The Line on Your Palm

The fortune teller's booth smelled of incense and desperation. Elena hesitated, then sat across from the woman with the too-bright lipstick.

"Your palm," the woman said, extending a hand with chipped red polish. "Let me see."

Elena placed her hand in the stranger's grip, thinking suddenly of Richard. Richard, who had traced the lines on her palm twenty years ago, drunk on cheap beer and the certainty that they'd be friends forever. They'd been sitting on the hood of his car, behind the abandoned baseball field where they'd met in little league. He'd told her the lifeline meant she'd live to ninety, the heart line meant she'd love deeply and foolishly.

"You're going to meet someone," Richard had said, his thumb pressing into her skin. "Someone who'll make you forget all about me."

He'd been wrong about the forgetting part.

"Your heart line is broken," the fortune teller said now, her nail catching on a scar Elena had gotten in college, cooking spinach for a dinner Richard never showed up for. The oil had splattered, leaving a permanent reminder. "Two great loves. One you chose, one you let go."

Elena pulled her hand back. "This is ridiculous."

"Is it?" The woman's eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, held something knowing. "The one you let go—they're still with you. Every day."

Elena walked out into the humid afternoon. She pulled out her phone, scrolled to Richard's name in her contacts. They hadn't spoken in three years, not since his wife found the old emails. Not since Elena realized that being his friend meant always wanting more.

The baseball diamond was still there behind the community center. She drove past it slowly. Richard had taught her to hit when she was twelve, standing behind her, guiding her swing. "Eye on the ball, El. Always keep your eye on what matters."

She pulled over. Her hand, the one with the broken heart line, hovered over her phone.

Some loves, she realized, you don't get to choose. They're like the scar on your palm—part of you, messy and permanent. Richard would always be the baseball games, the spinach burns, the laughter in empty parking lots. He would always be the almost.

Elena put the phone away and drove home, where her husband was cooking dinner. Something with spinach. She would eat it and smile and love him enough for both of them. Some lines, after all, you don't cross twice.