What We Leave Behind
The palm reader in Santa Monica had told Elena she'd have two great loves. At forty-three, staring at her spinach feta wrap in the breakroom, she was still waiting for the second one to arrive. The firstâMark, with his sandy hair that went silver at thirty and his habit of leaving wet towels on the bedâhad packed his things three months ago.
You should eat, her coworker had said earlier, gesturing at Elena's untouched lunch. You're running on fumes.
She wasn't. She was running on the pure adrenaline of finally being alone, the terrifying quiet of an apartment that no longer held anyone's expectations but her own. Mark had wanted children. She'd wantedâwell, she'd wanted to want them. That gap between them had grown like a slow leak until there was nothing left to hold the relationship together.
The spinach tasted like nothing. Everything had tasted like nothing lately, except whiskey and regret, and she was trying to cut back on both.
Her phone buzzed. Mark: Can I come by Saturday? Still have some boxes in the garage.
She stared at her palm, the lifeline curving shallow, the heart line broken. The palm reader had said Elena would recognize her second great love by his hands. She'd laughed then, at twenty-two, believing love was about destiny and grand gestures instead of compromise andĺżč and the slow erosion of self.
Saturday, she texted back.
Then she stood up, threw away the half-eaten wrap, and walked out of the breakroom. Outside, the LA sun was merciless. A palm tree swayed against a sky so blue it looked artificial. She started runningânot toward anything, not away from anything exactly. Just running, her hair coming loose from its bun, her lungs burning, her feet hitting the pavement with a rhythm that felt almost like prayer.
Somewhere behind her, Mark was probably having lunch with his new girlfriend, someone who wanted children. Somewhere ahead, the second great love the palm reader had promised might or might not be waiting. But Elena was running, and for now, that was enough.