In order to maintain both my distance and connection to Freya and Max, I spent most of my days at the library in town. Our family PC was in the kitchen, and I required privacy (or at least anonymity) for the internet research I was doing. In the afternoons, I sat at one of the library’s four computers and googled Maxime Beausoleil and Freya Light. I didn’t read the toxic news stories about Max’s deadly hit, the contentious lawsuit, Freya’s fall from social media grace. They were all lies, Freya had told me, all skewed to make the gorgeous couple out to be villains. Instead, I selected “Images,” and pored over numerous photos of the attractive pair at galas and fundraisers, at Trader Joe’s or leaving the gym. I sifted through pictures of Max on the ice, of Freya’s endorsement deal with a short-lived vitamin water company, my emotions rocketing from longing to loss, from adoration to misery.

The three to four hours I spent gazing at their images online each day makes it sound like an unhealthy fixation. But I was getting on with my own life, too. For my November birthday, my parents had given me a high-end digital camera. It was secondhand but still in great condition. Though I had never explained the demise of my potting career, my family recognized my need for a creative outlet. And they provided for me.

Vik had taken some professional concert photos. We talked about perspective and lighting and use of space. I was mildly enthusiastic. Maybe reigniting my love for photography would be a way forward for me. I was already thinking less about Freya, spending less time staring at her likeness at the library or on my phone. Photography was an excellent distraction. At least it was supposed to be.

How could I have known it would lead me back to her?

Chapter 29

29

jamie

Over the next few weeks, I became Freya’s personal assistant. We took a trip to Seattle to pick out baby furniture. We painted the walls of the planned nursery a pale buttery yellow. (I did most of the painting; Freya didn’t want to breathe the paint fumes, and Max was away dealing with some business.) I bought Freya baby books, and when she wouldn’t read them, I read them myself and provided a verbal summary. There were back rubs and foot massages; casseroles and spur-of-the-moment ice cream deliveries. I still felt the ache and longing for a child of my own, a child I would never have, but I wanted to be there for my friend in her delicate time. And doting on her distracted me from my envy, resentment, and guilt. Almost.