Page 84 of Split Decision

That means there's still something to know.

I go back to the dressing room.

Syndi is there with the media coordinator, managing the post-fight coverage with the efficiency that has defined the last five months. She looks at me when I come in—reads whatever's in my face—and asks, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," I say.

She looks at me for another second. She’s not convinced.

"Good fight tonight," she says. "Get some sleep."

I gather my belongings and go back to the hotel. I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

I think aboutwhatever it takes.The way my words changed her expression. The specific thing I didn't understand until I was already saying it—thatwhatever it takesputs the definition of done on her, making me the responder to her requirements instead of the person who has actually understood why what I did was wrong.

I can't solve this with effort. That's what she was telling me.

What I need to resolve this is understanding. The specific, correct understanding of what I actually did and why it was wrong. Not just the outcome, the commission file, or the sixty days. The underlying part. The part that made her say,"Walk me through how what you did is different from what they've been doing to me."

I haven't answered that question. Not all the way. I've apologized. I've acknowledged. I've been present and consistent and patient in the ways I know to be present.

But I haven't said the true thing out loud. The full version.

I close my eyes.

I think about what I know.

ANDI

Travis doesn't say anything until we're on the motorcycle heading back to Phoenix.

The desert at night is a distinct thing from the desert in the morning. The mountains are shapes in the dark. The highway is the only light.

I hold on behind him and think about Syndi's hands on Luke's shoulders, the way he stepped back from her, the look on his face when he saw me, and the way he said, "Hey," as if it were the only word that existed.

I know what I saw. I know what it was and what it wasn't.

What I keep running back to is that I went there to tell him things, the way Travis said —don't wait for the right moment, there isn't one— and then the moment arrived, and I put it away instead.

Because I was scared.

Not about what I saw. What frightened me was what would happen if I said the true things and they still weren't enough—if I saidI love you, I'm still here, I'm not going anywhere,and the answer came back right, sincere, and careful, but the distance between us remained anyway, calcifying into something permanent that no sequence of correct words could undo.

I'm afraid of that.

More than I've been afraid of anything external that's happened this year.

The highway unspools ahead of us. Travis drives carefully, reading the desert road. He always does. I've noticed that about him—the public version of Travis is reckless, magnetic, and casually fearless, while the real versionpays attention, keeps his word, and is more careful than anyone knows.

I'm thinking about this when the headlights appear.

They're coming fast. Too fast for a lane change. I have enough time to register that the driver is wrong about their position. And then—in the fraction of a second before impact—I register something else. A drunk driver corrects. Even slightly, even too late, the instinct fires and the wheel moves. This one doesn't correct. The car clips the back wheel, and the motorcycle goes sideways, and I understand, very briefly and with complete clarity, that I'm about to hit the pavement.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

LUKE

Idon't sleep the night after the fight.