Page 75 of The Challenger

Flynn Dryden's Truth #8 states that the path to greatness starts with forgiveness, and to be forgiven and entwined with Chavez in a soaker tub half an hour later is far more than I could ever ask.

He pulls my foot out from underneath the bubbles and drops kisses on the tips of every toe. “Let’s order room service,” he says. “I don’t want to go out.”

If we stare silently at Big Macs and fries delivered by Uber, that is fine by me. I am not leaving this hotel room until we have a game plan. How to approach my parents after fourteen years is a daunting question, and his difficult task is to get the Earl monkey off his back. But the most vital piece of all of it is how we go about clearing his name. It means flushing out the stalker because I know this all circles back to him. Chavez insists I get the police involved and live with him in LA until there is a resolution. The problem is time. Who knows how long it will be before the police can make any dents in finding this idiot? And the betting case can drag on for weeks, Chavez tells me. We don’t have weeks. He wants to play Roland Garros.

I am determined to find a way to get him there.

The question is how.

But for now, I have answered enough questions.

And later, after we've devoured a rack of lamb before moving on to each other, we lie in the dark, holding hands under the covers, listening to the rainfall in Paris.

Before our fight, I’d read how much Ernest Hemingway loved this city. But when his wife was pregnant and duty called, he moved back to the US.

And now we follow in the footsteps of Hemingway.

After two long months on the road, duty calls.

It is time to go home.

ChapterTwenty-Nine

There aretwo kinds of people in this world. The ones who wake up early and hustle everyone to join them, and then there is me, who could sleep until noon every day. If I have to get up early, breakfast coming in hot and served by Chavez in tighty-whities is the way to go.

“Hola, beautiful.”

He sets the tray down on his bedside table and the aroma of fresh coffee and huevos rancheros wafts in the air like a sinful drug. We arrived in LA three days ago, and he has welcomed me into his home with open arms. Other than the five minutes it took to find the cutlery drawer and needing to step up my closet game to compete with his color-coded organizational system, I'm feeling okay. More settled.

I sit up and wipe the sleep out of my eyes. “Thank you. It looks delicious. And so does breakfast.”

He laughs at my hungry eyes falling on a different kind of feast. Bless him and his morning wood that goes on forever. “We had some fun this morning, or were you still asleep?”

“I think you took advantage of my jet lag.”

He smiles back. “I think you liked it just fine.”

“I think you like me being captive in your house.”

I mean it as a joke, but the words land awkwardly for all the obvious reasons. He escorted me to my house on the day we landed to collect what I needed and hasn’t let me leave on my own since.

Today, that all changes.

Chavez perches on the side of the bed and studies me. “How do you feel about the trip?”

“Nervous,” I admit.

“I wish I were going with you, but I understand you need time alone with them.”

I fly to San Francisco in the afternoon, and Cori will pick me up for the drive back to Santa Cruz. Edgar has stabilized and is regaining mobility, but the road to recovery is long. I could hear it in her voice. And my anxiety is running at max. What will it be like to see them both after all this time?

“Next visit you’ll come along, okay?" I kiss his cheek. Me traveling alone bothers him more than he’s letting on.

“I have things to do here anyway,” he says, shrugging it off. “I’m seeing my parents tonight. After Fresno.”

Our eyes lock. This is news to me, but I know what it means.

“Is it safe for you to go alone?” I ask.

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