What Remains in the Off-Season

The papaya sat on the counter, untouched since Tuesday. Tomas had bought it at the market—said it would be perfect for breakfast, something fresh to start their new chapter. But Elena hadn't been able to touch it. Its mottled yellow skin seemed to mock her from across the kitchen, another reminder of all the things they'd planned that now lay in ruins.

She laced her running shoes anyway, though she hadn't run since the accident. The doctor said she could, but something in her recoiled from the rhythm of it, the pound of pavement against bone, the way each footfall echoed with Tomas's absence. Three weeks ago, they'd been training for a marathon together. Now she ran alone, if you could call it that—mostly walking, really, along the empty beach road where vacation rentals stood dark behind hurricane shutters.

The golden retriever appeared on day four, mangy and ribs showing through dull fur. She named him Bear because he lumbered when he walked and because his presence felt larger than his skinny frame should allow. He followed her everywhere, waiting outside the bathroom, sleeping against the bedroom door. Tomas had wanted a dog. They'd agreed to wait until after the wedding.

On the seventh day, Elena stood at the edge of the ocean. She hadn't been swimming since she was a girl growing up in landlocked Ohio, but something pulled her forward—maybe the salt air, maybe the way the waves kept coming regardless of who watched them. She waded in fully clothed, letting the Atlantic swallow her piece by piece, until only her head remained above water. The cold shocked her lungs, woke something in her chest that had been sleeping since the phone call, since the police knock, since the ground had dropped out beneath her feet.

Bear barked from the shore, anxious, then quiet. A woman walking her own dog stopped to watch. Elena treaded water, tears mixing with salt, and realized she could stay here forever or she could swim back to shore. Either way, the ocean would keep moving. The papaya would keep ripening on the counter. Tomas would stay dead.

She swam back.

That night, she finally cut into the fruit. It was overripe, the flesh soft and fermenting-sweet, and she ate it standing at the counter with Bear's warm weight pressed against her leg. The juice ran down her chin, sticky and alive, and for the first time in weeks, she didn't want to scrub herself clean.