Service Fault

The ball cracked against the glass wall, that sharp sound that had become the soundtrack to our unraveling. Elena stood across the padel court from me, her racquet raised, sweat dripping down her neck where I used to press kisses.

"You're not bearing down," she said, not unkindly. "Your backhand."

"My mind's elsewhere."

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and looked at the orange sun dipping toward the ocean. We'd come to this resort to fix what was breaking, but three days in, all we'd done was play padel and drink too much wine and avoid the conversation that needed to happen.

The old bear of a man we'd met at the bar—retired, twice-divorced, wearing a linen shirt unbuttoned to his navel—had told us earlier, "You kids think you can fix everything with a vacation." He'd laughed, a deep rumble of a sound, and ordered another round. "Some things just break."

Elena walked to the net. I met her there. Beyond the court, palm fronds rustled in the evening breeze, their shadows stretching across the artificial turf like dark fingers.

"I got the offer," she said. "London."

I felt the blood drain from my face. We'd talked about it in the abstract, months ago, but that was before everything started to feel so fragile.

"And?"

She traced the white line of the net with her foot. "I think I'm going to take it."

The words hit me with the force of a full-force padel smash to the chest. I thought of our apartment, the way morning light hit the kitchen counter. The way she looked in my oversized shirts.

"I could come with you."

"You hate London. You hate cities." She looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in days. "And you hate even more the idea of following me somewhere you don't want to be."

She wasn't wrong. I'd been bearing the weight of my own resentment for months—resentment over her career taking off, over mine stagnating, over the quiet distance growing between us like a weed in an untended garden.

"Maybe I could learn to like it."

"Or maybe you'd just learn to resent me."

The sun had slipped below the horizon now, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange. A seagull cried overhead.

"Let's play one more set," I said, because I wasn't ready to let go yet, even though I knew we were already playing on borrowed time.

She smiled, sad and knowing, and walked back to the baseline. "Your serve."