The Swap

by Robyn Harding

  “I’m glad she’s eating healthy. For the baby.” I forced a smile. “You must be getting excited.”

  “Yep.” But he didn’t sound excited; he sounded eager to leave. He looked toward the kitchen, willing his order to come.

  “I’m going to grab a table,” I said. “I’m on my lunch break. I need to order some food.”

  “Good to see you, Jamie.”

  “You too,” I said as I backed away. “Take care of that eye.”

  Alone at the quiet table, I tried to compose myself. Max still made me feel nervous and guilty and attracted and confused. But today, he roused something else in me. Concern. Even pity. What had happened to his eye? Was it really an accident with an oar? I thought about those puncture marks on his chest, healed to a four-pronged scar. How had that happened? Was someone hurting him? Was he hurting himself?

  My mind couldn’t fathom a situation of abuse or self-harm. Not with this gorgeous couple who looked so perfect from the outside. But Max’s injuries were odd, their explanations unsatisfactory. He was still at the bar; I could sense his presence. I considered going back to him, to discern if he was really okay. But I couldn’t bring up the scar on his chest without addressing the taboo subject of our night together. My face got hot just thinking about it. And then my phone buzzed.

  I picked it up thinking it was Low. We must have gotten an unforeseen rush of business. But it was Freya. My heart pitter-pattered as I read her words.

  Sorry for the delay. Misplaced my phone.

  I’ve missed you. Would love to see you.

  Come for lunch next week?

  Relief flooded through me, and the corners of my mouth twitched into a smile. Freya had missed me, just as I’d hoped. She wanted to see me. I was back in.

  I’d love that!!!

  Three exclamation points was too much. I deleted two and hit SEND. Freya’s text had instantly dissipated my funk, and I couldn’t hide my delight.

  The waitress dropped a menu on the table, then, but I didn’t need to look at it.

  “I’ll have the Buddha bowl, please.”

  “Sure, hon.”

  I looked toward the bar. Maxime Beausoleil was gone.

  41 low

  Freya wanted to do a live video in her pottery studio. “I want to show off my artistic, wholesome side,” she said. “I’ve had some nasty comments saying I’m too shallow and superficial to be a mother.”

  It was a form of virtue signaling, but it was an effective one. Freya was always beautiful, but when she was at the wheel, her delicate hands creating art, she was magical. No one could watch her work without becoming mesmerized, almost hypnotized. And no one would say an unkind word when they saw her talent. I knew that Freya craved the acceptance and validation of strangers. Despite her many gifts, her life of privilege, she needed it.

  My digital camera did not record video, so I’d have to use Freya’s iPhone. It was newer and better than my phone. But I brought my tripod for stability. And I’d cleaned out my bank account and ordered a portable studio lighting kit online to ensure the most flattering environment for the video. It came with two lights on stands that I could set up in the dim space. We were filming in the afternoon when the light was low. If I did my job right, I could get a sensual, Ghost kind of vibe.

  As I drove to her house, I felt a giddy sense of anticipation. We would spend the day in the studio again, where our friendship had been born. That space would always hold a special place in my heart. Jamie had asked if I missed making pottery. I’d shrugged off the question, but I did. Photography was my creative outlet now, but it wasn’t tactile like pottery. I missed getting my hands dirty, missed the earthen smell of the clay. Unlike traditional film, digital photography meant no waiting, no surprise at the end. When I dipped a vase or a bowl in glaze, fired it in the kiln, I never quite knew what would come out. My mind flitted to my beloved pinch pots, their crushed bodies in the garbage bag, but I shook off the memory. I should never have made Freya so angry. I knew better now.

  I parked at the bottom of the drive and lugged my equipment toward the pottery shed. Freya had asked me to meet her there at three, but when I tried the door, I found it locked. Peeping through the windows, I saw that the space was dark, the wheels covered in canvas, the clay sealed away in plastic bags. At first, I thought I had gotten the date wrong, but I would never mess up a session with Freya. She must have fallen asleep. Or maybe she was feeling sick.

