Lightning in the Palm

The wedding reception dissolved into the kind of humid stillness that makes your clothes cling to your skin. Elena found herself on the balcony with Marcus, her former best friend, the man she'd almost married seven years ago. The air between them had always carried this weight—unspoken things, moments they'd both carefully stepped around like broken glass.

"I started doing palm readings," she said, unable to meet his eyes. "After the divorce. It's funny how you reinvent yourself when everything falls apart."

Marcus laughed, but it was tired. "Let me see." He held out his hand.

Her fingers traced the lines in his palm, the way they once traced the lines of each other's bodies in dark rooms. The life line, deep and unbroken. The heart line, fractured. The fate line, suspiciously absent.

"You're going to live a long time," she said softly. "But you already know that."

His iPhone vibrated in his pocket. He didn't check it, but she saw the tension in his jaw. Third time in ten minutes.

"Is it her?" Elena asked, finally looking at him.

"We're just talking."

"She's twenty-four, isn't she?"

"How did you—"

"I see things, Marcus. Not just in palms." A drop of rain fell on her wrist. "Your fate line is gone. That means you're living someone else's life now."

"You don't believe in that stuff."

"I believe in patterns." She released his hand. "I believe that every time that phone buzzes, a little piece of you dies."

Lightning split the sky beyond the balcony, illuminating everything for a stark white second—his terrible haircut, the expensive suit, the desperation in his eyes. The power inside cut out. Darkness.

"Elena—"

"She won't stay, you know. Girls that age never do."

"I love her."

"No," she said, stepping back into the reception. "You love how she makes you feel. There's a difference."

As she walked away, lightning flashed again, casting her shadow across the balcony floor—long, thin, and finally walking away from him, from seven years of almost, from what they'd almost been.