Between Points, Between Lies

The vitamin C dissolves slowly in my glass, fizzing like small betrayals. I watch Marcus across the padel court, his shirt damp with sweat, laughing at something the redhead from accounting said. They've been playing together for three weeks now.

I shouldn't have checked his phone. But that's what suspicion does to you—it rots your judgment like untreated wood. The messages were cryptic, coded: 'Package delivered,' 'Meeting at the usual spot,' 'They suspect nothing.' My husband, the man who brings me tulips just because, might be a corporate spy. Or having an affair. Or both. The uncertainty is a stone in my stomach that no amount of water can wash away.

The game ends, 6-4, his victory. Marcus jogs over, grabbing his water bottle, chugging half in one swallow. Droplets cling to his throat. I remember how that throat used to look when he laughed, really laughed, before everything between us became measured in calculated glances and things left unsaid.

'You're quiet,' he says, wiping his face with a towel. Not an accusation, just observation. That's Marcus—always giving me the benefit of the doubt.

I think about asking. About shattering this fragile peace we've constructed. But what if I'm wrong? What if the redhead is just a doubles partner and the messages are innocent work things? I'll be the paranoid wife who couldn't trust him with the simplest friendship.

'Just tired,' I say, and hate myself a little.

He studies me, then nods. There's something in his eyes—understanding, maybe. Or perhaps he's just good at pretending. The padel court echoes with the next match's cheers, their joy a reminder of what we've lost. Whatever he's hiding, wherever he goes those nights he claims to be working late, I'm not ready to know. Not yet.

'Let's go home,' I say, and link my arm through his, squeezing tight. For now, that's enough.