Foxglove Season

The rain had been falling for three days straight, turning the padel court into a reflection pool of gray sky and broken promises. Elena stood at the net, her grip tightening around her racquet handle while Marcus served, his movement fluid, practiced, entirely oblivious to the fact that their marriage had dissolved somewhere between the second set and the thunder that rolled in an hour ago.

"Your hat," she said when the ball finally sailed past her, hitting the fence with a melancholy thud. "You forgot to take off your hat."

Marcus paused, hand going to the brim of his stupid canvas hat—the one he'd worn on their first date in Barcelona, the one that had become his signature, his armor. "Old habits," he said, and the way he smiled at her, like nothing had changed, like he hadn't been transferring their savings into offshore accounts for six months, made something in Elena's chest crack open.

Their orange tabby cat, Barnaby, sat on the patio under the umbrella, watching them with his usual mixture of judgment and boredom. He'd been Marcus's anniversary gift last year, when things had still been fixable, when Elena had still believed that love could be negotiated like a contract—terms, conditions, clear deliverables.

"I saw the fox again this morning," she said, walking to the bench where her water bottle sat condensing. "In the garden. Eating the foxgloves you planted for my mother's memorial."

Marcus's jaw tightened. A tell. He'd always been crap at hiding his reactions when cornered. "Elena, we talked about this. It's just an animal."

"Just an animal," she repeated, unscrewing the cap. The water was warm now, plastic-tasting, but she drank anyway. "Like the apartment in Valencia is just an investment property. Like Sofia is just your business partner."

The ball rolled to a stop between them. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm cut through the rain. Marcus's face changed then—the confident mask slipping, revealing something raw and pleading underneath.

"El, I can explain—"

"Don't." She picked up her bag, checked her phone. Three missed calls from her lawyer. "The fox got into the house last week, Marcus. I found its tracks all over the bedroom floor. Clever little thing." She gestured toward the house where their cat was still watching, tail twitching with what looked like anticipation. "They say they're impossible to catch once they learn where you keep your doors unlocked."

She walked toward the sliding glass door, leaving him alone on his precious court in the rain. Behind her, Marcus called her name once, then twice. By the third time, even the cat had stopped listening.