The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  I grabbed a bottle of pinot noir and poured myself a large glass.

  28 low

  Revealing Freya’s pregnancy secret to Jamie had not turned out as I’d hoped. I thought Jamie would feel jealous and betrayed, that the ruse would blow up their friendship. I imagined Jamie calling Freya selfish and insensitive, a lying, duplicitous bitch. Her outrage would drive Freya back into my waiting arms. But somehow, Freya had explained away her deceit, had charmed Jamie and won her over. To my chagrin, their friendship seemed to have deepened with the baby news. Jamie acted like an excited aunt. And I was the one left feeling envy and betrayal.

  I knew from my parking-lot surveillance at the Blue Heron that the two women met for lunch regularly. I’d also seen them walking into the coffee shop on a number of occasions when I just happened to be driving by. Freya had gone to a yoga retreat for a couple of weeks, but she spent most of her holiday texting with my employer. Jamie stood with her elbows on the counter, tapping away at her phone and giggling. When I joined her behind the till under the auspices of fetching a dustcloth, she hurriedly tucked her phone away, but not before I saw Freya’s name on the screen. Upon Freya’s return, Jamie asked me to man the shop for a couple of days so she and Freya could take the ferry to the mainland to buy baby paraphernalia.

  Freya still hated me, perhaps more now than ever. On top of squatting on her property and sticking my nose into her dish-throwing business, I’d broken her trust by revealing her secret. There was no point trying to contact her. She would only reject me, hurt me, crush my fragile spirit. Sometimes, I was still angry over her cruel words and my smashed pinch pots, but mostly, I just wanted her to let me back in. My logical mind told me to let her go, to move on, but my heart pined for reconciliation.

  In order to maintain both my distance and connection to Freya and Max, I spent most of my days at the library in town. Our family PC was in the kitchen, and I required privacy (or at least anonymity) for the internet research I was doing. In the afternoons, I sat at one of the library’s four computers and googled Maxime Beausoleil and Freya Light. I didn’t read the toxic news stories about Max’s deadly hit, the contentious lawsuit, Freya’s fall from social media grace. They were all lies, Freya had told me, all skewed to make the gorgeous couple out to be villains. Instead, I selected “Images,” and pored over numerous photos of the attractive pair at galas and fundraisers, at Trader Joe’s or leaving the gym. I sifted through pictures of Max on the ice, of Freya’s endorsement deal with a short-lived vitamin water company, my emotions rocketing from longing to loss, from adoration to misery.

  The three to four hours I spent gazing at their images online each day makes it sound like an unhealthy fixation. But I was getting on with my own life, too. For my November birthday, my parents had given me a high-end digital camera. It was secondhand but still in great condition. Though I had never explained the demise of my potting career, my family recognized my need for a creative outlet. And they provided for me.

  Vik had taken some professional concert photos. We talked about perspective and lighting and use of space. I was mildly enthusiastic. Maybe reigniting my love for photography would be a way forward for me. I was already thinking less about Freya, spending less time staring at her likeness at the library or on my phone. Photography was an excellent distraction. At least it was supposed to be.

  How could I have known it would lead me back to her?

  29 jamie

  Over the next few weeks, I became Freya’s personal assistant. We took a trip to Seattle to pick out baby furniture. We painted the walls of the planned nursery a pale buttery yellow. (I did most of the painting; Freya didn’t want to breathe the paint fumes, and Max was away dealing with some business.) I bought Freya baby books, and when she wouldn’t read them, I read them myself and provided a verbal summary. There were back rubs and foot massages; casseroles and spur-of-the-moment ice cream deliveries. I still felt the ache and longing for a child of my own, a child I would never have, but I wanted to be there for my friend in her delicate time. And doting on her distracted me from my envy, resentment, and guilt. Almost.

