The Art of Treading Water

The corporate retreat was Eleanor's idea of hell, which was ironic considering she was the one who'd pitched it to the board. Forty executives from the regional offices, shipped to a Costa Rican resort for "team building" and "strategic alignment." She'd spent the first three days in her suite, nursing room-service gin and tonics, avoiding the mandatory workshops.

On the fourth night, insomnia drove her to the pool. The Caribbean Sea stretched dark beyond the infinity edge, waves barely audible. She slipped into the water, the temperature shocking her skin. Swimming had always been her escape—the one place where the noise in her head quieted to a rhythmic splash of breath and stroke. Back and forth, breaststroke, counting laps like prayers.

"You're in my lane."

Eleanor stopped mid-stroke, surfacing to find Marcus from the London office perched on the pool's edge, legs dangling in the water. He held a tumbler of amber liquid. They'd slept together twice at last year's leadership summit—a mistake compounded by the fact that he'd taken a promotion she'd been promised.

"It's a resort pool, Marcus. There are no lanes."

He laughed, that too-confident laugh that had charmed her before she knew better. "Fair point." He slid into the water with a splash. "Couldn't sleep either? The networking breakfast starts at seven."

"Rather drown," she said, beginning another lap.

He swam beside her in silence for several minutes. Then: "I hear you're stepping down."

Eleanor stopped swimming. She trod water, watching him. The news hadn't been announced yet. "Where did you hear that?"

"Palm reading." At her expression, he shrugged. "The resort hired this woman for the welcome gala. She grabbed my hand, started talking about someone else's career ending. Turns out she does the exec retreats every year. She's never wrong, apparently."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" He treaded water closer. "You've been distant. Even more than usual. And that thing with the merger last quarter—you didn't fight for it like you would have before."

Eleanor turned onto her back, floating. She'd stopped fighting for anything months ago. "You know what curiosity killed, Marcus."

"The cat," he said softly. "I know. But satisfaction brought it back."

She didn't respond. A calico cat appeared at the pool's edge, tail twitching as it watched them. The same cat she'd seen yesterday, sitting outside the conference room during her presentation.

"I'm not coming back," she said finally. "From the resignation. There's no other position. No better offer. I'm just done."

Marcus was quiet for a long moment. "I envied you, you know. That you could care so much about spreadsheets and market share. I took the promotion because everyone expected me to, not because I wanted it."

The cat jumped onto a lounge chair, curling into a circle. Palm fronds rustled in the breeze above them.

"We're just swimming in circles," Eleanor said. "All of us. Same pool, different strokes."

"Some of us are drowning," Marcus said. "You're the only one who seems to know how to stay afloat."

She watched the stars, bright and distant. "I'm not staying afloat. I'm finally learning to sink properly."

They swam in silence until the sky began to lighten, two strangers who knew each other too well, treading water in a pool that led nowhere.