But ultimately, I do the right thing.

  I can’t give her peace.

  Definitely not now, maybe not ever.

  I ride with the team out of Pine Hill and head to a tiny airstrip where three private planes are waiting to fly us and the Olympic coaching staff to Los Angeles where we’ll get on the flight to Tokyo.

  I have a note clutched in my left hand with Raelynn’s phone number on it.

  Lele got it for me.

  She went to see Raelynn at the nursing home last night to say goodbye. When she boarded the private plane this morning, she walked down the aisle and stopped at my side, pressing the note to my chest. I took it and looked up at her. She was staring straight ahead, chewing on her bottom lip, her brows furrowed with concern.

  “I swore I wouldn’t give it to you.”

  She let her hand slide away and I reached up quickly to grab the note before it fell. She left me in peace and I stared down at those numbers, my heart pounding with all the possibilities. I contemplated calling right then, but instead, I programmed her number into my phone then repeated it over and over again in my head, memorizing it during the flight.

  When we touch down in Los Angeles, it’s only for a few minutes. They whisk us onto another plane, trying to condense our travel day as much as possible. My teammates joke and laugh, eager to get to the Games. Enough of them have tried and failed to engage me in conversations that they know to just leave me alone at this point.

  Anthony sits across the aisle from me with his headphones on. He knows everything. Talked to Shelby himself.

  Coach Dalton passes me in the aisle and pats my shoulder, a silent show of support for whatever I’m going through. He knows better than to ask. We all have complicated lives we keep off the court.

  Unfortunately, there’s no getting out of staying in the athletes’ village once we’re in Tokyo. For security reasons, they have our team sequestered on the top floor of a large recently built apartment complex that’s next door to the stadium where we’ll play our games. Single players have to share rooms, which means I’m bunking with Anthony.

  Our bus drives through the village and pulls up to the complex. We shuffle off one by one to a crowd of rabid fans. Some of them are spectators for the Games, some are other athletes. It’s a tricky ordeal with all the competitors in one place. Most of the young ones lead relatively normal lives outside of the Olympic Games. Other than the few standout stars, no one really experiences the level of celebrity that I do.

  “Ben Castillo!”

  “Can I get an autograph?!”

  “A picture? Please?! Oh my god.”

  A camera is thrust in front of my face before a cluster of security guards rush forward and push the crowd back to let me and the rest of the team pass.

  I’m not usually a dick, but I can’t drag my gaze up off the ground. I can’t interact with fans right now. I walk straight into the complex, ignore the fact that everyone is still looking at us, and let security lead me to the main bank of elevators. There’s a whole security team surrounding us now, and I will the elevator to hurry the fuck up.

  I imagine Raelynn here in the middle of this mess, and it makes me feel even worse. I clutch the note tighter in my hand, wishing I’d thought to stow it someplace safe before getting off the plane. Even though I saved the number in my phone, I want to preserve her handwriting.

  “Ben!” someone shouts. “Dude! Just one picture! PLEASE!”

  The elevator dings and security ushers me inside quickly. I don’t release a breath until the doors glide shut and I’m away from the crowd.

  “From now on, we’ll enter through the back entrance,” the head of the security detail informs me.

  I nod and look away.

  I realize the entire Olympic Games will be lost on someone like me. I’ve been here before, and any modicum of excitement I felt about defending our Olympic title is dead now. I’ll attend practices, turn it on when I hit the court, stand up on that podium, and hold up my gold medal for the flashing cameras. I’ll attend the required press conferences, host the scheduled Nike-branded luncheon for the release of my sneakers, and I’ll do it all without a single complaint. But here, in this tiny apartment, reality will hit me so hard it feels like I might double over from the weight of it.

  Inside our room, I toss my bag on the bed, and Anthony follows suit.

  “I’m going to go check out the food situation,” he tells me, leaving without asking if I want to go with him.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed, look at the bleak decor, and then slowly unfold my hand. The note is moist on the edges. Some of the ink has run. I flatten it out on the nightstand and grab for my phone, confirming I have the right number saved. Then, before I can think better of it, I press call.

  I hold the phone up to my ear with bated breath. It rings over and over, and it feels like a dagger is slowly sinking into my gut.

  Then, finally, a guy picks up. “Hello?”

  I frown in confusion. “Oh…sorry. Is this Raelynn’s phone?”

  “No, man. I think you have the wrong number.”

  His voice fades out at the end and I can tell he’s taken the phone away from his ear, about to hang up.

  “Hey wait.” I read him the number on the note.

  “Yeah, that’s my number,” he says, growing impatient. “I think you got it by mistake.”

  Then he hangs up and I stare down at the numbers I memorized that are now utterly useless.

  Raelynn gave Lele a wrong phone number, maybe by accident, but most likely on purpose.

  Just to be sure, I call it once more, being sure to dial every number with careful attention to detail. The same guy answers and tells me to fuck off.

  Desperate now, I open the internet browser on my phone and type in Dale’s Diner in Pine Hill. There’s no website, but I find its Google Maps landing page. There are three reviews alongside an address. Under that, it asks if I own this business and want to add a phone number and operating hours.

  I try to think back and determine if I ever saw Raelynn answer a phone while she was working.

  No. Fuck.

  How can a place exist today without a phone number?

  I’m starting to feel anxiety creep up my neck. My hands are shaking. My chest burns with every breath. It’s fine. I have money to burn. Resources at my disposal. I’ll ask my assistant to look into her. Hire a private investigator if needed.

