What the Storm Uncovered

The rain had been falling for three days when Elena showed up at my door with a carrier in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Her cat—an ancient orange tabby named Barnaby—blinked at me from behind wire mesh. I hadn't seen Elena in six months, not since the office Christmas party where she'd kissed me in the supply closet and then pretended nothing happened. She was supposed to be my best friend.

"I couldn't bear the apartment anymore," she said, pushing past me. "Jim moved out last week. Took everything except the cat."

I took the whiskey. "You should have called."

"And said what?" Elena dropped her bag. "That my marriage imploded? That I'm thirty-five and starting over? That I can't stop thinking about—"

Lightning flashed, illuminating the scar above her eyebrow, white against pale skin.

"Make yourself at home."

We drank until the bottle was half-empty, watching the water rise beneath the porch. The lake had been threatening its banks for days; now, dark currents lapped at the support beams.

"I never meant to hurt you," Elena said.

"You didn't." I poured more whiskey. "I made choices. You made yours."

She laughed, dark and jagged. "God, you sound just like him. Like it's all so reasonable."

Barnaby emerged from the carrier and demanded the porch. I watched through glass as he stalked the railing, tail twitching. Something moved in the trees—shadows, or perhaps nothing.

"There's a bear," I said. "Been coming around all spring. Old male, scars on his muzzle."

"Are you afraid of him?"

"I used to be." I turned back to Elena. "Then I realized we're all just animals trying to survive. He's got reasons for what he does. Same as me. Same as you."

Her eyes filled. "I made a mistake. Choosing Jim. Choosing safety."

The lights died. In darkness, lightning strobed—Elena's hand reaching, the cat crouched by the screen, the glass reflecting our ghosts.

"Come here," I said.

She collapsed into my arms, and there it was—the thing we'd been bearing for years, heavier than any marriage, older than the bear in the woods, more persistent than the water rising beneath the floorboards.

"We can't," she whispered, even as her fingers found mine.

"I know."

Outside, the storm broke open the sky. The lake overflowed, swallowing the garden, the porch steps, the world we'd built apart.

Barnaby howled at the thunder.

We held each other in the dark.