glasses. Handing one to me, she led us to a sunken living room that afforded us views of the dark blue Pacific. I chose a Danish-style leather-upholstered chair; Freya curled up on the white sofa, pulling a white blanket across her lap. She was the kind of person who could drink red wine on white furniture. I was not.
“This house is amazing,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said, looking around her as if seeing it for the first time. “Too bad it’s not in New York or LA. Or anywhere that’s civilized. But then we wouldn’t be able to afford it, since we settled the lawsuit.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, unsure of an appropriate response.
Freya looked at me intently. “Does this feel strange to you?”
“What?”
“Us. Our friendship.”
“It feels great to me.” I covered. “I mean, it feels normal.”
Freya sipped her wine. “I’m so much older than you, but I feel so close to you. I was lonely. Maybe even depressed. And then you came along and now . . . I just feel lighter and happier.”
My voice came out a croak. “Me too.”
“I thought I had friends before, but I didn’t. I had fans and followers. I had acquaintances. When the shit hit the fan, they disappeared. Poof.”
“I-I’m sorry.”
“But now I have you. And I know you’d never let me down like that.”
I was about to say that I wouldn’t. No matter how many people her husband killed, I would have her back. But she kept talking.
“I’m grateful for the stuff I’ve been through. I can read people now. I can tell who’s a shallow hanger-on, and who’s a true, quality friend.” She drank more wine. “I’m more complicated and interesting now. Strife builds character, you know. People who have never experienced hardship just don’t get it.”
I was so desperate to grow our connection, to show her that I was complicated and interesting, too, that I decided to share the details about my unconventional family.
“My parents are polyamorous,” I blurted. “They have a girlfriend who lives on our property.”
Freya stared at me for a beat, and then her face lit up. “Oh my god . . . Do you live in a sex cult?”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“But your parents are swingers.”
“Poly is different. They have multiple relationships, but everyone is in love. And they just have a normal amount of sex, I think. At least now that they’re middle-aged.”
Just then, a man walked into the room. He was tall—much taller than I was—and muscular. He was all right angles: square jaw, square shoulders, big strong arms and legs. . . . He was wearing sweats (but expensive sweats) and a fitted black T-shirt. A few curls of dark hair peeped out from under a black knitted hat. His eyes were brown, almost black, and his skin tone was warm. (The next day, when I googled him, I found out that he was Métis, a descendant of Indigenous peoples and French settlers.) He had a bit of dark stubble above his lip and on his chin. He was serious, unsmiling . . . and ridiculously attractive. So this was Freya’s husband.
“Hey, Max,” Freya said. “This is Low. She lives in a sex cult.”
I blushed to my ankles. “No, I don’t!”
“Hi,” Max muttered, as if living in a sex cult was like living in a duplex.
“N-nice to meet you,” I managed, my heart thudding audibly in his presence.
Freya asked him. “How was your run?”
I noticed that he was sweaty and breathing heavily. My heart began to flutter. My romantic feelings may have been ambiguous, but at that moment, in the presence of this aggressively masculine specimen, I was decidedly hetero.
“Good,” he said, pulling off his hat, revealing thick black waves of hair. Jesus Christ.
“Join us for a drink?” Freya suggested.
His face darkened. “I’m going take a shower.”
“You’re no fun,” she said to his departing back. And then to me: “He says he’s quit drinking, but I’m not buying it. Anyway . . .” She stood, picking up my glass, which, to my surprise, was empty. “More for us.”
“No, thanks,” I said, but she was already in the kitchen, already refilling both of our glasses.
“You can’t let me drink alone, Low.”
Freya returned and handed me the glass. She’d brought the bottle with her, which I instinctively knew was a bad sign. Or was it a good sign? I felt giddy and relaxed and happy, and I didn’t want it to end. So I went with it.
“So . . . ,” Freya said, continuing her inquiry, “are