The Distance Between Us

Marcus sat on the metal bench by the community pool, the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. It had been David's hat once—worn during the season Marcus had missed every game while closing the merger that saved his career but cost him his marriage.

The pool was empty except for the swimming lessons in the shallow end. A woman in her thirties moved through the water with deliberate strokes, her face surfacing with rhythmic precision. Marcus watched her, his second whiskey of the afternoon sweating onto the bench beside him.

His phone buzzed. Sarah.

He let it go to voicemail again.

The water lapped against the pool's edge, a sound that used to signal Saturday mornings with David—father-son time before the demands of partnership meetings and quarterly reviews had consumed him. David was twelve now. Marcus had seen him three times since the separation.

The swimming instructor called out something about form. The woman nodded, adjusting her stroke.

Marcus's knuckles were white around his phone. He wanted to call David. Wanted to tell him about the baseball card collection gathering dust in the attic. Wanted to explain that the job, the money, the corner office—none of it mattered anymore.

The woman finished her laps and climbed out, dripping water onto the concrete. She caught Marcus's eye, offered a small, knowing smile. He looked away.

His phone lit up again. This time a text from his mother: He asked about you today.

Marcus stood up, his legs unsteady. The whiskey churned in his stomach. He'd meant to come here and swim laps—some pathetic attempt at redemption through self-improvement. Instead, he'd sat motionless for an hour, watching water move while his entire life remained stagnant.

The baseball cap felt heavy on his head, a crown of failures. He took it off and set it on the bench.

Then, for the first time in three years, Marcus typed his son's name into his phone.