Fruit of the Storm

The papaya sat between us on the poolside table, its orange flesh already turning soft where I'd cut it earlier. Rain sheeted down around the infinity pool's edge, blurring the horizon until the Caribbean sea became nothing but a smear of gray.

"Your phone," Elena said, not looking up from her wine.

I glanced at the iPhone on the table. Screen lit up again—another notification from work, from her, from the life I'd supposedly left behind in Chicago. "I should turn it off."

"You should have turned it off three days ago." She sliced through another piece of papaya, juice running down her wrist. "That's the problem with you, Marcus. You're never really anywhere. You're always waiting for the next message."

A flash of lightning cracked the sky open, violet branching through the clouds. For a second, everything turned stark and bright—her face, the wet chairs, the pulse of water falling into the pool from the overflow drain. Then darkness rushed back in, heavier than before.

"That's unfair," I said, but the words felt hollow.

"Is it?" She stood up, letting her robe fall open over her swimsuit. "I'm going in the pool. You can join me, or you can answer that phone. But you can't do both."

She stepped into the water fully clothed, like we used to do in college, before promotions and stock options and carefully curated Instagram posts. The rain pelted the surface around her in chaotic circles.

My iPhone buzzed again. I watched it slide across the wet table, toward the papaya, toward the edge.

Behind me, lightning struck somewhere offshore. The thunder rolled through my chest like something breaking open.

I left the phone where it was and walked into the water.