Where the Water Breaks

Elena pressed her palm against the hotel window, condensation slick beneath her skin. Below, the Atlantic stretched dark and indifferent. Behind her, David zipped his suitcase with that precise, military rhythm he'd developed during their seven years together—the same cadence he used to load the dishwasher, to fold laundry, to end conversations.

"You're leaving today?" she asked, not turning.

"Flight's at four."

An orange peel curled on the nightstand, already browning at the edges. She'd bought them at sunrise from a vendor who'd promised they were sweet, but they'd been bitter, like everything about this trip.

"Remember," David said, "you threw a baseball at me when we met."

Elena finally turned. "I threw a baseball *near* you. You were being insufferable at that Dodgers game."

"Close enough." He shouldered his bag. "Goodbye, Elena."

She followed him to the beach. Palm fronds clattered in the wind like dry bones. The water roared, then retreated, roared, retreated—a pattern she couldn't change any more than she could change him.

At the shoreline, David stopped and took something from his pocket: a baseball, scuffed and ancient. Not the one she'd thrown, but close enough to matter.

"Your father's," she said.

"He gave it to me the day he died." David dropped it into the water. It bobbed twice, then sank.

"Why?"

"Because I never played catch with him. Always too busy building the career he wanted for me." He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in years. "I'm not leaving you, El. I'm leaving who I became with you."

Elena waded in until the water hit her knees. Cold, sharp, alive. When she turned, David was gone. The palm trees whispered above her, indifferent. She picked up a piece of driftwood and threw it as hard as she could—imprecise, wild, perfectly human—and watched it break against the waves.