The Last Good Summer

Marcus stood at the edge of the pool, gin and tonic sweating onto his palm, watching the water catch the late afternoon light. Beside him, Richard—everyone called him The Bull for the way he charged through negotiations—launched another padel ball against the club's backboard. Thwack. Thwack. The rhythm was hypnotic, like a countdown Marcus hadn't realized he'd been waiting for.

"She's not coming back, you know," Richard said, finally turning around. He adjusted his hat—a ridiculous Panama thing that cost more than Marcus's first car.

"I know."

"So what's the plan? You've been moping around here for three weeks. The Dubai deal closes Monday."

Marcus stared at his reflection in the pool. The water distorted his face into something unrecognizable. "I'm thinking of taking the buyout."

Richard laughed, harsh and sharp. "You? After fifteen years? You built that division."

"And what?" Marcus's voice cracked. "Come to places like this every weekend? Play padel and drink overpriced gin until I die?"

The sky chose that moment to tear open. Lightning fractured the horizon, a white scar through the bruised purple clouds. The first heavy drops began to fall, dotting the pool's surface like sudden grief.

They ran for the clubhouse, Richard cursing his ruined Panama hat, Marcus not running fast enough. By the time they reached the awning, both were soaked, Marcus's expensive linen shirt plastered to his chest.

"You know what your problem is?" Richard shouted over the thunder. "You think you're the only one who's miserable. My wife left me two years ago. I just don't wear it like a hair shirt."

Marcus stopped breathing. "What?"

"You heard me." Richard's face was wet, maybe rain, maybe not. "We're all just playing through, Marcus. The question is what game you want to be playing when it all ends."

The storm raged for another hour. They sat on the clubhouse porch and watched it destroy the perfect afternoon. Marcus thought about Dubai, about the buyout, about the way Sarah had looked at him that last morning—not angry, just disappointed.

"I'll do the deal," Marcus said finally.

Richard nodded, poured them both another drink. "Good. Now finish your gin. This storm's almost over, and I'm not letting you leave until you beat me at padel."

Marcus smiled, the first real smile in weeks. "You're on, Bull."