“Sex and physical affection are an expression of that love,” my dad tried, but I wasn’t listening.

Perhaps my apathy toward sex stemmed from growing up with parents who so exuberantly enjoyed it. It wasn’t like they did it in front of me, but nor did they pretend, like all parents should, that they never did it at all.

Shortly before I met Freya, my mom had announced that she was three months pregnant with her fourth child.

“I can’t wait to be a big brother,” Wayne said. But he was just nine, too young to understand the optics of this new addition. I was too old to be a big sister, yet again. I was too self-conscious to welcome another human into our large family. And I was resentful. A baby would take up more room, more time, more love. My parents’ affection was already spread too thin.

At home, I was an afterthought. At school, I was a pariah. At Freya’s studio, I was everything. Freya was a best friend, a parent, and a crush all wrapped up in one worldly, glamorous package. Later, people would say I was obsessed with her, but I wasn’t.

With Freya, I was home.

4

After about a month, Freya invited me up to the main house. “I need a glass of wine,” she said, after a particularly arduous session with a set of eight matching dinner plates that had been commissioned for the new gift shop in town. “Want one?”

I was seventeen. I rarely drank alcohol. Booze was a social beverage, so I had few instances to indulge. I also had to drive home after. But I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to explore the stunning cliffside house. To see where Freya and her husband lived. To gain more insight into her life.

The house had floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides, providing ocean views, abundant natural light, and a significant lack of privacy. Given its isolated location, this was a nonissue. When I parked my car, I was allowed a glimpse into the home through the glass. It looked like something out of a magazine, so tidy, so serene. Once, I’d caught a brief glimpse of a man passing by with a cup of coffee in his hand, and my interest was piqued. I wanted in. I wanted more.

“Sounds good.”

Despite its scenic location, its awe-inspiring exterior, its jaw-dropping price tag, the house was warm and homey. The floors, cupboards and closets were a soft golden wood that seemed to glow in the afternoon light streaming through the walls of glass. Everything else was white: the walls, the furniture, the quartz countertops. The decor was distinctly Scandinavian—sleek, unfussy—obviously a nod to Freya’s maternal heritage. It was so different from my own cluttered, chaotic, colorful home with its abundance of noises and scents. I felt an almost overwhelming sense of peace and belonging. I wanted to spend time here. A lot of time. I wanted to live here.

I followed Freya to the pristine kitchen that had a distinctly unused feel. She expertly opened a bottle of red wine and poured us two large glasses. Handing one to me, she led us to a sunken living room that afforded us views of the dark blue Pacific. I chose a Danish-style leather-upholstered chair; Freya curled up on the white sofa, pulling a white blanket across her lap. She was the kind of person who could drink red wine on white furniture. I was not.