Serving Up Regrets

The padel court hummed with the echo of our rally—the sharp *thwack* of ball against racket, the squeak of rubber on artificial grass. Marcus hadn't changed in three years, except for the silver threading his temples and the way his expensive watch caught the desert sun as he smashed a winner past my outstretched arm.

"Forty-love," he called out, breathless but grinning. That smile used to be my favorite thing about him. Back when we were fresh-faced graduates plotting our takeover of the corporate world, trading energy drinks and dreams in a cramped apartment we couldn't afford. When the word *friend* meant something unconditional, not something you put on LinkedIn after someone threatens legal action.

"You've been practicing," I said, retrieving the ball from the corner. My knee twinged—a souvenir from our ill-fated startup sprint, those eighteen-hour days when Marcus promised we'd build something that mattered.

He shrugged, that effortless shrug that used to charm investors. "Golf got boring. You know how it is." I didn't, actually. My post-bankruptcy life involved a lot less country club membership and a lot more contemplation of life choices.

"How's Egypt treating you?" I asked, serving. The ball clipped the net and dribbled over. Embarrassing.

"Amazing, actually." He returned it easily. "I'm overseeing the new resort development. Building a *pyramid* of luxury suites overlooking Giza. Metaphorical, obviously, though the alignment is intentional. Vastu. Feng shui. Whatever sells."

The words hit me harder than his overhead smash would three points later. A pyramid. Of course he was building monuments now. While I was picking up pieces of shattered trust, figuring out which friendships survived when the money evaporated. (Spoiler: almost none of them.)

"Sounds lucrative."

"It's not about the money anymore," he said, and for a second, the grin slipped. "It's about legacy. About building something that outlasts you. Isn't that what we always wanted?"

I thought about the way he'd sold me out to the venture capitalists—my equity, my ideas, my faith in him rewritten as his vision alone. Some legacies aren't made of stone.

"Match point," he announced, bouncing the ball.

As he tossed it into the air, I saw something in his eyes I hadn't noticed before. Loneliness, perhaps. Or the weight of standing alone at the top of any pyramid, no matter how golden the view.

I let his serve go past. The ball hit the glass wall with a soft thud.

"Your game," I said, walking to the net. "Same time next week?"

Marcus blinked, surprised. Then slowly, that smile returned—different this time. Something almost real.

"I'd like that," he said. And just like that, the pyramid became a bridge instead of a monument.