lead with the business angle? Tell her that I was eager to stock more of her pottery for the summer season? It would make me sound less pathetic and emotionally needy. And Freya would be flattered that her pieces were so popular. But it might seem cold and aloof after the heated conversation we’d had. I didn’t want her to think all I cared about was our professional relationship, because that was a lie. Eventually, I decided to be hones
t. Because I could live without Freya’s pottery but not without her friendship.

  Precisely one month after she’d proclaimed us “on a break,” I reached out.

  Hey. Been thinking about you and wondering how you’re doing. Coffee soon?

  My iPhone indicated that she had read the message, but she did not respond.

  She was in the middle of something, I told myself. Maybe she was in the studio, working on new pieces for my summer stock. Or she was embroiled in one of her Instagram photo shoots. Or about to have a bath. Or a nap. Or a massage… She would answer me soon, I was sure. Freya had to be missing me, too.

  But she had still not responded by the end of the day. I locked up the shop, went home, and poured myself a glass of wine. Brian was bustling around the kitchen, making a stir-fry. He was chatty and chipper, talking about the “breakthrough” he and his editor had made on the climax of his novel. I pretended to listen, nodding along, my mind entrenched on my precarious friendship.

  “Why do you keep looking at your phone?” my husband asked.

  My eyes snapped up, met his intense gaze. I had been checking it unconsciously. “I’m waiting for a message from a glassblower,” I said, setting aside my phone. “I’m doing my summer ordering. You’re not the only one with a career, you know.”

  My defensiveness made me sound guilty, I realized. But I was stressed, worried, on edge. And my husband’s inquisition was making it worse.

  Brian kept his voice level. “Is that really who you’re waiting to hear from? A glassblower?”

  “Who do you think I’m waiting to hear from, Brian?”

  “I don’t know.…” He stirred the vegetables in the wok.

  “Oh my god!” I barked. “Are you still worrying about Max?”

  “Max who you had sex with?” he sniped. “Maybe a bit.”

  “I haven’t seen him in months. I haven’t talked to him—or to Freya—because of you.”

  He set down the wooden spoon. “Are you seriously blaming me for what happened that night? You’re the one who was desperate to have sex with someone else.”

  “I wasn’t desperate,” I growled. “But you seemed pretty quick to jump into Freya’s bed.”

  “Only because she told me it was what you wanted.”

  “I’m sure it was a real hardship for you.”

  “It was, actually. I don’t take sleeping with another person lightly. Unlike you.”

  “I don’t take it lightly, but it happened! And now it’s over! You’re the one who can’t get over it!”

  “I’m over it! You’re the one trying to hang on to a sick, toxic friendship.”

  “It’s not sick and toxic! Freya is my best friend. She’s my only friend on this stupid fucking island that you made us move to!”

  “I didn’t make you move here,” he said, but I had already grabbed my glass and the bottle of wine, was already stalking down the hall to our bedroom.

  “Dinner’s almost ready!” he hollered after me.

  “I’m not hungry!” I slammed the bedroom door.

  As I settled onto the bed, glass of wine in hand, Freya’s words rang in my head. If you and Brian are too uptight to handle what we did… It was becoming clear that we weren’t handling it, we weren’t handling it well at all. This was not the first time these jealousies and insecurities had resurfaced. The distance between us had been growing, the tension and resentment simmering for months. Brian still blamed me for instigating the couples’ swap, and I blamed him for ruining my friendship with Freya.

  I’d been worried about losing that friendship, but now I realized: my marriage was at risk, too.

  40

  My mood was not improved the next morning when I opened the store. The hangover didn’t help. I knew better than to drink over a half bottle of red wine on an empty stomach. But my condition that morning was irrelevant. There would be few, if any customers. Low would come in at noon to allow me a lunch break and take care of the cleaning duties. I filled the kettle and plugged it in, knowing I had nothing to do but stand behind the till and stew about the mess that was my life. At least I could avoid Brian.

  He had slept on the sofa in his office last night. In our eight years of marriage, we’d only spent a handful of nights in separate beds. When we were young and passionate and learning to live together, we’d had some huge fights. Those issues seemed so frivolous now, our outrage back then so misguided and naive. This felt different. There was a gravitas to our anger now. We had broken our vows, slept with other people, betrayed each other’s trust. This was real.

