The Palm Reader's Dinner

The papaya sat on Maya's plate, glistening with lime juice, while Elias studied his own hands like they were foreign objects he'd forgotten how to operate.

"She said I'd lose someone," Elias murmured, tracing the lines on his left palm with his thumb. "The palm reader at that place in Wynwood. Last Tuesday."

Maya speared a piece of the fruit. "And you're telling me this now because?"

"Because she said it would be someone I'd already lost."

The restaurant hummed around them — couples leaning across candlelit tables, the clink of wine glasses, laughter that seemed to belong to strangers. Seven years had passed since Maya and Elias had spoken like this. Really spoken. Not the polite text messages on birthdays or the occasional like on Instagram, but this — the raw, uncomfortable proximity of two people who knew each other's darkest moments and still chose to show up.

"That's conveniently vague," Maya said, though her voice lacked its usual edge. "Could be anyone. Your mother. Your ex."

"She said it would be a friend."

Maya's fork paused halfway to her mouth. The spinach salad at her elbow lay untouched, its emerald leaves already wilting in the restaurant's warmth.

"You invited me to dinner to tell me a fortune cookie knocked up as prophecy?"

"No." Elias finally looked at her. "I invited you because I've spent seven years being right about everything, and somehow I ended up alone. And the palm reader — she was probably a fraud, Maya, I know that — but she looked at my hand and said, 'The line that's broken here, that's where someone used to be.'"

Maya set down her fork. The papaya on her plate had turned to mush.

"I didn't leave because I stopped caring," she said quietly. "I left because you stopped letting anyone in."

"I know."

"Then why are we here?"

Elias reached across the table, palm up.

"Because she said something else. She said broken lines can grow back."

Maya looked at his hand, then at him. Something in her chest cracked open — a dormant thing, painful and necessary.

"I don't believe in palm readers, Elias."

"Me neither." His fingers curled slightly, inviting. "But I believe in second chances."

Outside, rain began to fall on the palm trees that lined the street. Maya didn't take his hand, but she didn't move away either.

"Order me some wine," she said. "And let's never talk about papayas again."