  I’d been able to avoid Max for the most part. Despite the impending arrival of his son or daughter, he was spending long hours on the water. He’d been traveling, too—a golf weekend with old teammates in Arizona, a trip north to visit family, frequent jaunts to the mainland to deal with business or legal affairs. The timing seemed odd to me, but Freya pointed out that Max would be on house arrest once the baby arrived. When he and I did cross paths, we were cool and civil. It was almost like nothing had ever happened between us.

  But at night, he still came to me in my dreams. Torrid, sexual dreams that left me sweaty and aroused and hating myself. What if I murmured Max’s name in my sleep? Could Brian tell what imaginings caused me to toss and turn? I never fantasized about Maxime Beausoleil when I was awake. In fact, I disdained him. But my subconscious refused to let him go.

  We still hadn’t socialized as couples since that fateful night. Freya had suggested it a handful of times, but between their travel schedules, my responsibilities at the store, and Brian’s writing deadline, it hadn’t come to fruition. My husband had been working on his manuscript, the second in the series, all summer. He’d delivered it in October, on schedule, but a month later, his editor called.

  “She says it lacks the tension of the first book,” he complained. “She says the last half is fucking garbage.”

  “Really? She said it’s ‘fucking garbage’?”

  “She may as well have,” he grumbled.

  “I could read it,” I offered lamely. “Maybe a fresh pair of eyes would help.”

  “Yeah, like you’re going to solve the problems my professional editor can’t.”

  His ego was bruised, his confidence shaken. And he was worried about money. Brian’s advance checks were metered out in installments: a percentage when he signed the contract, another on acceptance of the manuscript, more on publication. Hawking Mercantile had had a decent summer, and we’d budgeted our money to last until he received his next payment. We’d assumed that would be shortly after his delivery date. But that sum would now be delayed—weeks, months, even years. As long as it took for Brian to make the book good enough to publish. And from what I could see, he was barely writing.

  Instead, he was working out. A lot. There was something almost manic about his need for exercise, and it didn’t sit right with me. It had started slowly, shortly after we began spending time with Freya and Max. I’d noticed a general uptick in my husband’s self-care: regular trips to the barber, green smoothies for breakfast, twenty-five push-ups each morning. But now he’d added trail running to his repertoire, spending an hour or more in the forest on rugged terrain. His favorite route was in Hyak Canyon, a twenty-five-minute drive from our cottage. By the time he drove there, ran for an hour, drove home, showered and changed, it was three hours he could have spent writing.

  I was enduring financial anxiety myself, but I didn’t have time to gallop around in the woods. When I wasn’t at the store, I was working on the books, trying to keep the business in the black. Reduced winter hours helped. Hawking Mercantile was currently closed on Mondays and Tuesdays and had reduced operations for the rest of the week. Low worked only Saturdays, until business picked up. Brian had suggested that I lay her off until July, but I’d be able to give her more shifts during the Christmas shopping season. Low gave me the freedom to run business errands (to the bank, to the accountant, to the store to replenish the cookie cupboard), and to be available if Freya needed me.

  A perk of my diminished schedule was more time with my husband. Between the store and his novel, we had been existing in separate orbits. These extra hours would close the gap between us, get us back on track. I envisioned lunch dates, walks, even some afternoon delight.

  But it didn’t turn out that way.

  It was a Monday, early in December. Next week, I would open the store for Christmas shopping and would be spending more
time away from home. I’d decided to make Brian his favorite lunch. It would be nice to share a midday meal together before I returned to extended retail hours. As I grated cheese onto a piece of bread and tuna, Brian entered in running gear.

  “I’m going for a run in the canyon.”

  “But I’m making tuna melts.”

  “I’ll eat later.” He was already lacing up his shoes. “I need to burn off some steam.”

  The block of cheddar I’d been grating hit the counter with a thud. “I don’t know how you’re going to fix your book if you never spend any time writing.” It came out snarkier than I’d intended, but I was hurt. I didn’t even like tuna melts. This lunch was for him.

  Brian righted himself and looked at me. I’d expected anger or defiance or a lecture on the creative process, but all he said was: “I need to do this.”

