Page 63 of The Challenger
“I’ll make it.”
Morgan has gone to fetch his car from valet, and Vandana hugs me under the covered entrance at La Môme.
“Any thoughts on tomorrow?” she asks. “We’d love to take you out on the yacht before you leave.”
“I think—”
“We’ll get back to you on that,” Chavez says, cutting me off.
Vandana blinks and finds a smile. “Of course.” Her careful look intones, I don’t know about him,andthe wind in my sails from earlier, when she said he was cute, blows out as fast as it came in. She whispers,“Good luck,”in my ear and glances sideways at Chavez who taps his foot impatiently.
“I’ll text you later,” I say. “Thanks for the great day.”
The Hotel de Paris is a short walk up a steeply graded street, and Chavez reaches for my hand as I try to find my footing. I did partake in several glasses of expensive champagne, making it hard to discern whether it’s the bubbles or the residue of what just happened that is fizzing in my brain. His mood swings concerned me from the get-go, and everyone warned me he would be a handful. All the emotional management tactics I suggested he try have been intermittently successful and tonight leaves me questioning how solid we can ever be if he chooses not to tackle his behaviour.
The words I want to say are just out of reach, and Chavez remains tight-lipped, his features like granite. The night is warm, and despite the late hour, tourists crowd the wide boulevard to snap selfies with the yachts lit up in the harbor like billionaire glowsticks. A cruise on the water tomorrow would be fun if I could overcome my fear of not being able to swim.
But we are a long way away from that decision.
When we’re inside our hotel suite, he kicks off his dress shoes and promptly spread-eagles onto the bed, covering his eyes with the back of his hand. I turn on the chandelier and dim it for ambience. The maid folded our jeans and left the neatly folded squares on a velvet divan overlooking the Mediterranean. This room is so over the top. What a shame to end our only night here with a question mark looming over us. I sit on the edge of the bed and pick at my nail polish, buying time. Chavez is motionless, blocking me out, and the longer he says nothing, the harder it is to know what to say.
How do I express my feelings without hurting him?
“Next time,” I start, “can you—”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupts. “There won’t be a next time.”
My heart does a strange flip-flop. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, what’s the point? I’ve wasted so much time and mental energy trying to prove myself, and for what? I got nothing to show for it.” He curls up and over to one side, facing away from me. I can hear the deep frustration in his labored breathing. “I hate it that he won a Grand Slam before me,” he continues. “I fucking hate it. And I want it so bad, but I’m a giant waste of space out there. Never even made it to a semi-final.”
There’s a desperate edge to his voice that’s painful to hear. I fall silent, collecting my thoughts.
“Don’t downplay what you have already achieved or get impatient about moving forward," I finally say. “One step at a time.” I touch his leg in an effort to console him, but he shrugs it off, refusing me.
“You can’t fix the unfixable, Flynn.”
“You’re not unfixable,” I insist. "Things will not change overnight.”
“Nothing is going to change,” he says bitterly. “I didn’t say anything, but I lost in Cherbourg because I couldn’t stop his voice. I lied to you. I’m sorry. Earl is always there, and I don't know how I'll ever make him go away."
Huh, I was right. There was more to his loss than he copped to. I stare at the carpet as if it holds a clue as to what I should say next. All the ‘right’ things, meaningless platitudes. The truth is, nothing ever goes away. Our pasts haunt us unless we change how to perceive them and choose to not give them the power to impact us moving forward.
God, I’m full of great insight. One day I might follow it.
“What if you spoke to Earl?” I ask. “Cleansed your soul?”
His breathing slows to the point of stopping. “How would that help?”
I weigh my words carefully considering his delicate state. We have talked extensively about Flynn Dryden Truth #7—What you believe is your potential—and I don’t need to hammer it home.
“He has power over you because you give it to him. If you speak the truth, all the reasons why he’s messing with your mind, it might help. It might be the first step to breaking free."
He snorts a laugh. “After my last visit, he probably has security guards at every door.”
I cup his heels and let the warmth of my skin sink into his. He likes it when I touch his feet. “Think about it, okay? Sometimes the most obvious solution is the hardest.”
Eventually, he rolls over to face me. A little muscle works around his jaw. How his eyes rake over me is different, and a small part of me gets ready to be thanked for righting this ship.
