The Lightning We Missed

The padel court echoed with the sharp tack of ball hitting racket—Marcus's backhand, precise and unforgiving, much like the way he'd ended things three months ago. Sarah dove for the ball, her knee screaming, and missed.

"Your form's off," he said, not unkindly. That was the problem with Marcus. He was never unkind.

Lightning split the sky outside the glass walls, illuminating the sweat on his collarbone, the particular way his hair curled when damp. She remembered tasting the salt there once, after they'd won a tournament she'd never wanted to enter. She'd ordered the spinach salad that night because she was trying to be the kind of woman who chose leaves over comfort, trying to be someone he could love.

The storm broke. Rain hammered the roof like accusations.

"My dog's alone," she said suddenly. "Barnaby gets anxious in thunder."

Marcus shrugged. "He'll survive."

That was it, she realized. The absolute certainty that he would always choose what was expedient over what was tender. He'd survive. They all would. But survival wasn't the same as living.

Sarah walked to the bench, grabbed her towel. "I'm done."

"We paid for the full hour."

"Keep it."

She pushed through the doors into the deluge, letting herself be soaked immediately. The dog would be panicked, yes, but she would wrap him in the old blanket from the sofa and whisper that he was safe, that she was there, that some things you don't leave alone in the dark.

Lightning flashed again, and she thought: better to be wet and walking home than dry on that court pretending she hadn't already lost.