The Last Palm Reading
The hair was the first thing Mara noticed about him—thinning at the crown, still that stubborn auburn she'd remember anywhere. Ten years had reduced Ethan to something resembling a corporate zombie, eyes dulled by spreadsheets and quarterly targets, but the resemblance persisted. He stood by the open bar at Sarah's wake, nursing a drink with both hands like it might anchor him to the earth.
Mara considered leaving before he saw her. Their friendship had ended not with a bang but with the quiet erosion of shared history, the way college drifts into career and calls become texts become holidays. Sarah's death had brought them back into the same room, but the space between them felt oceanic.
"You still doing it?" Ethan asked, appearing at her elbow with fresh drinks. The palm reader setup sat untouched in the corner—Mara had abandoned it hours ago when grief proved too thick for party tricks.
"Not tonight."
"I always thought that was bullshit anyway," he said, too loudly. "All that life line, heart line—"
"Give me your hand."
"What?"
"Your hand. Palm. Let me see."
Something in her voice made him obey. Mara took his hand, the skin familiar and strange at once. His life line was shorter than she remembered, but the heart line had deepened, branching toward the mount of Jupiter. Ambition, sacrifice. The markings of someone who'd loved badly and well.
"You're going to sell the company," she said softly.
Ethan jerked his hand back. "How did you—"
"You're not a zombie, Ethan. You're just tired. The hair doesn't matter. The money never did." She reached for her own drink. "Sarah used to say you were the only one of us who'd actually make something of yourself. She was wrong. You're the only one who forgot what 'something' was supposed to feel like."
He stared at her, eyes wet with something like recognition, and for the first time that night, the space between them felt bridgeable. "I missed you, Mara."
"I know." She clinked her glass against his. "That's why your friend line is so fucking long."