  Propping the lights and tripod against the building, I marched toward the house. As I passed the matching SUVs, I spotted the small blue Mazda. It was Jamie’s car, previously concealed from my view by the larger vehicles. My stomach constricted, and I tasted something metallic on my tongue. It was jealousy. Jamie and Freya were friends again. What did that mean for me?

  As I reached out and rang the bell, I tried to calm my racing heart. Freya had told me I was the best friend she had ever had. And she had kissed me on the mouth. I didn’t need to feel threatened by Jamie. What I had with Freya was much deeper, more intense than a simple friendship. And Freya needed me now. Her Instagram was her top priority, and I was essential to its success. Jamie was extraneous.

  The door opened and there Freya stood, tanned and gorgeous in a white button-down maternity shirt. “Hey, Low.” She appeared confused by my presence.

  “Hi.” My voice was somewhat strangled. “I thought we were filming you in the studio today. You told me to come at three.”

  “Shit,” Freya cursed. “I totally forgot. I’m sorry, hon. Jamie’s here.”

  “I’ll go get set up,” I suggested. “You can meet me there when you’re done with her.”

  “She came for lunch,” Freya explained. “We had a lot to catch up on.” Then she leaned toward me and whispered. “Now I can’t get rid of her.”

  But I wasn’t buying it this time. I knew that Freya would go back inside, roll her eyes, and say the same about me.

  That was Low. She always shows up here wanting to photograph me. I can’t get rid of her.

  She was playing us off against each other. Why hadn’t I seen it before?

  “Right,” I said, backing away, trying to hide my pain.

  But Freya didn’t seem to notice. “Thanks for understanding, doll. I’ll text you to reschedule.”

  With that, she closed the door in my face.

  42

  I drove home fast, recklessly, my camera equipment rattling in the bed of my truck. Freya had no respect for me or my time. True, I had nothing else to do, but I’d spent my hard-earned money (plus sixty bucks I’d stolen from Leonard) on lighting equipment to make her look beautiful. And she didn’t even care. She’d dismissed me like a servant, chosen time with Jamie over time with me. I hated her.

  “Anger is just misplaced fear,” my mom and dad were fond of saying. When I was little and would throw a tantrum, they’d ask: “What are you afraid of, darling?”

  I’m afraid I’m going to bite you if you keep talking to me in that condescending tone.

  But now, it made sense. I was scared of losing Freya, terrified of returning to the lonely, solitary existence that predated her. If she chose to banish me, to replace me with Jamie again, I would have no one. The thought filled me with heaviness and darkness.

  Pulling into our rutted driveway, I noticed an unfamiliar car parked next to the chicken coop. It wasn’t unusual for my parents or Gwen to have visitors; friends who joined them for potluck meals, or drinks. These friends could sometimes turn into lovers when invited to one of the infamous “sauna parties.” But since Eckhart had been born, my family’s social life had shriveled in the face of his demands.

  With my lights and tripod under my arm, I struggled into the house. As soon as I opened the door, my mom called to me. “Swallow? Is that you?”

  “Yep,” I replied, kicking off my shoes and propping my equipment in the entryway.

  “You have a visitor.”

  There was only one person it could be.

  “Hi, Low,” T
hompson said, as I entered the living room. He was seated on a chintz armchair facing my mom, who was breastfeeding Eckhart, but he jumped to his feet. What was he going to do? Hug me? Kiss my cheek? Shake my hand? I took a step back.

  “What are you doing here?” I muttered.

  “You haven’t returned any of my texts or DMs, so I thought I’d stop by. Do you want go for pizza or something?”

  “It’s three thirty. I’m not hungry.”

  “We could go for a drive. Or watch TV. Or play a video game.” He looked toward my mom. “We can go to my place, so we don’t disturb the baby.”

  “I’m good,” I said.

  My mom suddenly pulled her breast from Eckhart’s mouth with a loud suctioning sound. “Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a sec?”

  Uh-oh.

