Weight of Water

The engagement party was in full swing around the infinity pool, guests laughing with champagne flutes that caught the California sunset. Elena stood apart from them, nursing her drink, feeling like she was carrying a bear on her shoulders—-heavy, lumbering, impossible to conceal.

She'd slept with Marcus three nights ago. Her fiancé David's best friend. The bear had followed her home, sat beside her at breakfast, and now watched her from across the pool as David's golden retriever paddled happily through the chlorinated water, chasing a tennis ball with the simple devotion she no longer felt entitled to.

"You okay?" Marcus appeared beside her, smelling of expensive gin and the particular cologne she'd washed from her sheets that morning.

"The dog," she said, pointing. "Look at him."

"What about him?"

"He doesn't know he's swimming in chemicals. He just thinks he's found paradise."

Marcus was quiet. Then: "David's going to propose to you tonight. In front of everyone."

"I know."

"Are you going to say yes?"

The bear pressed down harder. She remembered Marcus's hands, the way he'd whispered her name like it was something sacred and stolen, the three years of friendship they'd sacrificed for three hours of something else. She remembered David's kindness, his patience, the way he'd built a life around her like a shelter she'd never asked for but couldn't bring herself to leave.

The retriever emerged from the pool, shaking droplets everywhere, grinning with that terrible optimism that made everything worse.

"Elena?" Marcus asked.

She set her glass down on a stone table. "I'm going to say yes."

The bear on her shoulders settled in, permanent now. She would marry David. She would never tell him about Marcus. The dog would keep swimming in its chemical paradise, and she would learn to do the same.

Some pools, you don't climb out of. You just learn to hold your breath longer.