The Weight of Water

The storm rolled in across the lake while we were swimming. You could taste it in the air—metallic, electric, heavy with something about to break. Marcus and I had been coming to this cabin for seven years, but tonight the water felt different. Colder. Maybe it was just the approaching front, or maybe it was the conversation we'd been avoiding for months.

'Marcus,' I said, treading water as the first drops began to streak the surface like erratic scars. 'The cat's not coming back.'

He didn't answer at once. Just watched the distant treeline where lightning had begun stitching itself between clouds. 'I know,' he said finally. 'I know she's gone. But I keep thinking—I should've checked the garage before I left for the conference. I should've—'

'It's been three months.' I swam closer, reached for his hand in the darkening water. 'You carry everything, Marcus. You've been carrying it around like a wounded bear all these years, ever since your brother died. The miscarriage. My mother's stroke. You just hunker down and wait it out, don't you? Growl through the pain and pretend it's not eating you alive.'

Another flash of lightning illuminated his face—gaunt, exhausted, older than thirty-five had any right to look. 'That's what men do, Elena. They carry.'

'Some things are too heavy to carry alone.' I moved into his space then, wrapped my legs around his waist there in the water while the storm finally broke open above us. 'Maybe we both drown. Or maybe we learn to swim differently.'

He buried his face in my neck as the rain came down in sheets, warm against the cold lake water, and for the first time in months—since the cat disappeared, since we stopped speaking in anything but logistics—I felt his shoulders shake. 'I'm so tired,' he whispered against my skin. 'I'm so goddamn tired of being strong.'

'Then stop,' I said, holding him as the sky tore itself apart above us. 'Just stop. Let it break you. I've got you.'

We stayed like that until we were shivering, until the storm had passed inland and the first stars pricked the clearing sky, swimming back to shore together—not walking, not floating, but moving together for the first time in forever.