“Can I make you some eggs?”

“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“I guess I burned off more calories than you did.”

An image of Freya riding my husband like a racehorse flashed through my mind. My face flushed, and I felt hot and nauseated.

“I danced my ass off,” Freya said, crunching her toast. “But I crashed not long after you did. Those ’shrooms were potent.”

“They were.” My voice came out a croak. “I was really messed up.”

“I noticed,” she teased. “They hit me hard, too. Sometimes, I can party all night on mushrooms. But these ones put me right to sleep.”

My brow furrowed slightly. “What about the guys?”

“They stayed up for a while, I think. When Max came to bed, he said Brian was passed out on the sofa.”

I tried to slot the puzzle pieces into place, but my brain was spinning. If Freya had gone straight to sleep not long after I had, did that mean she hadn’t made love to my husband? Had Max come to my room while Brian snoozed on the couch? Had he told me we were having a couples’ swap to trick me into having sex with him? He seemed earnest and authentic, but not long ago he had broken a man’s neck. Manipulating a woman into sex was nothing compared to that. Not that I had presented much of a challenge. I’d been so hot for him, I’d been eager to believe his story.

I looked at my friend shoveling eggs into her mouth like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Where are the guys now?” I croaked.

“They took the canoe out. They’ll be back in a half hour.”

I couldn’t sit there for half an hour smelling Freya’s breakfast and pretending everything was normal. I needed to see my husband. I needed to go home. I needed to salvage my marriage. To tell him that I had made a terrible mistake. Unless . . . unless he had made the same mistake. But would Brian and Max take the boat out together if they had swapped wives last night? I felt sweaty, dizzy, and off-kilter. I stood.

“I need coffee.”

“God, I’m a terrible host.” Freya jumped up. “Latte? I have oat milk or regular milk.”

“Finish your breakfast. I can make it.”

But she was already hurrying to the kitchen, already digging in the fridge. “I’m full. And the coffee machine is a pain in the ass.”

“I’ll have regular milk with it, please.”

As Freya fiddled with the coffee maker, my confusion increased. My friend was completely comfortable, entirely casual. If she had slept with Brian, if she knew I’d slept with Max, wouldn’t there be some residual awkwardness? A modicum of guilt? But there was none.

“Regular latte for Janey,” Freya said, imitating a Starbucks barista.

“Thanks.” I smiled despite myself and sipped the milky coffee, hoping to clear my head. I was still unclear on the nights’ events, but I knew one thing: I would never take magic mushrooms again. They had messed with my judgment, skewed my moral compass, and left my in a haze of confusion and regret.