Freya and Max were gone for most of December and January, giving me ample time to dwell on the fact, now irrefutable, that my best friend had slept with my husband. I had no right to be upset—I had done the same to her—and yet, I was. I knew Freya was highly sexual, adventurous, and a risk-taker. And Max seemed to go along with whatever made his hedonistic wife happy. Swapping partners was probably no big deal for them. But that night had rattled my husband and me, shaken our foundation. And Freya had orchestrated the whole thing.

Shortly before their return, Brian announced that he didn’t want to see them. “I feel awkward around Freya, and insecure around Max. Maybe I’ll get over it in time, but for now . . . I’m not interested in being friends with them.”

Freya had planted a toxic seed in my husband’s psyche, and I resented her for it. She had made him think he wasn’t enough for me, and I had my work cut out for me proving her wrong. I considered editing Freya out of my life, too. It was what Brian wanted—not that he’d said so specifically. But I had to agree that ending my friendship with my husband’s lover, who was also my lover’s wife, would make things a hell of a lot simpler. But I couldn’t let Freya go.

What I had realized the most during her absence was that I missed her. Despite the toxic stew of emotions surrounding that night, Freya was the most vibrant, exciting person I had ever met. Without her, my life whittled down to Brian, whose mind was preoccupied with his novel; the store, which was struggling; and Low, who was . . . Low.

And I couldn’t walk away from Freya’s baby. The poor little thing needed me. Freya knew nothing about infants or children, seemed remarkably naive and uninformed about the process of birthing and rearing a child. While she was fun, stylish, and cool, she was also self-absorbed, flighty, and irresponsible. She had told me, numerous times, that she was out of her depth and would need my help with the baby. And I believed her.

I’d had several texts from her while she was in Mexico—breezy notes wishing I was there, wishing she could have a margarita, wishing she didn’t look like a “beached whale” in her bikini. She sent photos, too—belly shots mostly. She was also posting them on Instagram. Though I wasn’t very active on the platform, I’d noticed her photos and the outpouring of admiration they prompted. There were nasty comments, too, but the majority were supportive, adoring, worshipful. . . .