Watermarks at Midnight

The padel court lights buzzed like angry hornets as I stood there holding a racquet I'd bought with two weeks of Chipotle paycheck. My date—Ryan, varsity jacket, perfect hair—kept checking his phone like I was some temporary entertainment between his actual life.

"Your serve," he said, not looking up.

I hit the ball into the fence. Again.

Meanwhile, my dog—a scruffy terrier mix named Bishop that my sister found behind a dumpster—was lose by the country club pool, barking at his own reflection like he'd discovered his doppelgänger.

"Shit," I muttered. "I gotta get him."

Ryan barely shrugged. "Whatever. I'll catch you later."

I ran—actually ran—across the perfectly manicured grass in my worn-out Vans, chasing Bishop toward the pool. He was living his best life, jumping between lounge chairs like they were his personal kingdom. When he finally noticed me, he froze, gave me this look like *who's chasing who?* and bolted straight toward the water.

Time slowed. I saw exactly what was about to happen.

Bishop hit the pool deck at full speed, paws slipping like he'd stepped on oil, and launched himself into the deep end with a magnificent splash that sent water halfway across the patio. For a second, just a second, I saw Ryan watching from the padel court, actually laughing.

Not mean-laughing. Real laughing.

Bible paddled to the edge, shook himself off like he'd just conquered the ocean, and looked at me like that had been his plan the entire time. I was soaked, he was dripping, and somehow everything felt less fake than it had five minutes ago.

"Your dog's a legend," Ryan said, walking over. "Wanna get out of here? I know a place that's actually fun."

"Yeah," I said, wringing water from my hoodie. "Yeah, I do."

Sometimes the worst moments make the best stories. Sometimes a dog jumping in a pool is exactly what you need. And sometimes—just sometimes—you stop running long enough to let someone catch up with you.