  Alone in the kitchen, Eckhart reached out for me. I’d been ignoring him since Freya had taken me back, but apparently, he still remembered our time together. I took him and jiggled him on my hip, as my mom launched into her whispered lecture.

  “Why are you being so rude to that boy?”

  “I’m not being rude, I’m being honest. I’m not hungry. And I don’t want to watch TV or play video games.”

  “You complain that you don’t have friends, and then you reject a perfectly nice, age-appropriate companion.”

  I hadn’t audibly complained about my lack of friends since the ninth grade, but I was unable to point that out since my mom wouldn’t stop talking.

  “Why do you want to spend all your time with a pregnant woman twice your age? I thought she was teaching you pottery, but now… what? You take pictures of her?”

  “I’m her photographer,” I grumbled, as Eckhart pulled at my hair. “For her Instagram.”

  “Has she hired you?”

  “We have a partnership.”

  “You used to photograph Eckhart and nature and animals. Now, you only shoot Freya. It’s like she’s the only thing that interests you. It’s not healthy.”

  “Freya is famous on Instagram. We’re building her brand together.”

  My mom shook her head, her expression chagrined. “None of that is real, Swallow. It’s superficial nonsense. You know that.”

  I was instantly defensive. “What would you know about reality? You hide out in your free-love hippie universe and pretend that there’s no such thing as social media, or celebrity. But it exists, Mom. And it matters. You’d get it if you weren’t so… irrelevant.”

  I watched my mother’s face turn red with anger, hurt, and disappointment. She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to slap me or burst into tears. But she did neither of those things. She spoke in a trembling voice.

  “Go eat pizza with that boy, or so help me…”

  She took my brother from my arms and stormed out of the room.

  “Fine!” I called after her. “God!” I thumped back into the living room, where Thompson, who had clearly heard everything, sat looking pale and frightened.

  “Let’s go,” I barked.

  He jumped to his feet and followed me out of the house.

  43

  We drove to the pizza joint in separate cars. I wasn’t planning to stay long. But eating pizza with Thompson was preferable to being at home with my outraged mother, who by now would have told my dad, Gwen, maybe even Vik about my insolence and moral turpitude. My parents were probably strategizing an intervention at this very moment. I would hide out with Thompson until they all cooled off. Hopefully, they’d smoke a joint to de-stress themselves and then find the whole thing laughable.

  I arrived first and slid into a booth without ordering. Thompson would want to buy me a piece of pizza; it made him feel chivalrous. Plus, I had no money since having ordered the lighting kit for Freya.

  My stout colleague soon joined me. “This is where we sat last time,” he said, slipping into the seat across from me. “I guess this is our booth.”

  I managed not to roll my eyes.

  “I know you said you weren’t hungry, but can I tempt you with a slice?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Meat-lovers and a Coke?” He tapped his head like this was some great feat of memory.

  “Yep.”

  While I waited, I checked Freya’s Instagram. She had a new post: a selfie of her and Jamie cuddled up on her white sofa. My stomach turned sour as I took in the image of the two women. Freya held the camera, looking natural and pretty and pleased with herself. Jamie was smiling, but I could see that she was self-conscious. The lighting was terrible, the perspective off. Freya and I were supposed to be creating a beautiful, professional-quality page, not posting crappy selfies. But the worst part was Freya’s comment.

  So happy to have this one in my life. Her support means everything.

  #bestfriends #backtogether #grateful

  My face burned with betrayal. Freya had never posted a photo with me. She’d never thanked me or mentioned me beyond a photo credit. She said we were partners, but she was using me. My mom was right. My friendship with Freya wasn’t real or healthy. None of it was.

  Thompson returned with a red plastic tray laden with food. I put my phone away and pulled myself together. I wasn’t about to share my hurt with this short outcast from my high school. He handed me my pizza and drink, but I’d lost what little appetite I had had.

  My so-called date tried to make small talk, but I wouldn’t engage. I picked bits of sausage from my pizza, my thoughts entrenched on the selfie of Freya and Jamie, Freya’s words of love and devotion for her best friend: Jamie, not me.

