The Score We Settle

The padel court reflected the midday sun like an oven. Elena wiped her palm against her skirt, leaving a dark streak of sweat on the fabric. Across the net, Marcus adjusted his grip on the racquet, his shoulders broader than she remembered, his movements more deliberate.

"Match point," he said, and something in his voice made her chest tighten.

They hadn't spoken since the night she'd walked out with nothing but her purse and his grandmother's ring still on her finger. Three years of silence, broken only by the occasional text that went unanswered. And now here they were, both invited to the same wedding resort, both too proud to decline, both drawn to the court like unresolved business.

His iphone buzzed on the bench beside his water bottle. She wondered who was texting him—if there was someone now, someone who had learned what he liked in his coffee, how he hated waking up before dawn, the particular rhythm of his breathing when he couldn't sleep.

Elena served. The ball hit the glass wall and spun back toward her.

"You're still making the same mistake," Marcus called out, moving forward to intercept. "You're always protecting your backhand when you should be trusting it."

The ball sailed past her. Match point to him.

They walked to the pool in silence, the heat radiating from the pavement. The turquoise water beckoned, guests already waist-deep, drinks in hand, laughter cutting through the humid air. Marcus dove in first, surfacing with water streaming down his face, his hair plastered to his forehead in a way that was painfully familiar.

He treaded water, watching her wade in slowly.

"I sold the house," he said when she reached him.

Elena's heart skipped. "The one with the garden?"

"Yeah. Too big for one person. Too many ghosts."

She splashed water at him, a reflex she couldn't suppress. He grinned, and for a moment, they were twenty-five again, standing in the kitchen at 3 AM, deciding whether to get married or break up, and somehow choosing both.

"I still have it, you know," she said, touching her left hand where the tan line from the ring had finally faded. "In a box. I couldn't—I didn't know what to do with it."

Marcus swam closer. "I don't want it back, El."

"I wasn't offering."

"Then what are you doing tomorrow?" He treaded water, his eyes searching hers. "They're doing a couples tournament. Mixed doubles."

"We're not a couple, Marcus."

"No." He moved nearer still, the water lapping against her shoulders. "But we're also not nothing. Are we?"

The wedding planner's voice carried from the pool deck, calling for dinner seating assignments. Marcus extended his hand, palm open. Not a question. An invitation.

Elena considered the years between them—the slow drift, the petty arguments that calcified into walls, the loneliness that felt like independence. Then she thought of that night in the kitchen, the certainty that they'd figure it out eventually.

She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and solid and absolutely terrifying.

"One tournament," she said. "Then we'll see."

He didn't let go. "That's how it started last time."

"And look how that ended."

Marcus smiled, and something in her chest—something she thought had calcified completely—softened. "Exactly. We're here, aren't we?"

The sun set behind the palm trees as they waded toward the edge, still holding hands, not yet ready to let go.