  I suddenly felt a wave of homesickness—not for the life Brian and I had shared in Seattle, but for my life before I even met him. I wanted to leave the island and go back to Vancouver, to my parents, my high school friends, to a simpler time. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could start over there, get back into marketing or even go back to school and learn something new. Rents were high in Vancouver, the price of real estate astronomical, but my parents would let me stay with them until I was on my feet. I could close the door on this messy chapter, this fucked-up experiment, and reinvent myself.

  The kettle whistled then, jarring me from my thoughts. As I poured boiling water over a tea bag, I shook away the fantasy. I wasn’t ready to leave the island. And I certainly wasn’t ready to leave the man I had loved my entire adult life. What Brian and I had was worth fighting for. But I was angry at him. He put all the blame for what happened that night on Freya, Max, and me, and he needed to accept his share of responsibility. If Brian had known the couples’ swap would cause such damage, why had he gone along with it? Why hadn’t he rejected Freya’s seduction? Why hadn’t he come to the guest room and taken me home before we’d done things that we couldn’t take back? Brian had no right to act so innocent, so holier-than-thou. He had slept with my best friend. The thought made me even queasier.

  The door tinkled then, and I hurried out of the back room to greet a welcome customer. But it was only Low, arriving for her eleven thirty shift.

  “ ’Morning,” I muttered.

  “Rough night?”

  Shit. Did I look that bad? Were my anger and hangover so obvious? I was about to deny it but then thought… why? Low wasn’t going to judge me. Low didn’t care about me at all.

  “Kind of,” I said.

  My assistant didn’t respond, just picked up the dustcloth and went straight to work. I sipped my tea, watching as she headed to Freya’s remaining pieces. She always took care of them first, always carefully, even lovingly. As she wiped the inside of a beautiful, jade-green bowl, I spoke.

  “Is Freya making more pottery?”

  Low kept her eyes on her work. “We’re too busy with her Instagram. Social media is her first love. She only got back into pottery because she wasn’t allowed to post anything after Max’s trial.”

  She was being more forthcoming than usual, so I continued. “Do you still make pottery?”

  Low kept dusting. “Freya said I can use the studio, but it’s not the same without her. She doesn’t have that much energy now. She’s only got a month and a half till the baby comes.”

  “Two and a half months,” I corrected her.

  My employee looked up and met my eyes. As usual, they were unreadable. “Right.”

  I drank the last of my tea. “I’m going to run some errands and grab lunch,” I said, shrugging on my raincoat. “Text me if it gets busy.”

  “I will. But it won’t.”

  * * *

  The flat gray sky and cold drizzle fit my outlook perfectly. I huddled into my North Face jacket, the hood restricting my view of the deserted streets and naked sidewalks. I had no errands to run, but I needed to get away from Hawking Mercantile. At times, my supposed dream job felt like a prison, complete with physical and financial shackles. I was irritable, depressed, and hungover, and I needed to get out of my cell. And I needed fries.

  When Freya and I ate lunch at the Blue Heron, we always ordered salads or Buddha bowls, but I knew there w
as a burger on the menu. I’d looked at it, coveted it on occasion, but hadn’t wanted to order it in front of my slim, healthy friend. Today, I had no one to impress. I was going to drown my sorrows in grease.

  Shaking the raindrops from my hood, I entered the quiet restaurant. It was 11:40—on the early side for lunch, and the horrendous weather had kept would-be customers at home. The waitress, a fiftyish woman with a rosy face, recognized me.

  “Table for two, hon?”

  “Just me today,” I said, self-pity clogging my throat. Just me.

  “Sit wherever you like,” she said, taking a tray of dishes toward the back. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Freya and I had always sat near the window, always enjoyed taking in the view with our salads and lively conversation. But today called for a dismal back corner to accompany my burger and silence. I was moving toward a vacant table when I saw him. Max Beausoleil was standing near the bar, his hands in his pockets, waiting for a take-out order. I wanted to turn around, to duck into the restroom, but he looked up then and saw me.

  “Hey,” he said, and goddammit, my stomach fluttered. I’d put what we did out of my mind, but my body still remembered.

  “Hi.” I felt self-conscious of my bedraggled state, my wan pallor, my sour breath, until I looked into his handsome face. Max’s right eye was bruised, a dark crescent under his lower lashes, turning shades of yellow, purple, and green as it healed. “What happened?” I blurted.

  His response was instant, practiced. “I was canoeing. Got an oar in the eye.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.”

  I swallowed. “How’s Freya?” Did he know that his wife wasn’t speaking to me? Had she told him that Brian and I couldn’t handle what we had done that night? That guilt, jealousy, and insecurity were tearing us apart?

  “She’s good,” he said. “She was craving an acai bowl.”