Chlorine and Regret

The pool water distorted everything — the way the lights flickered beneath the surface, the way Mark's face looked as he leaned against the edge, nursing an orange Gatorade like it was the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

You haven't seen him in seven years. Not since the baseball incident. Not since he slept with your fiancée and then had the audacity to say it "just happened" at the company retreat.

"You're still swimming," Mark said, not a question. His voice carried that same casual warmth that had made you trust him once, before you learned how easily warmth could curdle into something else.

"Still swimming," you agreed, treading water in the deep end. The chlorine burned your eyes, or maybe that was just the memory of everything you'd lost. "Still here."

He set down the orange bottle. "I'm getting married next month."

The water went suddenly cold. You stopped moving your legs, let yourself sink a few inches before catching yourself. "Congratulations," you managed, though the word tasted like ash.

"To Sarah."

Your head broke the surface. Water streamed down your face. "Sarah?" The name didn't register. Couldn't register.

"From accounting. We met at the holiday party." Mark's laugh was dry, self-aware. "I know, I know. But she's different. She's... she doesn't let me get away with anything."

You wanted to hate him. Wanted to scream that he didn't deserve happiness, that some things shouldn't be forgiven. But as you watched him standing there in his swim trunks, looking older and softer and somehow smaller than you remembered, you realized you didn't have the energy for hate anymore.

"I'm glad," you said, and the surprising thing was that you meant it. Not for him — never entirely for him — but for Sarah, and for whatever version of himself he was trying to become.

"Want to get dinner?" he asked. "Catch up?"

You looked at the orange Gatorama on the deck, at the way the pool lights cast wavering shadows across his face. You thought about the baseball games you used to play, the friendship you'd thought would last forever, the years of silence since.

"Maybe," you said, pulling yourself toward the ladder. "Maybe next time."