Under the Palm

Margot stood by the infinity **pool**, the water's surface blurring into the ocean beyond. She adjusted the wide-brimmed **hat**—Elena's **hat**—pulling it low over her eyes. Three days ago, she'd been furious enough to leave. Now, she was just tired.

The resort was a cruel gift, a final attempt at repair. But some things don't fix. Some cracks are where the light gets in, and some are just structural failure.

She thought about her mother's **palm**, lined like a map that promised longevity but never happiness. The psychic at her bachelorette party had traced those lines with a nicotine-stained finger, promising true love, children, a life that stretched long and full. Margot had laughed then, buoyed by champagne and certainty. Now, at thirty-seven, the future felt less like a promise and more like a narrowing corridor.

A bellboy approached with another complimentary drink. She waved him away.

"Mrs. Caldwell?" The young woman's voice cut through her reverie. Margot turned slowly. It was the concierge, holding out a phone. "Your husband's on line two. He says it's important."

Margot looked at the receiver, then back at the **pool**, where other couples drifted on inflatable lounges, hands touching, heads bent together in the illusion of intimacy. She thought about the suitcase in her room, half-packed, then unpacked, then packed again.

"Tell him I'm sorry," she said, adjusting the brim of Elena's **hat**. "Tell him I can't come to the phone right now."

The concierge hesitated, uncertain.

"Tell him," Margot continued, "that some things are better left unsaid."

She walked toward the **palm** trees swaying at the edge of the property, toward the road that led away from the resort, away from the **pool**, away from the life she'd outgrown. The **hat** shaded her face, but for the first time in years, she could see clearly.