The Papaya Sunset

Marcus leaned forward, his long white hair catching the last orange light of the sunset. He looked exactly as I remembered—arrogant, magnetic, and utterly full of bull.

'You're still angry about it,' he said, gesturing at the waitress. 'After all these years.'

I didn't answer. I just watched him slice into his papaya with practiced elegance. The same elegance he'd used when he explained why he was taking the promotion I'd been promised. Why he was taking credit for the client I'd cultivated for two years.

'We were friends,' I said finally. 'That's the part that still stings.'

Marcus laughed, and I hated how much I still wanted to laugh with him. 'Is that what we were? Friends who happened to work together? Or competitors who happened to drink together?'

I remembered the way he'd looked at me that night—sympathetic, resolute, his hand on my shoulder like a benediction. The way he'd said, 'Someone has to make the tough calls, Elena. Someone has to be the bull in this china shop.'

He'd meant decisive. Strong. What he'd really meant was ruthless.

The papaya was bright orange against the white plate. 'Remember that trip to Costa Rica?' he asked. 'When we got stranded in that storm and spent three days eating papaya and drinking rum?'

I remembered. I remembered how he'd talked about his dreams, his fears. How he'd cried when he told me about his father's death. How I'd held him and thought: this is what friendship is. This is worth more than any promotion.

'Someone has to make the tough calls,' I repeated, tasting something bitter in my mouth.

'And you never forgave me for being the one who made them.' He reached across the table, and for a second, I thought he might touch my hand. 'I did it for us, Elena. One of us had to win.'

I looked at his white hair, at the papaya seeds scattered like black thoughts across his plate. 'That's the bull you keep telling yourself,' I said. 'But maybe both of us lost.'

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and dying oranges. Somewhere beneath it all, I still loved him. That was the worst part.