Chlorine and Other Cures

The hotel pool was empty at 6 AM, which was exactly why Maya chose this hour. She slipped into the water, the chlorine stinging her eyes like truth. Another bottle of prenatal vitamins sat on her nightstand upstairs—his suggestion, not hers. Three months of trying, three months of careful timing, three months of increasingly clinical conversations that had somehow replaced the laughter they used to share.

She floated on her back, staring at the ceiling where morning light strained through skylights. Her phone buzzed on the deck. The office betting pool. They'd all placed wagers on which division would be gutted first when the merger announced next week. Maya had put two hundred on herself—a hedge against the universe's tendency toward the dramatic.

"You're bearing up well," David had told her last night, his hand on her shoulder instead of her skin. "Bearing up"—like this was something to endure rather than experience together.

She'd found the receipt in his wallet yesterday. Prenatal vitamins. For his ex-girlfriend's sister. The timeline didn't add up, or maybe it added up too perfectly.

Maya swam to the edge and pulled herself out, water dripping like a second skin she couldn't quite shed. She picked up her phone. Twelve messages from David. None asking where she was.

She opened the betting app and changed her wager. Not on her own division, but on his.

The vitamin bottle on her nightstand wasn't hope. It was evidence.

She texted him: Pack your things.

Then she lay back on the lounge chair and watched the sunlight move across the water, feeling lighter than she had in months.