The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  Even though Jamie and I were grown up, confident, and self-assured, it still felt like the prom king and queen wanted to be our friends. So we couldn’t turn down an invitation to blow off some steam, let our hair down, and take some recreational drugs in a safe environment. Why would we? We all had the luxury of setting our own schedules, except Jamie, but the store didn’t open until ten. She was planning to stick with wine, anyway. Max didn’t drink, so I wasn’t sure if he’d partake in the ’shrooms, but we were all adults; we all knew what we were getting into.

  At least we thought we did.

  16 jamie

  I was jittery when we entered our friends’ cliffside home, a combination of nerves and anticipation. On the ride over, I had reconsidered my wine-only stance. It wouldn’t hurt to get high with some good friends. True, the last time I’d done ’shrooms I’d vomited vociferously, but I was in college then. I was older, stronger, wiser now. I’d take it slow, go with the flow, enjoy the change in perspective. The opening of my mind…

  My lunch conversation with Freya had looped through my head until it became a sort of epiphany. Maybe I could have a great life without a child. A life of fun, adventure, and hedonism. It wasn’t what I had imagined for Brian and me, but I could change the channel. Psychedelic drugs on a Tuesday was only the beginning. With our cool new friends, I could envision travel and adventure: zip-lining in Thailand, swimming with manta rays in Australia, a safari in Africa. And it could all start tonight, with a different sort of trip.

  Freya welcomed me with a hug, though I’d seen her only a few hours ago. When Max kissed my cheek, my stomach fluttered. I wasn’t lusting after my best friend’s husband—I want to be clear about that—but he had a physical effect on me. He was so large, so rugged, so aggressively masculine. My female body simply reacted. I handed Freya a bottle of chilled white wine.

  “Thanks, hon. But we’re having tea tonight.”

  I was momentarily confused until I saw the twinkle in her eye. Mushroom tea. I followed Freya into the kitchen, where she reached for a wineglass and then paused. “It’s not a good idea to mix alcohol and ’shrooms. You’ll have tea with us, won’t you?”

  It was the moment of truth: wine or ’shrooms. Conservative or wild. The usual or the unique. “Yeah, I’ll have tea.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  We moved to the sunken living room, where a pottery teapot sat steeping on the low coffee table. Freya placed four handleless mugs next to it, and Max filled them carefully. We each took one and leaned back on the gleaming white sofas. I sipped the earthy concoction slowly, gingerly, as we chatted. Freya was entertaining us with the story of a high school friend who had taken mushrooms and went into a 7-Eleven to buy Doritos stark naked. While funny, it did nothing to quell my anxiety. I’d been afraid of puking; now, I could add public indecency to my list of fears. I looked at my husband. His face was alight as he listened to Freya’s story and casually drank his tea. He felt my gaze and met it.

  You okay? his eyes asked.

  I smiled and gave a slight nod of affirmation. I was fine. I was fun. This was the new me.

  As Max talked about a music festival he’d attended while on ’shrooms, my mind drifted to Freya’s earlier proclamation. Sex on psychedelics was amazing, she’d said. Later, Brian and I would put that to the test. When the frivolity here had died down, we’d call a taxi (the island had a fleet of four cabs), go home, and make love while high on mushrooms. We needed a night of wild, uninhibited pleasure. Our fruitless efforts to conceive had taken a toll on our sex life. A renewed lust for each other was another perk of the indulgent life I was embracing.

  “Are you feeling anything?” Freya was addressing me.

  “I don’t know,” I said, and then I giggled. It just bubbled out of me. I looked down and found my mug empty.

  “They’re kicking in,” Brian said, but I was too busy noticing how white the sofas were. So white they were almost blue. Like snow in sunshine.

  Freya stood. “We’re going to need water. Jamie, come help me.”

  Obediently, I got up and followed her to the kitchen.

