What Remains at Low Tide

The fourth text from her ex-friend sat glowing on Mara's iphone screen at 6:14 PM: "heard about the layoff. call if you need."

She'd thought they were done with these performances—the careful reaching out, the graceful declining, the pretense that something hadn't shattered between them last winter. But here it was again, that particular mixture of concern and distance, like checking on a neighbor's house while they're on vacation.

Mara shoved the phone deep into her beach bag and waded into the Pacific. The cold hit her like a slap—shocking, necessary. She'd been swimming every evening since the severance package arrived, trying to exhaust herself enough to sleep.

An old golden retriever paddled past her, chasing a tennis ball with the fierce joy of something that had never been laid off. It belonged to the man two towels down, the one who'd nodded at her yesterday when she'd wept silently into her towel after her first phone interview ended in rejection.

She watched the dog return to shore, shaking water from its coat in an explosion of droplets. The owner caught her eye and raised his hand in a wave—not friendly exactly, but companionable. The way people acknowledged each other at funerals.

"She likes you," he called out. "Don't take it personally. She likes everyone."

Mara treaded water, salt stinging her eyes. "I'm not looking for a friend."

"No one is. That's how they find you."

She thought about that while she swam back to shore, about how her closest friend had become someone who sent texts she couldn't bring herself to answer. How had friendship become something that happened to you instead of something you chose?

Back at her towel, she found the man holding out a orange. "I always bring one for after. The salt makes me crave something sweet."

Mara took it, her fingers brushing his—unintentional contact that felt like a small electricity. "Thanks."

"The interview didn't go well," he said, not asking.

"You heard?"

"You're not exactly quiet when you cry. Also, your iphone kept lighting up with rejection emails."

Mara laughed, surprised. "Wow. Okay."

"I'm Jack. This is Buster. We're between things too."

"Mara."

She peeled the orange, its bright sections a vivid contrast to the gray evening. The juice hit her tongue, sharp and sweet, and she realized she was hungry—actually hungry—for the first time in weeks.

"I got laid off three weeks ago," Jack said. "Buster's the only one who'll still take my calls."

"My friend keeps texting," Mara said, surprising herself. "I keep not answering. I don't know what I want."

"Maybe you don't have to know yet."

The sun dropped lower, painting the water in bruised purples and golds. Buster curled up between them, like a bridge.

"Want to get dinner?" Jack asked. "Nothing heavy. Just food."

Mara looked at her phone, dark on the towel, then at the orange in her hand, then at the stranger who felt suddenly less strange than the person she'd known for seven years.

"Yes," she said. "But nothing fancy. I'm not good for much these days."

"Swimming," he said. "You're good for swimming. And eating oranges. That's something."

Mara smiled—a real one, the first in weeks. "Yeah. I guess it is."