It was almost noon when I woke to a silent house. Leonard and Wayne had gone to school, and my parents must have taken Eckhart for a soothing walk or a drive. I rolled over and retrieved my cell phone from beside the bed. I knew Freya would have texted me, would have made everything right.

But there were no messages—not from Freya or anyone. My stomach plummeted with disappointment. And with dread. What if last night’s incident would not simply blow over? What if my interference in Freya and Max’s domestic drama was a deal breaker? The thought that Freya could have meant those words—and don’t come back—made me nauseous.

I got up and padded down the creaking stairs to the kitchen, where I found a cold pot of coffee. I turned the machine back on to warm it, indifferent to how long it had been sitting there. Caffeine would make me see things more clearly. It would make me see that Freya was not going to destroy our pure and perfect friendship just because I had witnessed her tantrum. She couldn’t. It meant too much to both of us.

The disastrous state of my family home did nothing to soothe my angst. Cloth diapers hung from a drying rack set up near the extinguished wood fireplace. Baby paraphernalia—blankets, burping cloths, toys, and rattles—covered every surface, interspersed with my school-aged brothers’ books and balls and hoodies and leftover snack plates. A disturbing odor permeated the air, either a bucket of soaking diapers, or a bucket of fermenting sauerkraut. Either was a possibility.

The coffeepot was warm by now, and I poured myself a cup. It tasted like shit, so I added some honey and milk. I gulped the lukewarm concoction, waiting for the caffeine to hit my system, to wake me up and give me clarity. Taking my mug out to the back patio (a few paving stones with a couple of wrought iron chairs), I breathed in the crisp autumn air, let the chill awaken my senses. And it worked. Soon, I could see that I really had no reason to be upset about last night.

As far as Freya and Max knew, I had done nothing wrong. They had no idea I’d been squatting on their property. My excuse of having worked late and dozing off in the studio was completely plausible. And they couldn’t have known I’d spied on their magic mushroom party. They were all high at the time, and otherwise occupied. So, for all intents and purposes, I was the innocent party here. The reason Freya hadn’t contacted me was her own embarrassment. I had seen her at her worst . . . violent, ugly, mean. She was ashamed of herself, and so she should be. But I still worshipped her. She needed to know that.

Setting my mug on the ground, I texted her.