“Let’s have our coffee on the deck,” Freya said. “The sun is gorgeous.”

I followed her onto the expanse of cedar where a large, white (of course) outdoor sofa was covered with dusky blue throw pillows. We settled into our seats, sipping our lattes and watching the morning sun sparkle off the bright blue water. Freya closed her eyes, held her face up to bask in the rays. She was smiling slightly, at peace, content.

“Freya,” I began, my voice strangled by the thickness in my throat. But I had to know what we had done last night.

She opened her blue eyes. “There they are!” she said, pointing to the canoe in the distance. She stood up and waved. The two figures in the boat waved back, then resumed their paddling. As they glided toward us, I studied my husband’s expression. Max and Freya may have been untroubled by a sexual swap, but I knew my partner. If Brian had slept with Freya, if he knew I’d had sex with Max, he would have felt even worse than I did.

But Brian appeared to be immersed in the rugged beauty around him. He looked placid and content, not upset, jealous, or angry. Max’s expression was blank, harder to read. He seemed singularly focused on the physical action of propelling them to shore. I was the only one among us experiencing confusion and turmoil.

Freya sat back down and smiled at me. “I’m so glad we met you guys.”

“Me too,” I said, and my voice shook. Because I meant it, with all my heart. Freya was my salvation, my new life, my fresh start. She and Max were our best friends. Whatever I had done the night before—whatever we had done—didn’t matter. We couldn’t lose them.

“What were you going to say before?”

I forced a smile and shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

20

Letting go of that night was easier said than done. My guilt consumed me, destroying my appetite and my sleep. At work, I was groggy and out of sorts. I would catch Low watching me, her eyes narrowed, mouth in a grim line, like she knew what we had done. But she couldn’t have. I didn’t even know for sure. At night, I woke in a pool of sweat, confused and aroused by vivid dreams of Maxime Beausoleil. I googled magic mushrooms flashback and found out it was a thing. Was I destined to be tortured by memories of making love to my best friend’s husband?

Meanwhile, Brian seemed relatively normal. If he had been unfaithful to me, it would have shown on his face, manifested itself in his behavior. I was on high alert for any changes in his actions or mood, but he seemed his usual cheerful self. One day, he popped into the shop to say hi.

“Did you get your hair cut?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He touched his exposed ears. “I needed a trim.”

“It looked fine before,” I said, feeling a stab of jealousy. Who was he trying to impress—Freya? Was she a sucker for a tidy haircut? Max’s hair was quite long, but maybe she wanted something different on her side guy.