What We Lost in the Water

The chlorine stung my eyes, but I kept them open underwater. This was what I needed—the muffled silence, the weightlessness, the blue that blocked out everything. When I broke the surface, gasping, my wet hair plastered against my skull like a second skin, I saw him on the pool deck.

Marcus held two cocktails, the condensation already dripping down the glass. He'd ordered me something pink and fruity, the kind of drink I'd stopped ordering five years ago when I'd decided to be taken seriously at the firm.

"Your father called," he said as I climbed out, water cascading off my shoulders. "The dog died."

Buster. The golden retriever we'd adopted the week after we moved in together, the one who'd slept between us every night for eleven years, who'd chewed through Marcus's favorite loafers and my grandmother's vintage scarf, who we'd both loved more than we'd loved each other for the last three of those years.

I wrapped myself in the rough hotel towel and sat on the lounge chair beside him. "When?"

"Yesterday. They found him in the backyard. Peaceful, your dad said."

Marcus's hand hovered over my shoulder, then fell away. We'd forgotten how to touch each other somewhere between the missed anniversary dinners and the nights I worked late to avoid coming home, between the couples therapy we quit after three sessions and the silence that filled our bedroom like a third presence.

"I should be there," I said, looking out at the pool. The water rippled in the artificial wind, distorting the reflection of the palms. "I should have been with him."

"You couldn't have known."

"I could have visited. I haven't been home in eight months, Marcus."

I thought of Buster waiting for me at the front door, the way his tail would thump against the wall even when I came home angry or exhausted or secretly wishing I'd married someone else. He'd never stopped loving me, even when I'd been unlovable.

"I'm going back," I said, standing up. "To pack my things."

Marcus looked up at me, his eyes reflecting the pool water—blue and unreadable. "The house?"

"Everything."

The dog was gone. The marriage had been gone longer. It was time to stop swimming in circles and finally climb out.