The Season We Stopped Playing
Mara found him in the garage at midnight, hitting baseballs into the net. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack had woken her from the first real sleep she'd had in weeks. Since Leo's diagnosis, they'd both been walking through life like zombies—automaton parents, partners, professionals, moving through motions they could no longer feel.
"You used to love padel," she said, leaning against the doorframe. The old racquets hung on the wall behind him, dusty now.
Ethan lowered the bat. Outside, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the circles under his eyes, the gray in his beard, the way his shoulders had collapsed inward these past six months.
"Padel was for before," he said quietly. "Baseball is solitary. You don't need a partner who shows up."
The words hit her harder than any ball against the net.
They'd met on a padel court twelve years ago. She'd been spinach-green and new to the city; he'd been charming and patient, teaching her to serve without overthinking. Their wedding program had a drawing of two crossed racquets. Now they couldn't even have dinner without checking their phones, couldn't make love without one of them crying afterward, couldn't talk about Leo without the conversation curdling into blame.
Another flash of lightning. The storm was moving closer.
"I made your favorite spinach salad for dinner," she said. "It's wilted now."
Ethan set the bat against the workbench. The air between them felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. When he crossed the garage, she thought he might walk past her, retreat into the house, escape into sleep or work or any of the other places he'd been hiding.
Instead, he pulled her against his chest. His heartbeat was fast, like the rhythm of the bat against the ball.
"I don't want to be a zombie anymore," he said into her hair.
The first drops of rain began to fall. They stood there as lightning struck again, closer now, and for the first time in months, they both stayed exactly where they were—awake, alive, together.