The Last Summer at the Club

The hat sat on the dashboard, a beige Panama with a sweat stain shaped like a question mark. Elena hadn't worn it since the funeral, since before everything fell apart between her and Julian on the padel court that terrible afternoon.

"You're overthinking your backhand," he'd told her, his voice already distant, already practicing the detachment he'd announce formally two weeks later. "You always overthink."

Now she was back at the country club where they'd spent three summers, accepting the catering manager's offer for one last October event before the winter shutdown. The pool was drained, a blue cavernous mouth waiting to be filled. Leaves skittered across the empty bottom like memories she couldn't quite sweep away.

In the kitchen, the prep crew was chopping mounds of spinach for the vegetarian option—some kind of spanakopita bite that the bride's mother had insisted upon. The smell of garlic and butter filled the air, rich and alive, making her realize how many nights she'd eaten cereal over the sink since Julian moved out.

"Elena?"

She turned. Julian stood in the doorway, holding a racquet bag. He looked older, tired. He'd always aged badly when he was unhappy.

"The wedding," she said, surprised her voice didn't shake. "I'm catering."

"I'm still a member here. Still playing padel on Tuesdays."

They stood there as the kitchen staff worked around them, oblivious to the gravity of two people who had once said forever now reduced to awkward small talk in a catering kitchen.

"Do you ever..." he started, then stopped. "I saw your hat in the car."

"I was just leaving."

"We went swimming once," he said suddenly. "That night in Greece, remember? The hotel pool was closed but we went anyway, in our underwear. You were laughing so hard you couldn't keep your head above water."

She remembered. She'd been happy then. She hadn't known happiness was something that could be lost through carelessness, like a hat left on a beach, like trust eroded by criticism delivered as advice.

"The spinach needs to be finished," she said. "The bride chose the menu carefully."

"Right." He stepped back. "Your backhand was fine, by the way. I was wrong."

She watched him walk away through the kitchen doors, out to the padel courts where someone was probably waiting to play, someone who wouldn't overthink anything, someone who wouldn't remember swimming in Greece at midnight, someone easier.

Elena picked up the knife. The pile of spinach waited. Outside, the wind stirred across the empty pool, and somewhere in the distance, a ball hit a padel wall—thock, thock, thock—the sound of something still moving, still playing, while she stood still in the middle of everything.