Palm Shadows at Sunset

The prescription bottle sat on the nightstand — D vitamin supplements Dr. Morales insisted she take after the miscarriage. Elena stared at it, the orange plastic cylinder catching the last amber light through the balcony doors. Outside, palm fronds etched shadows across the floor, their rhythmic swaying in the evening breeze somehow obscene in their casual indifference.

She shouldn't have come to this wedding. She shouldn't be staying in the same resort as him.

"Elena?"

She didn't turn. She knew David's voice — soft, apologetic, the same tone he'd used when explaining why he'd needed space, why he couldn't be her friend anymore, why he'd chosen his promotion over her sexual harassment complaint against their boss. Three years of whispered confessions during smoke breaks, of covering each other's shifts when life became too much, of being the only person who knew about her mother's dementia. All sacrificed for a corner office.

"Your friend is looking for you," he said. "Sarah. From accounting."

Elena finally turned. He stood in the doorway, handsome and uncomfortable in his tailored suit, his palm resting on the doorframe as if he owned the space between them. The air conditioning hummed, an artificial breeze against the tropical heat pressing at the windows.

"She's not my friend," Elena said. "She's my colleague."

"Right." David shifted his weight. "I saw you by the pool earlier. Swimming laps like you were trying to drown something."

"Exercise, David. It's just exercise."

"You looked —" He stopped. "Never mind."

What had he seen? Her fury? Her grief? The way she'd surfaced gasping each time, as if breaking through something thicker than water? Or perhaps he'd simply seen a woman who'd learned to live without oxygen, without the people who'd promised to stay.

"Dr. Morales says I should take these with dinner," she said, gesturing to the vitamin bottle. "For bone health. For what the stress took."

David's face cracked — something like guilt, or maybe just indigestion. "Elena, about what happened—"

"I'm going down to the beach," she said, grabbing the bottle and shaking two pills into her palm. Their small white shapes against her skin looked like teeth, or pearls, or secrets swallowed whole. "Don't follow me."

She could feel his gaze as she walked past, as she descended to where the ocean dragged itself against the shore. The reception would start in an hour. She'd dance with Sarah from accounting. She'd smile at the bride. She'd swallow what refused to die.

But first, she'd stand here at the edge of the water, toes in the sand, and let the tide come to her. Not like something to be conquered. Not like something to be escaped. Just water, accepting whatever she brought to it.