What the Palm Reads

The hurricane was supposed to miss them entirely. That's what the concierge had said with that practiced smile, handing them complementary cocktails as if alcohol could weather-proof a vacation. Now Elena stood on their balcony, her wet hair plastered against her neck like dark seaweed, watching the palm trees bend nearly horizontal in the wind.

Marcus was inside, sitting at the small desk with his back to the sliding glass door. He'd been there for hours, his laptop glowing blue in the gathering dark. The storm had knocked out the resort's wifi hours ago, but he kept typing anyway—emails that wouldn't send, messages to people who weren't waiting for them.

"You're going to get sick," he said without turning around. His voice was flat, the way it had been since Christmas.

Elena stepped back inside, water dripping from her onto the tile floor. "I needed air."

"There's no air out there. Just wind and rain." Marcus finally turned. His eyes went to her soaked dress, the way it clung to her, then quickly away. "You look like a drowned rat."

The old Elena would have made a joke, would have peeled off the dress and pressed her cold body against his, daring him to warm her. The old Elena knew that drowning rats could still bite. But she just reached for a towel, wrapping it around herself like armor.

"Did you hear what I said?" she asked. "Before I went outside."

Marcus's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped beneath his skin, subtle as lightning flash without thunder. "I heard you."

"And?"

"And what, Elena? We're supposed to have this conversation now? During a hurricane?" He gestured at the darkness beyond the glass, where palm fronds whipped violently against the wind. "Can't we just—can't we get through this week first?"

"There might not be a week," she said quietly. "Not for us."

The wind howled like something grieving. Rain hammered the glass, relentless, demanding entry. Elena looked at Marcus's hands—the hands that had once held hers so loosely, like he was afraid she might slip away. Now they rested on his keyboard, fingers curled, palms turned downward. Defeated.

"I'm not happy," he said, so softly she almost missed it beneath the storm.

"I know," she said. "Neither am I."

"I don't think I have been for years."

"Me neither."

Marcus looked up then, really looked at her, and she saw it: the exhaustion, the relief of finally saying it, the terrible bright certainty that some things, once broken, can't be fixed by cocktails or concerts or promises to do better next time. The resignation was as sharp and sudden as lightning splitting the sky outside.

"What do we do?" he asked.

Elena moved to the window, watching the water stream down the glass like tears she couldn't remember crying. Somewhere in the storm, a palm tree cracked.

"We weather this," she said. "Then we figure out what comes after."