I could blame the drugs, or the toll infertility had taken on my sex life with my husband. I could put it on my lack of sexual partners, or my recent epiphany about living an indulgent, hedonistic life. But there is no excuse for what I did that night with Freya’s husband. I told myself we were all consenting adults, mature enough to handle this. I told myself it would all be okay.

But I was wrong.

19

It took me several seconds to get my bearings when I woke up in Freya’s spare room. The sun was low in the sky, indicating the early hour. I was alone in bed, and I was naked. The night came back to me in a rush: the ’shrooms, the music, the colors, the visions. And Max. His strong body over me, on me, in me.

Perhaps I had hallucinated the whole encounter? Maybe it was just an incredibly vivid psychedelic trip? God, I wanted it to be. But the warmth of Max’s skin, the taste of his mouth, the sensation of his muscles under my hands was so real. A bubble of guilt rose in my throat . . . guilt mixed with a heavy dose of jealousy. Because, if I had made love to Freya’s husband, that meant she had made love to mine.

Feeling fragile and shaky, I found my clothes on the floor beside me and quickly dressed. I slipped into the bathroom to pee and wash my face. Taking in my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I saw that my skin was pale, my eyes puffy, my lips dry. My pupils were still dilated, making my eyes look dark and haunted. Jesus Christ.

My heart hammered in my chest as I climbed the stairs to the main floor. I didn’t know what to expect after our night of debauchery. Would we talk about what happened, or pretend it never had? Would we act as if everything was fine, or would Freya say: Morning, hon. Your husband was great last night. How was mine? I couldn’t bear it. I needed to find Brian, get in our car, and drive home to our cozy cottage. I needed to shower away the memory of last night, to make coffee, and talk to him about what happened. We needed to reaffirm our love and commitment, we needed to put this incident behind us.

The smell of food hit me then. Fried eggs and toast. It should have been appetizing, I should have been hungry, but my stomach churned as I entered the kitchen. Freya was seated at the dining table wearing an oversize gray sweater and flannel pajama pants. She looked sleepy but pretty. I looked like an ogre.

“’Morning, gorgeous,” Freya said, through a mouthful of gluten-free toast. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” It came out a croak. “How are you?”

“Starving,” she said, forking up some fluffy omelet. “That was quite a night.”

I moved closer, tentatively sitting across from her. “It was.”