“Has he retired now?” I asked.

“Sort of,” she said, eyes on the perfect cylinder forming under her expert touch. “He was forced to leave a couple of years ago. After he killed someone.”

Abruptly, I pulled my hands from the tower of clay, my precarious structure caving in on itself. “Oh my god.”

Freya’s voice was nonchalant. “It was an illegal hit. Broke the guy’s neck. He was paralyzed from the waist down. And then . . .” She finally released her vase and looked up. “He overdosed on his pain meds.”

It was wrong to be relieved—it was still terrible, a man was still dead—but Freya had made it sound like cold-blooded murder.

“So, it wasn’t your husband’s fault,” I said.

“Tell that to the dead guy’s family,” she snapped, and her face darkened. “They sued us for millions. It wasn’t enough that Max’s career was ruined. That he pled guilty to assault charges. We’ve been harassed online and in real life. We’ve had to move to the middle of fucking nowhere and still . . . they had to make us pay.”

Freya hated these people who had lost their son, their brother, their uncle; she had no compassion, no empathy for them. Perhaps I should have taken note. But I didn’t. Instead, I stammered, “I-I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Low.” Freya looked at me for a long moment. “You know, if you want to come to the studio more often, you’re welcome to. It’s hard to get much done in just one session a week. Besides”—she smiled, and she looked ridiculously pretty—“I enjoy your company.”

Something bloomed inside of me, spreading warmth to my stomach, my chest, and my throat. Her attention nourished me. It filled the empty place in my soul, cast light into the dark shadows of my psyche. Even if I had known then how it would all end, I wouldn’t have walked away.

I couldn’t.

3

I know what you’re thinking: I was in love with her. And I was, in a way. But a crush is far too simplistic a term for what we shared. Romantic love doesn’t even begin to convey our bond. Freya and I had a soul connection. I know that sounds like something I read in one of my parent’s New Agey books (and it is), but it’s also the truth. My friendship with Freya felt complex, profound, and eternal. She made me feel like a whole person, for the first time in my life.

My sexuality, at seventeen, remained undefined. I had, on occasion, had crushes on boys and, as often, on girls. These feelings had all gone unreciprocated, though, which prevented me from declaring a preference. And while I longed for a romantic relationship, it wasn’t about sex for me. I wanted intimacy and connection but felt no need to get naked and swap bodily fluids. I might have been biromantic asexual. Or maybe I was a bisexual late bloomer. There was no pressure to label myself. I was raised in a progressive community, in an unconventional family. I was taught to have an open mind. My polyamorous parents led by example.