The Weight of Sweet Things

Mara sat on the balcony of the Tulum hotel room, watching the papaya on the table soften in the humidity. It was already spotted with brown, too ripe now, much like everything between them.

"You're going to let it rot," Jack said from behind her. He didn't turn from his packing.

"It's already rotting."

She traced the lines of her left palm, the one the bruja on the beach had read that morning. *You carry heavy things,* the old woman had said in Spanish, pressing a thumb into Mara's hand. *Things that were never yours to bear.*

The bear tattoo on Jack's shoulder had been the first thing she'd loved about him, seven years ago. A grizzly, roaring and permanent, inked when he was drunk and twenty-two. She'd traced it countless times since, her fingers following the outline of muscles and fur, thinking it made him fierce. Now she saw it for what it was: a boy's idea of strength, a permanent reminder that some things look like protection until you're close enough to see the teeth.

"The conference ends tomorrow," he said, his voice tight. "We need to decide."

Decide. As if their marriage was a papaya you could cut open and scoop clean.

She stood up and walked to the table. The fruit gave beneath her touch, skin splitting to reveal shocking orange flesh. The scent hit her—sweet, cloying, fermenting. Like Jack's cologne mixed with someone else's perfume, the scent still clinging to his dress shirt from last night's "networking event."

"I'm not bearing this anymore," she said.

"What?" He finally turned.

"The weight. The secrets. Your goddamn bear tattoo." She picked up the papaya and held it like a heart. "You think I don't know? You think I can't smell her on you?"

The silence stretched, broken only by palm fronds rustling in the wind below. Jack's face cracked open, something like relief warring with panic.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the terrible thing was that he meant it.

"Sorry doesn't fix rot," she said, and dropped the fruit into the wastebasket. "It just makes sure nothing grows from it."

She walked out, leaving him to his packing, his bear, his truths she'd carried too long. The palm reader was right: it wasn't hers to bear. It never had been.