What We Swallow

The pool at Marjorie's estate was that impossible blue, the color of vacation brochures and lies. Elena floated on her back, staring at the terracotta tiles overhead, thinking about how she'd ended up here—how anyone ends up anywhere, really. Momentum. A series of small yeses.

"Your vitamin's on the table," Marjorie called from her chaise, her voice bright and sharp as cut glass. "And the spinach salad. You need to eat, El. You're wasting away."

Elena drifted toward the edge. At forty-three, she'd learned that wasting away was sometimes just the slow work of becoming yourself. She'd left David in February. Not because she'd stopped loving him—that would have been too clean—but because she'd started loving herself more, and that particular mathematics had never balanced right in their marriage.

She pulled herself from the water, water streaming from her skin. Marjorie watched, her dark eyes unreadable behind oversized sunglasses. They'd been friends since college, before the divorce, before Marjorie's second husband died and left her this house with its too-blue pool and its too-quiet rooms.

"You're not eating," Marjorie said.

"Not hungry."

"You never are anymore."

The spinach sat in a wooden bowl, glistening with oil. Elena took a forkful anyway, chewed mechanically. It tasted like something you ate because you were supposed to, not because you wanted to. Like duty. Like forgiveness.

"I saw David," Marjorie said casually. "At the gallery opening."

Elena's fork paused. "You didn't tell me."

"I'm telling you now."

Marjorie's tone suggested something she wasn't saying. There was a fox quality to her—something hungry and clever and beautiful, watching from the edge of the clearing. Always watching.

"He asked about you," Marjorie continued. "We talked for quite a while."

The vitamin tablet sat on the side table, white and innocent. Elena swallowed it without water, felt it click down her throat like a secret hardening into stone.

"Marjorie," she said quietly. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him you were happy. I told him you'd found yourself."

Marjorie's lip curled, almost a smile. "But I didn't tell him about the nights you call me crying. I didn't tell him you still wear his ring on a chain around your neck."

Elena's hand went to her throat.

"I didn't tell him," Marjorie said, "because I'm your friend. But I wanted to. God, El, I wanted to."

The water lapped against the pool's edge. Somewhere distant, a siren wailed. Elena looked at her friend—really looked at her—and saw something she'd been pretending not to see for months: Marjorie didn't want her to be happy. Marjorie wanted her to need.

"Thank you," Elena said, and meant: I see you now.

She took another bite of spinach. It was bitter, dark, complicated. Perfect.

"So," Marjorie said, already bored of the truth. "Are you coming back in?"

Elena stood, letting the sun dry her skin. "No. I think I'm done drowning for today."

She walked toward the house, leaving Marjorie by the blue water. Behind her, she heard her friend's laugh—sharp and startled and beautifully, terribly sad.