  It was brighter in there, but everything had soft, blurry edges. Freya ran the filtered water tap and filled four tumblers with the cold liquid. I stood by and watched, mesmerized by the sight of the water burbling from the faucet, filling the frosted glasses. When she’d filled the last one, she turned toward me.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good.” I smiled and found I couldn’t stop. “Really good.”

  Freya smiled back. “Me too. I’m so glad you guys were into this.”

  “I wasn’t sure at first, but you’re right. I should be more fun. And adventurous.”

  Freya reached out and rested her hand on my shoulder. “You deserve this, babe. There’s no need to feel guilty.”

  Guilty? I may have been more conservative than Freya, but I didn’t feel guilty about taking magic mushrooms with friends. “I don’t,” I said with a bleary smile.

  “You’ve been such an amazing friend to me.” Her teeth were so white, as white as her couches. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I feel the same,” I said, perma-smile still in place.

  “Let’s get back to the boys.” She turned and picked up two of the glasses. I grabbed the other two and trailed her back to the living room.

  The men were lolling on the sofa, their pupils huge, their smiles wide. Freya handed a glass of water to my husband and sat beside him. I took her previous seat next to Max, placing both our glasses on the coffee table.

  “Thanks,” he said, and smiled at me.

  Glancing at Brian, I saw the same wide grin affixed to his face. We were all tripping by then.

  “Music!” Freya said. “I made a playlist. Max, get my phone.”

  My seatmate got up, towering over me for a moment on his way to find his wife’s device. I sank into the firm sofa. It felt like I was floating on a raft in a calm sea. I closed my eyes, my smile still in place.

  The music came on—something cool and modern, vaguely South American. My eyes fluttered open, and I saw Freya get up and dance across the room toward Max. Her body moved fluidly, her arms above her head, her eyes closed. On her face, a beatific smile. Max was smiling, too, his eyes on his wife’s undulating form. Should Brian and I get up and dance? Was that part of letting loose on psychedelics? I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay put on my floating couch. I looked at my husband, but he was watching our hosts, seemingly rapt by the two beautiful people before him.

  “Come dance,” Freya called, and Brian stood up. He held his hand out to me, but I shook my head. I didn’t want to move; wasn’t sure I could move. So Brian went without me.

  The music washed over me in a wave of vibration and color. I turned my head to watch my husband and our two closest friends swaying, giggling sporadically. Max and Freya were focused on each other, their bodies moving in time with the beat. Brian looked awkward, shifting side to side like a seventh grader at a sock hop, but he was smiling, going with it. He caught my gaze and beckoned me to join him, but I shook my head. I felt extremely high, but safe, warm, comfortable on the sofa.

  And then, something shifted. The pleasant fog turned into something darker, colder. I found myself shivering, my teeth almost chattering. My jaw was tense, and my stomach had turned sour. Oh shit.… It was happening again. I’d been an idiot to think the ’shrooms would affect me differently this time. I didn’t have the stomach for drugs. And I couldn’t barf on this pristine white sofa. I staggered to my feet.

  “I need to lie down somewhere.”

  I hadn’t meant to yell, but I must have. Freya stopped dancing, and all eyes turned toward me. But no one spoke. No one moved. And then, I crumpled to the floor.

  * * *

  Somehow, they got me to the guest room in the basement. I was unable to take in the magazine-worthy decor, but I appreciated the serene palate, the cool, quiet air. I was aware of Brian in the doorway, but
it was Freya who sat next to me, pulled a blanket up over me.

  “You’ll be fine, babe. You just need a little time-out.”

  “I might puke,” I said, glancing at the creamy blanket. So much white. White everywhere.

  “Max is getting a bucket. You might feel better if you throw up.”

  “I don’t want to,” I moaned.

  Max must have delivered the bucket to Brian, because my husband set it beside the bed. He kissed my forehead. “I’ll check on you in a bit. Get some rest.”

  I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to want to stay. When we’d done ’shrooms in college, he’d sat on the kitchen floor of my apartment for hours, rubbing my back as I heaved uncontrollably. Now, years later, he was abandoning me to dance and have fun with Max and Freya. But I couldn’t say that. For one, I didn’t want to be a buzzkill, the reason the night of fun was ruined. For two, my mouth was too dry to speak.