  He grabbed his car keys and hurried out the door.

  I slammed the tray under the broiler. Something was up with my husband, beyond writer’s block. He was pulling away from me, I could feel it. He was distant and distracted; didn’t want to eat, talk, or connect with me. His rigorous exercise routine made it clear that he would rather work on his body than his marriage. We still had sex, on schedule. It was still good—hotter than it had been when we were trying to conceive. But despite his attentiveness and vigor, my lover seemed emotionally detached.

  As I cleaned the kitchen, my anger eased to a simmer. We were both under immense stress, I reminded myself. When Brian fixed his manuscript, when business picked up at the store, we’d find our way back to each other. We always did. A relationship like ours was built for the long haul. I was making too big a deal over a shared sandwich. Washing the knife and cutting board, I let my resentment run down the drain with the soapy water.

  The oven timer dinged and as I turned toward it, I spotted Brian’s inhaler on the counter. My husband’s mild case of asthma was made significantly less mild with strenuous exercise. He never worked out without his inhaler, but his distraction was so complete that he’d forgotten it. If he had an asthma attack alone, in the middle of the forest, an hour from home, it could be serious.

  I flicked off the oven, picked up the inhaler, and hurried to my car.

  30

  My Mazda hurtled down the winding road toward Hyak Canyon. It was a forested stretch of highway, rarely used except by a few residents of homesteads set back in the woods and miles apart. I was slightly uneasy in this largely deserted swath of trees. There were rumors of meth labs on this part of the island, of illegal marijuana crops. The canyon and its running trails were in a national park, but the surrounding area had a dark, criminal energy.

  Brian’s inhaler rattled in the console. If I didn’t catch him before he started his run, I’d be too late. My husband usually stretched his quads and hamstrings before he took off, a process that could take anywhere from five to fifteen minutes. My foot pressed down on the gas. I hoped Brian was doing an extra-long warm-up today.

  As I rounded a bend, a vehicle flew past me. It was white, an SUV. I caught a glimpse of light blond hair as the driver passed, her eyes focused on the winding road ahead.

  Freya.

  What was she doing out here? The area was almost deserted, except for the rumored meth cookers and pot growers. Freya couldn’t have been hiking the rugged canyon trails in her condition. She had no reason to be in this area. Unless…

  My stomach churned. Was something going on between my husband and my best friend? If so, what? Did they know what Max and I had done? Were they plotting to destroy us? To abandon us? Or… had my husband lied to my face about that night? Had he and Freya slept together, too?

  The thought of Brian making love to Freya made me sick. She was so beautiful, so small and blond and perfect. My husband would have been enraptured by her, like I had been with Max. I’d been excited by the newness, turned on by the differences. Brian would have felt the same way. He’d have compared me to Freya, and I would have fallen short. Were they in love now? Having an affair? My mind and stomach reeled with the possibilities.

  About seven minutes later, I pulled into the gravel parking area. Brian’s truck was alone in the lot, and he was beside it, pacing in a circle. He was decidedly not stretching his hamstrings. He looked up as my car approached, and our eyes met.

  My husband was not happy to see me.

  I got out of the car and marched toward him.

  “What are you doing here?” He couldn’t hide his dismay.

  I’d left his inhaler in the console. I suddenly didn’t care if he had an asthma attack. “What’s going on with you, Brian? Why was Freya here?”

  “Freya?”

  “I passed her as I was driving. Is something going on between you two?”

  “Are you serious?” He snorted. “You think I’m sleeping with your pregnant best friend?”

  “It would explain a lot! You’re distant and moody. You won’t talk to me. You’re always running. Or so you say.…”

  “I was going to run, but I forgot my inhaler.”

  “I brought it. That’s why I’m here. But now I’d like to know what the hell is going on with you.”

  He turned away from me, dragging his hands through his cropped hair. Then he whirled around, his face dark and angry.

