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.

This knowledge would allow me to reassert my significance in Freya’s life. I didn’t want her to fear me (okay, maybe I wanted her to fear me a little bit), but I wanted her to appreciate me. Because it was me, not Jamie, who had her back. I was her #bestfriend. She should be #grateful for me.

I drove home vibrating with excitement. My parents would be waiting for me with concern and consternation, but I didn’t care. All I could focus on now was telling Freya that I knew her secret. I would have to do it delicately—she couldn’t panic or become angry at me. She couldn’t cut me out of her life before I explained that I would keep her safe. I would take her baby’s paternity to my grave. The dynamic of our entire relationship was about to shift. I would go from the role of sidekick/servant to that of guardian and protector. Because, if Jamie found out the truth, she would blow up Freya’s world.

But I wouldn’t let that happen. As long as Freya treated me right.

Chapter 45

45

My parents reserved their lecture for the next morning. They had obviously spent significant time discussing the nature of my relationship with Freya and had developed a theory. They accosted me in the kitchen, still littered with breakfast dishes, the smell of coffee taunting me from behind the scrim of concerned adults.

“We all think you should be spending more time with kids your own age,” my dad began, his eyes darting from my mom to Gwen for moral support.

“Like Thompson,” my mom piped in. “He’s so sweet. And he clearly likes you.”

“I’m eighteen,” I grumbled. “You can’t organize my playdates.”

The adults shared a look that I couldn’t read. Then my mom said, “Yes, you’re eighteen. You’re legally an adult.”