Summer of Fake Breakups

The text chain stared back at me: *U up?*

I was. Obviously. It was 2 AM and I was doomscrolling through Instagram, watching everyone else live their best summer life while I roasted alive in my bedroom.

*Bullshit,* I typed back to Marcus. *What happened?*

*riley broke up with me. well, 'took a break' whatever the hell that means*

I groaned. Riley. The girl who'd somehow convinced Marcus that their three-week fling was true love. The same Riley who had already 'taken a break' with three different guys since freshman year.

*Dude, that's bull,* I sent. *She literally posted a story 2 hours ago*

*at josh's pool party*

*swimming with half the soccer team*

Marcus didn't reply for five whole minutes. Then:

*ouch*

*im coming over*

Ten minutes later, my bedroom door creaked open. Marcus flopped onto my bean bag chair like a dying fish. He smelled like chlorine and coconut sunscreen, which meant he'd been swimming somewhere before coming here. Probably the community pool, where we spent basically every afternoon last summer, talking about everything and nothing while doing lazy laps.

"You okay?" I asked, even though he clearly wasn't.

"I feel like an idiot," he muttered into his hands. "I really thought this time was different. She said I was different, you know?"

"You ARE different," I said. "She's the same. That's the problem."

He looked up, eyes red. "Maybe I'm just bad at this. Maybe I'm unlovable."

"That's bull and you know it." I sat up straighter. "Remember seventh grade? When you ate it so hard on your bike in front of everyone and then just got up and bowed?"

He cracked a tiny smile. "The applause was pretty legendary."

"You're legendary, Marcus. Riley's just... Riley."

He sighed. "I guess. Anyway, wanna get ice cream?"

"Always."

As we walked to the corner store, Marcus's phone buzzed non-stop. Everyone wanted the drama. I told him to ignore it, but his thumb kept hovering over the screen.

"Just block her," I said finally. "For like, a week."

"I can't. What if she texts?"

"What if she doesn't?"

He stopped walking. "What if she does, though? What if it's actually about taking a break and not... you know?"

"Then she can wait a week to tell you. You're not an emergency service."

We got our ice cream and sat on the curb, watching the sunset paint the sky pink and orange. Summer was happening all around us — kids playing basketball down the street, someone grilling in their backyard, the distant sound of laughter from the pool.

"You know what sucks?" Marcus said, licking melted chocolate off his thumb. "I was supposed to teach her padel tomorrow. She's been begging me to show her how to play."

"You hate padel. You think it's tennis for people who gave up."

"I KNOW," he groaned. "But she said it looked 'aesthetic' and I was trying to be chill about it. Now I have an 8 AM court reservation like a loser."

I laughed. "I'll go."

"You don't even play racquet sports."

"I'll be terrible. It'll be embarrassing. It'll be perfect."

Marcus grinned — a real one this time. "Yeah. Okay. Let's do it."

The next morning, I stood on the padel court with a borrowed racquet, wearing sneakers that had seen better days. Marcus served first, and I swung so hard I nearly hit myself in the face. The ball sailed three courts over.

"Form, my friend," Marcus called out, doubled over laughing. "It's all about the form."

"My form is called 'trying not to die,'" I yelled back.

We played for two hours, missing shots, chasing balls, and making up increasingly ridiculous rules. By the end, we were sweating through our shirts and I'd somehow managed to score three points, all by accident.

"Not terrible," Marcus said as we collapsed onto a bench. "For someone who plays like a dying seal."

"I'll take it."

His phone sat untouched on the bench between us.

"You haven't checked it in two hours," I said.

He looked over at it, then back at me. "Huh. I didn't even notice."

We walked home in the heat of the day, talking about nothing important — video games, the weird new history teacher, whether pool floaties were actually fun or just deceptively dangerous.

"Thanks," Marcus said when we reached my driveway. "For, you know. Everything."

"That's what friends are for," I said, punching his shoulder. "Also, you still owe me ice cream. I definitely won that last set."

"In your DREAMS. That point totally didn't count."

"Bull!"

He laughed, and for the first time in days, he actually looked like Marcus again.

That night, my phone buzzed. A text from Marcus:

*Riley texted. Wants to 'talk.'*

*And?*

*I told her I'm busy. Maybe next week. *

*Maybe never week?*

*Maybe 😏*

I smiled into the darkness. Maybe summer wasn't a total disaster after all.