Second Set

I watch David play padel with a younger woman, my ex-husband moving across the court like he's trying to outrun our past. The resort seemed perfect for escaping memories—far from Seattle, surrounded by palm trees and people who don't know about our divorce, our decade together, or the daughter we lost.

But here he is, staying in the same hotel.

I see him every morning running along the beach at dawn, his silhouette cutting through the mist. Once, I considered joining him, falling into step beside his familiar rhythm. Instead, I stayed on my balcony, drinking coffee and watching him grow smaller in the distance, the way he'd grown distant from me in our final years.

In the afternoons, I went swimming, slicing through the hotel pool's blue silence. Underwater, I couldn't hear my own thoughts. I counted laps: one for each year we were married, then extra for the ones we wouldn't have.

Then he found me by the pool bar.

"Mia," he said, like he'd been saying my name in his head for a long time. "I still have your lucky baseball cap from that Mariners game. The one we were at when..."

"When I got pregnant," I finished. "Before the miscarriage."

He nodded. He looked older than I remembered, worn around the edges. "I haven't been able to wear it since you left."

I studied the condensation on my glass, tracing patterns with my finger. "Why are you here, David?"

"I needed to be somewhere," he said. "Somewhere that wasn't our apartment. Somewhere I could think about who I am without you."

"And who are you?"

"Someone who made mistakes," he said. "Someone who would like to buy you dinner and apologize properly. Not over text. Not through lawyers. Face to face, like we used to."

I looked at his palm on the bar between us, then up at his eyes, still the same warm brown that had made me trust him with everything.

"Pick me up at seven," I said.

Some games don't end. They just change venues.