Page 73 of The Challenger

Just answer.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he says.

Oh, God. Two words and dead silence, other than the sound of his breathing, which is more than what I can offer at this point.

“Where are you?” he finally asks.

“Down the street.”

“You wanna come over?”

The muscles around my mouth twitch out of control. The moment feels immense and, at the same time, tiny as a pinhead. “Sure.”

The Westin is sprinting distance from the Ritz, but in the dark and wild Parisian night, walking is all I can muster. Chavez spoke kindly on the phone, but there is the possibility of a harsh diatribe. How far apart we actually are. The hallway to his room makes me feel like I am walking the green mile.

You can do this. Whatever this is.

I knock on the door and leave it to him to throw all my spazzing emotions into the blender and hitCRUSH. He is improbably beautiful in flannel lounge pants while I'm in yesterday’s wrinkled clothes with mascara clumped in my lashes from a sleepless night. He stares hard at me, his eyes swollen and red-rimmed like mine. Fear, exploding like shrapnel, lodges in my throat.

What have I done? And can I repair it? His gaze strips whatever leftover confidence I have in me.

“Hi,” I say, braving my fear.

He steps aside, allowing me to enter without acknowledging my hello. The door slams shut, and he flicks on the light in the foyer. The bright burst is too much, and I shield my face. I realize he finally has what he wants. Me in the spotlight, unable to squirm away.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says. “I sit on the couch, and you get the hot seat. You answer all my questionshonestly, and you don’t get to ask me anything. After, you and I will decide what to do. Yes or no?”

He’s not doing anything to make this less painful, and why should he? No one ever said life was fair.

I bow my head, my face burning with shame. “Yes.”

* * *

I tell him everything.The ugliest parts of me. How being discarded like an unwanted toy by my own flesh and blood mother festers in my heart like a tapeworm. My inability to form relationships with men for fear of rejection. He listens without interrupting, arms crossed tight and never allowing a hint of give until I voice my most private confession.

“Is that a lie too, Flynn?” he asks, tiredly. “Because I just have to look at you and you come.”

“It’s the truth. I swear. I don’t know why it’s different with you.”

He knocks down what’s left of his water. A flicker of emotion passes over his eyes. “Is that why you cut and run out of the cabana?”

I clench and unclench my hands. After a long hour and my throat stripped bare, I feel like one of those prisoners stretched out onto a medieval torture rack. I have nothing left to hide.

“I did have an appointment, but yes. I was overwhelmed.”

Chavez looks beyond me, his eyes charting nothing. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because you know everything now.”

His gaze fixes on mine. “Do I?”

“If you expect a running tally of every one of my thoughts 24/7, I can’t do that. Nor would I ask it of you.”

He leans forward, elbows landing on his knees as he hangs his head. The lightbulb in the floor lamp sputters and dies, leaving us in darkness. I can hear him breathing but have no idea what he’s thinking. And I am sick of talking about myself.

“Can I ask how things are going?” I venture. All the main sports sites blared the news of his suspension today, and I could barely choke booze down, let alone food, my stomach was so curdled with despair.

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