  So I let him go.

  17 low

  I tried to put their antics out of my mind. I ate dinner with my mom and my brothers, but the roasted yams were tasteless, and the chickpeas turned to dust in my mouth. In my room, I tried to read a memoir about a survivalist family in the wilds of Alaska, but I couldn’t concentrate. I wasn’t jealous exactly. I was angry at being used, at being sent away like an errand girl. It should have been me getting fucked up with Freya and Max, not boring-ass Jamie and her nerd husband. So maybe I was a bit jealous.

  Around eleven, I gave up on the memoir and went out to my truck. I told myself I was just going for a drive, just trying to cool off so I could get some sleep. But I went through town, past the school, along the coastal road on autopilot. When I reached the secluded pullout, I parked the truck and got out.

  I crept down Max and Freya’s tree-lined driveway. My pulse was pounding in my ears, adrenaline surging through my body. If they caught me—lurking, watching, spying—I would lose everything: my job, access to the pottery studio, and worse… my friendship with Freya. I had an excuse at the ready—I’d say I dropped my house key earlier and had come back to find it. That I’d parked on the road so I didn’t disturb their mushroom trip. But I wasn’t going to get caught, not this time.

  Walking past Jamie’s Mazda sedan, I moved to the east side of the house. Massive windows were designed to let morning light into the living room and bedrooms, but in the darkness, they afforded me unobstructed views inside. I planted myself in the dense brush and I watched them. They were dancing… though the guys weren’t really dancing, they were more like swaying, their eyes on Freya. She was beautiful, sensually moving to the music. But where was Jamie? Peering into the bedroom on the lower floor, I detected a motionless lump under the covers. That would be her.

  Abruptly, Freya stopped dancing. She moved to the speaker system and must have turned off the music. When she returned to the men, she spoke solemnly, seriously. There was some back and forth between Brian and Freya… perhaps he was reluctant for the night to end. But clearly, the party was over. And then, they disbursed.

  I leaned back against a birch tree, and I watched.

  18 jamie

  I didn’t puke. Nor did I sleep. When I closed my eyes, colors danced behind my eyelids. When I opened them, the furniture swayed and moved. It wasn’t a terrible experience, but it wasn’t enjoyable, either. It just was, and I had to ride it out. And then, when I felt some semblance of my normal self, I could return to the party.

  I could have been alone in the darkened guest room for a few hours or a few minutes—time had lost all meaning. Above me, Freya’s carefully curated music continued, the bass thudding through the floor. Other than that, I heard nothing but the occasional tinkle of her laughter. That’s when I wanted to get up and join the fun, but my body had other plans. It wanted to lie on the soft bed, the cozy blanket over me, and let the psilocybin work its way through my system.

  Perhaps I dozed off, I can’t be sure, but when Brian entered the room, the music had stopped. The house was dark and silent as my husband moved tentatively through the blackness. I felt grateful and relieved; he had promised to check on me, and now he was. But as he got closer something about his presence was unfamiliar. When he stood next to the bed, I realized… that was not my husband. It was Freya’s.

  “How are you feeling?” Max asked.

  “I’m okay,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows. “Ummm… where are Brian and Freya?”

  He perched, tentatively, on the edge of the bed before answering. “They’re upstairs. In the bedroom.”

  The words didn’t compute. I was still high—very high. Why would my husband be in the bedroom with my new best friend?

  “Freya said you talked about it,” Max said. “She said you wanted this.”

  I sat up fully. “Wanted what? What’s going on?” My head was spinning, my heart racing. Freya and I had had a frank discussion about sex and monogamy, but had we talked about sleeping with each other’s husbands? No, we had not.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. They were slightly rough, a man’s hands. Brian’s hands were always soft from typing and washing dishes. I found Max’s eyes in the darkened room and felt the pull of attraction. I swallowed audibly.

