The Last Lap

The last time I saw Marcus, he was standing by the hotel pool. I was doing laps—breaststroke, always breaststroke—because it was the only thing that quieted the static in my head.

"Your therapist says you're swimming too much," he called out. I didn't stop. The pool was my church, and the chlorine was my incense.

When I finally hauled myself out, he was waiting with a vitamin D supplement and that look he got when he was about to say something rehearsed. The same look he'd had when he told me he was moving his podcast studio into our bedroom.

"You're thirty-five," he said, pressing the vitamin into my wet palm. "Your bone density peaks soon. We talked about this."

"I don't want to live to ninety if I spend the next fifty-five years terrified of everything," I said, and the words felt like breaking glass.

Marcus's face went still. "I'm trying to build a life where you don't have to be afraid. A compound in Austin, solar-powered, with a pool you can swim in every morning. I run the numbers while you sleep, Maya. I optimize our survival."

"Survival," I repeated. "Not living."

The sun was setting across the water. I thought about how we'd met at a pharmacy—me picking up Xanax, him hunting for the perfect multivitamin. He'd asked about B12 absorption, and I'd said I was empty most of the time anyway. He'd laughed, and I'd let myself believe that someone who cared about biochemistry might eventually learn to care about the messy chemistry between people.

"I'll meet you at the room," I said.

"Maya—"

"I need to finish my laps."

I dove back in. The water swallowed the sound of him walking away. Under the surface, everything was muffled and blue. I pushed off the wall, strong and clean, and for a moment, I wasn't swimming toward anything. I was just swimming.

When I climbed out, the pool was empty. The vitamin was on a chair, dissolving into a damp white circle.

I didn't take it.