Page 72 of The Challenger

But I never posed the question.

“Did you ever find your birth parents?" she asks. "I’ve heard that can go one of two ways.”

I shake my head. “My mother died a few months before I started my search for her. I never knew who my father was.”

“That’s harsh. Sorry to hear that." In the long pause, she buffs the bar with her rag. Then, "Where does the guy fit into all of this?”

Oh, God. Chavez.

I rub my temples, attempting to squash all the horrible memories arising.

That long-ago night on the Santa Cruz boardwalk, waiting for Hamilton to arrive for our date. A cute taco vendor came over to chat me up, and we flirted back and forth—harmless fun—until Hamilton showed up just as the vendor palmed me El Corazon with a sweet smile. We fought bitterly afterward, and he ditched me for his friends, leaving me to walk home alone in the dark. Terrified I had screwed things up, I tossed and turned all night and then wandered like a zombie into the kitchen far earlier than my usual ten a.m. Cori and Edgar sat on the back porch with their morning coffees and spoke freely, believing they were alone.

“We have no idea how she will react if we tell her after all this time that she is adopted," Edgar said. "If it ain't broke..."

“Maybe you’re right,” Cori replied. “Maybe we wait until after Stanford.”

I'll never forget the sensation of being frozen in time, floating in the kitchen like I was no longer part of the world. Cori came inside to top up her coffee, saw me in my pajamas and froze. She knew I’d heard. She tried to explain. Edgar too, when he came rushing in, but how do you explain obliterating the very foundation of me? You don’t just blow past something like that. I ran upstairs, threw on some clothes and bolted.

After the rafting accident, my heart permanently closed. I became terrified of relationships and screwing them up. I moved to Palo Alto with nothing but a suitcase and answered an ad for a third roommate. Vandana and June became my Stanford family, and I told Cori and Edgar never to contact me again.

“Mademoiselle!”

A stern-faced woman in a grey pantsuit frowns disapprovingly at Annie and me as if we were swilling directly from a bottle of vodka. She says something in French to Annie that sounds like,Get a move on, miss,and stands there long enough to let us know she is offended beforeswishing back into the lobby.

“My boss," Annie explains with a grim look. "I have to get brunch set up in the restaurant, but you can stay here. Don't worry about the coffee. It's on the house."

“Thanks. And thanks for listening.”

She smiles again. A different smile. “Do you know what your guy values the most?”

Funny she should ask that. The one thing missing from my life is what he values more than anything. My hands tremble, as does my voice, in case I need a reminder. “His family.”

“Are you close to anyone?”

“His sister and I are friends.”

“My ex was tight with his brother. He ran interference in a lot of our fights. Just saying.” She squeezes my arm, and yes, she could bench-press me with no problem. “I hope things work out for you.”

Left alone with my thoughts, numbness crawls into me. Chavez looked devastated when I left, but he might come to his senses and kick my ass to the curb. The thought of facing him paralyzes me. I finish the latte and spin the cup on its saucer, debating every scenario.

I have to try, or else I might as well have drowned in the river.

But before I say anything to Chavez, I need an impartial person to hear me out and convince me I am worthy of forgiveness. With a heavy sigh, I rummage through my purse for the phone.

It’s one in the morning in California, but Carmen picks up.

“Hey, sister,” she says, a fly-through of caution in her groggy voice. No one calls at this time with good news. “I’m guessing he’s being an idiot.”

I shut my eyes and force myself to breathe. On a wretched Sunday in Paris, it’s time to re-open my heart.

“It’s not him, Carmen. It’s me.”

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Come Monday afternoon,I am tired and wrung out, and my chest aches from all the shallow breathing and crying. I have tried to sleep and to have something more substantial than gum gnashing between my teeth. Aside from the bottles ransacked from the minibar, my Westin hotel room looks unlived in. Chavez has left multiple messages, and I’m still too scared to call him back. Carmen said she talked to him yesterday and tried to summarize my hour of gut-wrenching babble into something coherent.

I’m in no mood to talk to anyone right now, and the grand irony is yet another text lands from Brandon. He’s been sending me messages all day. He wants to talk in person but does not indicate why. How stupid of me to lead him on in the first place. I am about to delete our entire text thread when the number from the Ritz scrolls across my screen. A feeling of vertigo washes over me. Chavez deserves some kind of actual, thoughtful girlfriend and not a woman too frightened to tell him the truth.

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