The Games We Play

The divorce had been final for two years, yet Elena found herself standing across the net from Marcus again, padel racquet in hand, the ball bouncing between them like old accusations.

His iphone buzzed on the bench, lighting up with her name — probably Sarah, the twenty-six-year-old pilates instructor who'd never known him before he'd started wearing his expensive watch. Elena served hard, the ball cracking against the backwall, just missing Marcus's racquet.

"You still play like you have something to prove," he called out, grinning that bear-with-honey grin that had made her forgive him for everything, for staying out all night, for forgetting her mother's funeral, for the seven years of her life she'd never get back.

They'd bought a papaya tree together once, planted it in the backyard of the house they'd rented. It had died within months, just like their marriage — something tropical and fragile that couldn't survive in their climate. She'd found herself Googling papaya trees last week, wondering if they could actually grow here, if she'd just done something wrong.

After the game, Marcus wiped his face with his shirt, revealing the bear tattoo on his shoulder — the one she'd talked him into getting during that month they'd both pretended to be spontaneous people. She traced it with her eyes, remembering how she'd run her fingers over it when they made love, how she'd thought it meant they were wild things, untamable.

"Sarah wants to meet you," he said, not meeting her eyes. "She thinks we should all be friends."

Elena laughed, a sharp sound. "That what she calls it? Being friends?" She'd heard the rumors — Sarah already talking about rings and dates, as if Marcus were some prize to be won, as if winning him meant anything at all.

"You know," he said, "my dad used to say baseball was the only game where you can fail seven times out of ten and still be considered great. Maybe that's us. Maybe we just keep showing up.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and realized she didn't want to be great at failing with him anymore. She wanted someone who wouldn't need rules to keep from hurting her. Someone who wouldn't treat her heart like a game where the object was simply not to lose.

"Marcus," she said, shouldering her bag, "I'm done being your batting practice."

The papaya tree she'd secretly planted last week was waiting in her backyard. This time, she'd done everything right. This time, it might actually survive.