The Storm We Made

The lightning flashed across the sky like a crack in the world, illuminating Carlos's face as he stood on the balcony. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at his phone, thumbs moving in that familiar rhythm—texting her again.

We were supposed to be fixing this. Three days at a resort in Marbella, swimming in the ocean and drinking wine, pretending we hadn't already drowned. But Carlos had spent more time at the padel court than with me, hitting balls back and forth with a woman named Sofia he'd met at the front desk. When I'd confronted him, he'd said I was being paranoid. Said they were just hitting some balls, nothing more.

"Are you coming to bed?" I asked.

He jumped, pocketing his phone. "Yeah. Just needed some air."

He stepped inside, smelling of coconut sunscreen and someone else's perfume. I recognized it now—vanilla and tobacco, the same scent that had been on his collar last week when he'd come home late from that baseball game with his colleagues. The game that had run until midnight, though I'd checked the schedule—the last inning had ended at nine.

We lay in the same bed, oceans apart. I stared at the ceiling, feeling like a zombie going through the motions of a marriage that had already died. Tomorrow we'd fly home, pack boxes, sign papers. But tonight, the storm outside matched the one in my chest, all thunder and fury, with no relief in sight.

The lightning struck again, closer this time. In its brief illumination, I saw Carlos watching me, his eyes wet with tears he'd never actually cry. He looked like a man realizing he'd already lost everything, still hoping for extra innings in a game that had ended long ago.