  “You want to know what’s going on with me, Jamie? My book is a disaster, and I don’t know how to fix it. If I lose this deal, we’re fucked. Your store doesn’t make enough money to support us, so I’ll have to go back to teaching. There won’t be any openings on the island, so we’ll have to pack up and move. You’ll have to sell the store. We’ll both have to give up on our dreams. All because I’m a fucking failure.”

  I saw the pain on his handsome face. It was genuine. He was telling the truth.

  “I run all the time because it’s the only thing keeping me off antidepressants,” he growled. “Would you rather I self-medicate with drugs or booze?”

  “Of course not. And you’re not a failure.”

  “You won’t be saying that when we lose everything.”

  I closed the distance between us. “I didn’t realize you were in such a dark place.” I reached for his hand. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  “I don’t know that it is.”

  “We’ve struggled before, and we always get through it. Together.”

  He sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

  “But… why was Freya out here?”

  He pulled his hand from my grip. “How the hell would I know?” he snapped. “She’s your friend, why don’t you ask her instead of accusing me?”

  Brian jumped into his truck and peeled out of the parking lot, all plans for his run abandoned.

  * * *

  Alone in my car, I felt chastened and ashamed. I was transferring my own adulterous behavior onto Brian. It had so consumed me that I couldn’t see that my husband was hurting, that he needed my support. All my energy had been focused on Freya and the baby, in making up for what I’d done to them in some small way. But I had betrayed Brian, too. And he needed me now.

  That quick, lightning glimpse of Freya flashed through my mind. It could have been a blond tourist in a white Range Rover, but I knew it was my friend. Her presence in the middle of the island was a coincidence, nothing more. Freya was probably visiting a pottery student on one of the properties in the area. Perhaps she’d gone for a scenic drive to clear her head. Or maybe she was buying some weed? No, not in her condition. She wouldn’t. Would she? Freya was a risk-taker, a rule-breaker. But she had to know that pot was not good for her baby.

  When I got home, I parked next to Brian’s vehicle and entered the house. I heard the shower running. Instead of washing away his sweat, he was washing away his anger and disappointment. I’d reheat our lunch, maybe open a bottle of wine. We could sit and talk, and I would listen, really listen. From that moment on, I would be caring and supportive, there for my husband in his time of need. I hung my sweater on the hook next to Brian’s running shell, a
nd that’s when I saw it.

  A long, pale blond hair clung to the shoulder of my husband’s black jacket.

  31 brian

  Jamie bought it, thank God. If she had found out that my trail run was just an excuse to meet Freya, it would have hurt her too much. And despite what I had done, I didn’t want to cause my wife any pain. That’s why I had to be so careful, so discreet. If Jamie found out what was going on, it would crush her. All the lying and sneaking around… it was meant to protect her and her feelings.

  I turned off the shower and reached for a towel, drying myself vigorously. My body felt stronger than it had in a long time, harder and leaner. Still, it couldn’t compare to Max Beausoleil’s physique. He would always be bigger, tougher, more masculine than I was. But maybe she didn’t want that. Maybe his perfection bored her. It was possible… doubtful, but possible.

  My robe was on the back of the door, and I wrapped it around me. It was winter, and the old bungalow was drafty. If my books ever took off, I would buy a new house on the water. At the rate I was going, that wasn’t going to happen. The book had structural problems that needed my full attention, but my mind was consumed with thoughts of Freya. It was her fault that the book was a mess in the first place. She had come into our lives and turned everything upside down.

  I emerged into the hallway in a billow of steam. The air was chilled, almost icy. Jamie should have turned on the furnace. In bare feet, I moved to the living room thermostat, where the real source of the cold front sat on the sofa, her mouth set in a grim line.

  “Stop lying to me, Brian.” Jamie’s voice trembled with hurt and anger. “I know you were with Freya at the canyon.”

  There was no point denying it. “It’s not how it looks,” I said quickly. “We were just talking.”