  Then Thompson said something that grabbed my attention. “I couldn’t help but overhear your mom’s concerns. About Freya Light.”

  “My mom only met her once,” I muttered. “She doesn’t know anything about her.” I was still defending Freya. Why?

  “Still…,” Thompson continued. “I can sort of see why she’d be concerned. Freya and her husband have quite a scandalous past.”

  I didn’t like his salacious tone. “And they’ve suffered for it,” I snapped. “Max pled guilty to assault. And they paid that dead hockey player’s family millions.”

  Thompson was suitably chastened. “Of—of course,” he stammered. “It must have been a lot to go through. Plus, Max’s paternity suit.”

  A tidbit of sausage dropped from my fingers. “What?”

  “You didn’t know about that?”

  I hated to admit that Thompson knew more about Max and Freya than I did, but he had caught me off guard. “When was this?”

  “Early in his hockey career. He and Freya were newlyweds. A woman sued Max for child support. She said her baby was his after a one-night stand at a hotel in Calgary.”

  “Max has a child?”

  “No.” Thompson looked triumphant. “He said it wasn’t his, because he’s sterile. His lawyer submitted test results.”

  “But he can’t be sterile. Freya is pregnant.”

  “I guess he lied.” Thompson took a bite of pizza and then continued through the mouthful. “Or else Freya’s baby is a miracle.”

  But it wasn’t a miracle.

  And it clearly wasn’t Max’s.

  “How did you find this out?

  “It’s all online,” Thompson said, slurping some Coke. “It’s buried under all the stuff about the Ryan Klassen incident. But if you go back far enough, it’s there.”

  “Thank you, Thompson,” I said sincerely. “I needed this.”

  He beamed at me. “I’ll buy you pizza any time, Low.”

  But Thompson had given me more than pizza. He’d given me power.

  44

  I couldn’t take Thompson’s word for it. Even though he was the most earnest person I’d ever encountered, I needed proof. The library was open until six, so I left the pizza place and drove directly there. The librarian shot me a look of annoyance as I hurried toward the computer section. She’d probably hoped to close early, but too bad. I was on a mission.

  The Ryan Klassen incident would dominat
e the results if I didn’t tailor my search, so I typed:

  Maxime Beausoleil, paternity suit, Calgary

  Up popped an article from the Calgary Herald. Leaning in, I devoured the content. A young woman named Paula Elphin claimed she’d had sex with Max while his team, the LA Kings, was in town to play the Flames. There was a photo of her leaving court: attractive in a busty, bottle-blond kind of way. But she was no Freya. Would Max have cheated on his wife with a random puck bunny? Would Freya have cared if he had? This Paula woman had found herself pregnant shortly after their encounter and had contacted Max for child support. When he refused, she sued.

  It wasn’t a big news story; Max was barely famous then. But Calgary was a hockey-loving town, and local interest was piqued. To add to the drama, Max had refused to provide a blood sample, which could have cleared up the paternity in utero. Instead, his lawyer had submitted a doctor’s letter attesting that Max had contracted a severe case of mumps at seventeen, which had rendered him infertile.

  Opening a new window, I read up on mumps orchitis, the complication Max had suffered. Complete infertility was quite rare, but subfertility (seriously reduced fertility) was a common complication. I knew he’d grown up in a remote community, may not have had access to the health care a larger center could have provided. The disease had progressed to his testicles and cost him the ability to have children.

  The judge must have been skeptical because he’d ordered a paternity test once the baby was born. A follow-up article—short and sweet—published the results. Paula Elphin’s baby was not Maxime Beausoleil’s child. Max hadn’t lied. He was sterile.

  Logging off the computer, I tipped back in the chair. I was smiling… beaming, actually. This information changed everything. It gave me power… awesome fucking power. Because now I knew, without a doubt, that Freya’s baby was Brian Vincent’s child. It had been conceived the night of the couples’ swap. And Jamie and her husband had no idea.