Lines in the Fruit

The papaya sat on my desk like a quiet accusation. Its mottled yellow skin reminded me of unreliable things—of Maya, specifically. Three years since she'd stolen my promotion, and I was still eating lunch alone in the breakroom.

"You look tired, Sarah."

I jumped. Maya's voice. She'd materialized behind me, her blonde hair still cascade-perfect, as if dishonesty agreed with her. "I've been better."

"I heard about Jack." She leaned against the counter, casual. As if she hadn't torpedoed my marriage last year by "accidentally" mentioning my old flame to my husband. As if she weren't systematically dismantling my life while ascending to director.

My palm started sweating against the papaya's skin. A childhood reflex—whenever I'd lied or feared, my palms would prickle with heat. Maya knew this. She'd known since seventh grade when she'd caught me lying about breaking her mother's vase.

"Jack left," I said, flat. "Not much to hear."

Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "That's rough. Want to grab dinner? Like old times?"

Something cracked in me. "Old times? You mean before you took credit for my Q4 projections? Before you told Michael I'd been in love with my college ex? Before—"

"Sarah." She cut me off, voice sharp. "We're still friends. Friends compete. Friends maneuver. You're too... rigid. That's why you're stuck in middle management while I'm running the division."

I looked at her—really looked. The hair, the smile, the tailored blazer. All armor. Beneath it, she was hollow. I'd known her since we were twelve, slept over at her house, cried together when her father died. This person standing before me was a stranger wearing Maya's face.

"We were never friends," I said, surprised by my own calm. "We were just convenient to each other."

I sliced the papaya. Its orange flesh glistened, bright and uncomplicated. Some sweetness you have to earn.

"I don't think we should do dinner," I said, and for the first time in three years, my palm was dry.