Page 59 of The Challenger

I laugh, feeling the glow of that compliment from my head to my toes. “No one has ever compared me to him."

“Maybe after your mystery comes out, more people will."

He kisses me again, his breath bitter from coffee, and I think, how crazy is this? Here we both are, unsure and stumbling the entire week, and neither of us courageous enough to admit it has to do with the other. The day is suddenly one I can repeat indefinitely.

“Paris sounds incredible. And if you want, my friend who is dating the yacht designer invited us to Monaco. We can go before Paris. Or not at all.”

“Let’s do both,” he says without missing a beat. “But after Cherbourg, all right? I want you all to myself for the next little while.”

* * *

The only thingI am conscious of in the following days is ravenous desire. I forget about time and how blankly I used to fill it. Nothing matters except us. We christen every drafty room in our rambling seaside château, and Cherbourg sightseeing adventures turn into location scouting for the perfect outdoor boudoir. Why not take advantage of the empty gardens of Ravalet Castle, find a patch of bulrushes by the lake and try not to laugh as swans glide past us with curious black eyes?

During a miserable Monday rainstorm, we duck into the cover of a doorway, a padlocked entrance to a long, unused passage on the side of a magnificent church. It smells of dampness and alchemy. He drapes an arm around my shoulder, shielding me from the gusting gloom. The only thing better than Chavez is wet Chavez and my heart stutters at his sooty lashes sparkling with raindrops.

“Looks like we have a storm to ride out,” he says, a twinkle in his eye.

After, I jokingly blamed him because he just had to go and kiss me.

The wind howls, rain hammers sideways, and not even five novenas can save our corrupt souls. His fingers deliver a sermon of seismic shudders until twelfth-century grout scrapes along my spine as I slide down the wall onto my haunches, weak with spiritual ecstasy and, most certainly, one step closer to hell. There is nothing else to do but sell my soul to the Devil. I unbuckle and unzip, his head falls back with a gasp, and his voice cranks an octave higher as he whispers,“Please forgive me.”

But I am an unforgiving bitch.

And the French soils that had seen strife and bloody warfare can now witness the joy of depravity.

C’est parfait,as the locals say.

And everything does hum along perfectly.

Every morning Chavez works out at a nearby gym or hits at the local tennis center, leaving me with time to write.The story spills out of me faster than I can type, and it’s been in my head for so longit feels like I’m plagiarizing my own memory. Most nights we stay in. Chavez whips up feasts worthy of kings with instinct and feel, never once cracking open his phone to troubleshoot a recipe. His command of a kitchen is remarkable and I watch it all unfold, perched at the kitchen island and getting drunk on cheap wine. (Five Euros for half-decent stuff!) Life as I remember it becomes this—waking up to him beside me, the waters of the English Channel lapping softly outside the bedroom window, and tennis and writing the topics of the day.

Two weeks pass far too quickly, and suddenly it's the night before his first-round match. We’re bundled in blankets and watching the sunset from the covered porch. My breath leaves misty plumes in the cool night air, and all the scents are clear and sharp, ocean and earth layered against each other.

I lean against his shoulder, tipsy again, introduced to the wonders of mulled wine from a very enthusiastic merchant.

Warm and fuzzy, it just slips out.“Carmen says hi.”

In the silence, I sense he's debating how to answer. Finally, “I knew it. I told you she was determined.” He glances over with a brow raised in what might be worry. “She send you any nudes?”

“Not yet.”

“Have you sent her any?”

“Not yet.”

We both laugh and he snuggles into my shoulder. “So, what’s the deal? You both talk shit about me?”

“We hardly talk about you at all. I think she views me like a sister. And she loves you,mierdaand all.”

“We hardly talk about you at all. I think she views me like a sister. And she loves you, mierda and all.”

His jaw squares and I wonder if it came out the wrong way. In the murky light, I can just make out his eyes settling on the horizon but not charting anything.

“I love her too,” he eventually says, his voice gruff. “More than she will ever know. She got the short end of the stick growing up. Papa on the road with me, and Mama at work or at home worrying about me and Papa.” He burrows his nose in my hair and breathes deeply. “I don’t know how you can be any more of a goddess but thank you.” When he pulls back a minute later, his eyes are softly sweeping over me.

“What?” I ask.

“I re-read part of your memoir yesterday. The chapter about you and your boyfriend. The fight, and what happened after.”

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