Still Waters

The lake was glass-flat at dawn, not a ripple disturbing the mirror of gray sky reflected back. Elena stood on the dock with a paper cup of water she'd drawn from the tap, watching the steam rise in the cold morning air. She was forty-three now, and her body reminded her daily—knees clicking when she stood, the new constellation of fine lines around her eyes.

Behind her, the rental cabin door opened. Sarah stepped out, pulling a knit hat low over her salt-and-pepper hair. They hadn't spoken since the funeral, three years of silence thick as the fog rolling across the water.

"I'm not doing the vitamins anymore," Sarah said, her voice gravelly with sleep. "The doctor says they're placebos anyway."

Elena turned. The old anger flared, hot and familiar. "You always did quit things halfway through."

"Including us?" Sarah's mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile.

The accusation hung between them, heavier than the humid air. They had been friends once—drinking cheap wine on fire escapes, conspiring against mediocre bosses, nursing each other through heartbreaks and career failures. Then Elena got the promotion Sarah wanted. Then Sarah slept with Elena's fiancé. Then Mark's heart gave out at forty-two, and they found themselves together at a graveside, united by grief but separated by everything else.

"I'm sorry," Sarah said quietly.

"For Mark? Or for us?"

"For not being the friend you deserved."

Elena looked at her—the woman who knew her secrets, her passwords, the precise way she took her coffee. Some debts never cleared.

She held out the paper cup. "Here. The water here's supposed to have healing properties."

Sarah took it. Their fingers brushed, brief and electric.

"You don't believe that," Sarah said.

"No," Elena said. "But I believe in second chances. Even if they're probably placebos too."

Sarah laughed—really laughed—for the first time in years. The sound rippled across the water.

"I'll drink to that," she said, and tipped the cup back.