Looking into his warm hazel eyes, I saw his sincerity. And I hated myself. “Sorry.” I sat back on my heels. “I guess the drugs made me paranoid.”

He kissed my forehead. “You don’t need to worry about me.” Then he swiveled back to face his manuscript.

So now I knew the truth. I had not participated in a consensual couples’ swap; I had betrayed my husband and my best friend. I should have spun Brian’s chair around to face me, should have told him what Max and I had done, but I was a coward. Instead, I got up, went to the kitchen, and poured a glass of water. I gulped it down, hoping to dilute my regret and self-loathing, but it didn’t work. Setting the empty glass on the counter, I gazed out the window at the waxy leaves of our camelia bush, its early pink blooms already dead and decomposing at its feet.

Max Beausoleil had lied to me. He had tricked me and manipulated me. I should have been enraged, but I couldn’t blame this all on him. I knew how much I’d wanted him that night, how eager I’d been to believe his words. If I confronted him and accused him, it could damage his marriage to Freya. She claimed to be open-minded and sexually adventurous, but those were just words. There was no way she’d be chill about her husband bedding her best friend while she slept upstairs. She would hate Max. She would hate me. The thought filled me with dread.

And Brian . . . Oh God, poor Brian. The thought of hurting him made my stomach ache.

I made a decision, then. What Max and I had done was over. It did not need to be discussed, dissected, or analyzed. Dragging it into the light was not worth jeopardizing my marriage or my friendship. I loved Brian too much. I loved Freya too much. So, I buried it.

Like a body.

autumn 2019

21

low

On October 5, I came home to find Gwen, Janine, my dad, and a midwife wearing a white turban helping my mother give birth in a wading pool. I turned around and walked back out, drove into town, ate three slices of pepperoni at the pizza joint, got an ice cream cone, and savored it in my truck parked at the boat launch, then went to the convenience store for a slushie. Finally, when a couple of hours had passed, I drove home.

“Meet your new baby brother,” my mom said, cuddling a mint-green bundle to her chest. “This is Eckhart.”

“After Tolle,” my dad elaborated. Like there were other Eckharts the poor little bugger might be named after.

He was very small and practically fuchsia and shriveled like a prune. I touched his soft cheek and his tiny hand. He grabbed my finger in his little fist and brought it to his mouth. He was cute. I might like this kid more than my other brothers. And then he started screaming. I didn’t realize then that he wouldn’t stop for four months.