What the Palm Reader Didn't Say

Maya stood outside the apartment they'd shared for seven years, key heavy in her hand. The palm reader at that boardwalk carnival in Jersey had traced her life line with a nicotine-stained finger and promised longevity, a full life. She hadn't mentioned that sometimes the longest years were the ones you spent leaving.

Buster—God, she still hated the name—pressed his wet nose against her leg through the open car door. The golden retriever they'd adopted three months before everything fell apart. David was getting the apartment. She was getting the dog, and wasn't that perfect? She was running from the mortgage; he was running from responsibility.

"You're doing the right thing," Sarah had told her over drinks last night, palm resting reassuringly on Maya's shoulder. Sarah didn't know about the miscarriage two years ago, or how David had held her in the hospital bathroom, or how they'd never quite learned how to be people together again after that.

The front door opened. David stood there in the boxers she'd bought him last Christmas, holding a coffee mug with a chip in the rim—the one they'd made at that couples' pottery class, trying to fix something already broken.

"You forgot this," he said, extending his palm. In it lay the small wooden box with her grandmother's earrings.

Maya took it without speaking. Their fingers brushed—just a second, accidental electricity.

"I'll let you know about Buster's vet appointments," he said.

"Right."

"Maya."

"Don't."

She got in the car. The dog settled onto the passenger seat with a sigh, resting his head on her thigh. She backed out of the driveway, the rearview mirror framing David standing on the porch, growing smaller. Palm trees lined the street—they'd moved to California for his job, another compromise she'd made without noticing.

The therapist said grief wasn't linear. She said you could love someone and still leave them. Maya wasn't sure she believed either statement, but she kept driving anyway, the dog warm against her, the palm reader's words ringing in her ears like a curse: long life, long life, long life.

Somewhere ahead, traffic on the 405 was probably backed up. Somewhere ahead, she'd figure out how to be alone again. For now, she just drove.