Chlorine and Regret

The pool was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly why Elena had chosen this hour. Forty-two years old and she was still sneaking out of corporate retreats like a teenager avoiding chaperones. The water beckoned—chlorine-scented and impossibly still. She hadn't gone swimming in years, not since the miscarriage that had ended her first marriage and her ability to look at her body without seeing a graveyard of possibilities.

She slipped into the water, and it was like being held. Like being forgiven. The weightlessness made her think of David, asleep in room 312, probably dreaming of the promotion he'd come here to secure. David, who packed spinach smoothies for her every morning because her doctor said her iron was low. David, who had started looking at her like she was a problem he couldn't quite solve.

The glass doors slid open. David.

He stood at the edge, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. "Couldn't sleep either."

"No."

"The spinach," he said. "In the blender this morning. I forgot to wash the container."

She treaded water, watching him. "What?"

"There was mold in the lid. You've been drinking mold for three weeks." He sat on the edge, feet dangling in the water. "I'm sorry, El. I've been trying so hard to fix everything that I've been breaking it instead."

She swam to him. The water lapped against his shins. "I don't need fixing, David. I need you to see me."

He nodded, then something shifted in his expression. "I saw the email, by the way. The headhunter. The one in Seattle."

Elena went still. "I haven't decided."

"I know." He pulled off his socks. "Move with me. Or don't. But let's decide together. Not at 2 AM, not in silence. Over breakfast. Actual food, preferably not spinach."

He slid into the pool beside her, fully clothed. They floated there in the chemical-blue dark, not touching, not speaking, just two people suspended in the space between who they'd been and who they might become. For the first time in months, Elena thought maybe they'd find their way to shore together.