“This house is amazing,” I said.

“Thanks,” she said, looking around her as if seeing it for the first time. “Too bad it’s not in New York or LA. Or anywhere that’s civilized. But then we wouldn’t be able to afford it, since we settled the lawsuit.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, unsure of an appropriate response.

Freya looked at me intently. “Does this feel strange to you?”

“What?”

“Us. Our friendship.”

“It feels great to me.” I covered. “I mean, it feels normal.”

Freya sipped her wine. “I’m so much older than you, but I feel so close to you. I was lonely. Maybe even depressed. And then you came along and now . . . I just feel lighter and happier.”

My voice came out a croak. “Me too.”

“I thought I had friends before, but I didn’t. I had fans and followers. I had acquaintances. When the shit hit the fan, they disappeared. Poof.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

“But now I have you. And I know you’d never let me down like that.”

I was about to say that I wouldn’t. No matter how many people her husband killed, I would have her back. But she kept talking.

“I’m grateful for the stuff I’ve been through. I can read people now. I can tell who’s a shallow hanger-on, and who’s a true, quality friend.” She drank more wine. “I’m more complicated and interesting now. Strife builds character, you know. People who have never experienced hardship just don’t get it.”

I was so desperate to grow our connection, to show her that I was complicated and interesting, too, that I decided to share the details about my unconventional family.

“My parents are polyamorous,” I blurted. “They have a girlfriend who lives on our property.”

Freya stared at me for a beat, and then her face lit up. “Oh my god . . . Do you live in a sex cult?”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“But your parents are swingers.”

“Poly is different. They have multiple relationships, but everyone is in love. And they just have a normal amount of sex, I think. At least now that they’re middle-aged.”

Just then, a man walked into the room. He was tall—much taller than I was—and muscular. He was all right angles: square jaw, square shoulders, big strong arms and legs. . . . He was wearing sweats (but expensive sweats) and a fitted black T-shirt. A few curls of dark hair peeped out from under a black knitted hat. His eyes were brown, almost black, and his skin tone was warm. (The next day, when I googled him, I found out that he was Métis, a descendant of Indigenous peoples and French settlers.) He had a bit of dark stubble above his lip and on his chin. He was serious, unsmiling . . . and ridiculously attractive. So this was Freya’s husband.

“Hey, Max,” Freya said. “This is Low. She lives in a sex cult.”

I blushed to my ankles. “No, I don’t!”