The Last Supper at Casa del Sol

The ceiling fan sliced through humid air as Elena picked at her papaya, the fruit's ripe sweetness cloying against the bitterness in her mouth. Across the small wrought-iron table, David was still talking about the presentation, his hands moving in excited gestures, his palms perpetually damp with nervous sweat.

"It's a pyramid scheme, Elena," he said, stabbing at his spinach as if it had personally offended him. "Multi-level marketing, but with crypto. The guys at the top make millions. We could be those guys."

She watched a trickle of juice run down his chin. They'd come to this resort to save their marriage—or to determine whether it was worth saving. Five days of marriage counseling disguised as a vacation, and instead he'd spent every moment on his phone, messaging former college teammates about his latest venture. One of them had been a baseball player in the minors for three seasons before washing out. Now he sold insurance in Phoenix and lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment.

"You hate sales," Elena said softly. Outside, a palm tree frond scraped against the balcony railing, a dry, persistent sound. "You hated it at the software company, you hated it when you tried real estate. What makes you think this time will be different?"

David's jaw tightened. The fan blades kept spinning, rhythmic and indifferent.

"Because this time I have nothing to lose," he said, and the way he said it—so quiet, so raw—made Elena's chest tighten. He wasn't talking about money.

They'd met at a baseball game eighteen years ago. She'd been wearing her father's old cap, eating lukewarm spinach artichoke dip from a paper cup. He'd bought her a fresh one after the vendor dropped hers. That small gesture had seemed like everything then.

Now she watched him push his chair back and walk to the railing, his silhouette dark against the Caribbean sunset. The pyramid scheme wasn't about money at all. It was about proving he was still someone who could make things happen, someone worth betting on. Someone she might still choose.

Elena stood up and crossed to him, the papaya forgotten on her plate. She took his hand—his palm was still damp—and pressed it flat against her own cheek.

"I'm not investing," she said. "But I'm not leaving either. Not yet."

David turned to her, and for the first time in five days, he looked like the man she'd married. The sun dipped below the horizon, and for a moment, neither of them moved.