The Bottom of the Ninth

The baseball game droned from the portable radio—bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded—though Elena couldn't have cared less about the score. She'd only come to this backyard reunion because Marcus would be here. Marcus, whose friend request had sat unanswered in her inbox for three months. Marcus, who'd left her hair tie on his nightstand and never called.

The pool glowed turquoise behind him, water rippling in the dusk as someone—it might have been Sarah from accounting—dived in with a splash that made Marcus flinch. He'd always hated water. Hated the way it got in his ears, the way it made him feel small. That was the thing about Marcus: he carried his vulnerabilities like open wounds, and Elena had spent two years learning exactly how to press her thumb against each one.

"You're staring," he said, not looking at her. His hair was longer now, curling at his collar, and she hated that she noticed. Hated that she still cataloged the changes in him like she had any right.

"I'm not," she lied.

He turned then, and the air between them grew thick with everything unsaid. The radio crackled—the crowd roaring, someone scoring—and in that noise, she saw it: the same hesitation she'd seen the night he packed his boxes. The same fear that had made him choose a job in Chicago over whatever this was.

"I miss you," he said, so quietly she almost missed it.

Elena's heart clenched. Behind him, the pool's surface reflected the party lights, tiny stars trembling in water that would feel cold against her skin if she dared to step in. But she didn't move. She'd learned that some things—some people—were like diving into deep water without knowing how to swim.

"I know," she said. "I still have your hair tie."

Marcus smiled, and it was the saddest thing she'd ever seen.