  “I can’t. Brian would never.”

  “Freya is very persuasive.”

  I knew this to be true. Was Freya seducing my husband right now? Was Brian high enough to forget his moral code? Hot enough for my beautiful blond friend to break our vows?

  “Forget about them.” Max’s fingers trailed down my neck. “What do you want?”

  My hand moved of its own accord to his chest. When I felt his muscles through his shirt, the heat of his skin, my breath caught in my throat. Oh shit… I did want this. I wanted it badly.

  “Can I kiss you?”

  I should have said no. I should have thrown off the blanket, gotten up, hurried upstairs. I should have called for Brian, phoned a taxi, gone home. But I didn’t. I let Max kiss me. I let his rough hands roam through my hair and over my body. Lust surged through me, and suddenly I was tearing at his clothes, yanking his shirt over his head. My hands ran over his broad shoulders, his strong arms, his powerful chest. I loved Brian’s body, it was lithe, furry, warm. It felt like home. Max’s felt like an adventure.

  My fingertips felt the wound first, sliding over the puckered flesh on his impressive pec. Pulling away from his kiss, I peered at the damage. In the dark, I could make out four evenly spaced puncture marks, already turning to scar tissue.

  “What happened?”

  He moved my hand away from the lesion. “Long story.” He kissed me again and lay me back on the bed. And then, he moved over me.

  I could blame the drugs, or the toll infertility had taken on my sex life with my husband. I could put it on my lack of sexual partners, or my recent epiphany about living an indulgent, hedonistic life. But there is no excuse for what I did that night with Freya’s husband. I told myself we were all consenting adults, mature enough to handle this. I told myself it would all be okay.

  But I was wrong.

  19

  It took me several seconds to get my bearings when I woke up in Freya’s spare room. The sun was low in the sky, indicating the early hour. I was alone in bed, and I was naked. The night came back to me in a rush: the ’shrooms, the music, the colors, the visions. And Max. His strong body over me, on me, in me.

  Perhaps I had hallucinated the whole encounter? Maybe it was just an incredibly vivid psychedelic trip? God, I wanted it to be. But the warmth of Max’s skin, the taste of his mouth, the sensation of his muscles under my hands was so real. A bubble of guilt rose in my throat… guilt mixed with a heavy dose of jealousy. Because, if I had made love to Freya’s husband, that meant she had made love to mine.

  Feeling fragile and shaky, I found my clothes on the floor beside me and quickly dressed. I slipped into the bathroom to pee and wash my face. Taking in my refl
ection in the mirror above the sink, I saw that my skin was pale, my eyes puffy, my lips dry. My pupils were still dilated, making my eyes look dark and haunted. Jesus Christ.

  My heart hammered in my chest as I climbed the stairs to the main floor. I didn’t know what to expect after our night of debauchery. Would we talk about what happened, or pretend it never had? Would we act as if everything was fine, or would Freya say: Morning, hon. Your husband was great last night. How was mine? I couldn’t bear it. I needed to find Brian, get in our car, and drive home to our cozy cottage. I needed to shower away the memory of last night, to make coffee, and talk to him about what happened. We needed to reaffirm our love and commitment, we needed to put this incident behind us.

  The smell of food hit me then. Fried eggs and toast. It should have been appetizing, I should have been hungry, but my stomach churned as I entered the kitchen. Freya was seated at the dining table wearing an oversize gray sweater and flannel pajama pants. She looked sleepy but pretty. I looked like an ogre.

  “ ’Morning, gorgeous,” Freya said, through a mouthful of gluten-free toast. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay.” My voice was raspy. “How are you?”

  “Starving,” she said, forking up some fluffy omelet. “That was quite a night.”

  I moved closer, tentatively sitting across from her. “It was.”

  “Can I make you some eggs?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

  “I guess I burned off more calories than you did.”

  An image of Freya riding my husband like a racehorse flashed through my mind. My face flushed, and I felt hot and nauseated.