  Then I remember.

  The nursing home.

  Yes.

  I search the name on Google and there’s a number listed on their website. Thank god. I dial it and my heart pounds while I wait for someone to answer. Then—like I’ve been doused in frigid water—I realize what I’m doing with aching clarity.

  “Hello?” someone answers in a polite tone.

  Silence.

  “Hello? This is Brookdale Assisted Living. Can I help you?”

  I immediately cover my mouth with my hand as I slide the phone away from my ear and hang up.

  I can’t do this. I can’t invade her life like this. No private investigator. No leaving messages for her at her dying grandmother’s nursing home. Fuck. Oh fuck.

  What do I do?

  What can I do?

  “Ben? You okay?” Anthony asks sometime later when he finds me sitting on the edge of the bed, right where he left me hours ago.

  No.

  I’m not.

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Raelynn

  There are four of us crammed inside the tiny office on the third floor of the research lab. They’ve given us this one corner of the building to designate as ours, and we’ve really done our best to make it feel like home. Julia strung heart-shaped twinkle lights from the ceiling for Valentine’s Day and never took them down. The massive cutout of Jamie from Outlander (kilt and all) we gifted Kayla for her birthday last month lives here too, taped to the wall beside a headshot of Kayla puckering her lips at him.

  I can’t turn my chair completely around without bumping into Ryan, and he has to ask me to scoot back and stand up if he wants to leave. I don’t think the space actually qualifies as an office, more of a broom closet, but as lowly graduate students, we’re lucky to have it. The others might begrudge this stuffy office inside the Cahill Center at Caltech, but I don’t. I could be back at Dale’s, delivering pancakes at this very moment.

  This is where I dreamed of returning to when I was stuck in that trailer back in Texas.

  That dream sustained me during the long hours waiting tables and cleaning houses.

  And that dream was realized much sooner than I thought it’d be. Sooner than I wanted it to be.

  I wasn’t prepared for how quickly Nan passed. How suddenly she was struck with a bad case of pneumonia. I was by her bedside for a week straight, missing my shifts at Dale’s, asking for time off from the cleaning company. When they fired me, I couldn’t blame them. I was too caught up with Nan to worry about getting a paycheck. I was so laser-focused on her treatments, worried when they said the medicine wasn’t helping like it should, worried that my time with her was getting cut short. Sure, I wanted to chase my dreams, but not at the expense of Nan. I would have stayed with her forever. I would have lived in that trailer and worked at Dale’s for years if only it meant I could keep her alive.

  She passed a mere three weeks after Ben left. He was still in Tokyo for the Games, winning a gold medal, carrying the American flag for his country, highlighted on every magazine cover at the supermarket. Meanwhile, I was standing at a gravesite, burying the only person who ever truly loved me. The only family member I’ve ever known.

  My stomach hurts just thinking about that time in my life—that depression I might not have escaped from if not for Professor Olmsted. She’s the one who came to Texas and convinced me to leave after Nan had passed. She was the one who helped me pack what meager belongings I had into boxes and helped me move back across the country. I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t bothered to care about me, if she hadn’t continued to call even though I never answered. She never gave up on me, and with her help, I finished my undergraduate degree and applied for this master’s program.

  Somehow, things have worked out, but even now, today, I would trade it all to have Nan.

  I push all those memories aside and swivel in my chair to face the others.

  We’re quite a crew of misfits, stuck in this astronomy and astrophysics building under the tutelage of Professor Olmsted. We each have a different role in her research lab, but right now, mine consists of getting everyone to focus on lunch.

  “Have you guys made a decision yet? I’m starving!”

  “I would kill for some pad thai from that place down the street,” Ryan says with an audible groan.

  “Yeah, well, unfortunately, it’s like $20 a plate,” Julia says, thumping Ryan on the head with her pencil.

  “Can’t we all split it?” Kayla suggests.

  “Four ways?” Ryan scoffs. “We’d end up with like two bites each.”

  Kayla lets her head drop to her desk. “Oh my god, it sucks being a poor grad student. Remind me to come back pretty instead of smart in my next life.”

  I laugh. “Right, okay, pad thai is out.”

  “Surely we can find free food somewhere,” Ryan suggests. “This is a college campus! There’s always some weird organization trying to draw unsuspecting undergrads into their clutches with the promise of pizza and soda.”

  “Last time we did that, we almost accidentally became Scientologists,” Kayla points out with a visible shiver up her spine.

  “You don’t just accidentally become a Scientologist,” Julia insists. “It’s this whole thing, I’m pretty sure. I don’t know, ask Tom Cruise.”

  “We’re getting nowhere,” I remind everyone as my stomach growls for the hundredth time.

  There’s a knock on the door of our small office, and Professor Olmsted dips her head inside.

  “Julia, were you able to make those slides for Thursday’s lecture?”

  Originally from Iran by way of London, Professor Olmsted has an accent that was tricky to place when I first met her. She’s in her late 50s, tall and lithe with dark brown skin. I’m so envious of her effortless style. She’s always so put together. Today it’s tailored wide-legged trousers that remind me of Katharine Hepburn paired with a crisp white button-down rolled to her elbows. I’ve never seen her in a dress or a skirt, and if I had any money to my name, I’d totally copy her outfit for outfit. As it is, I’m rocking a free Caltech sweatshirt and jeans.

  “Yes, and I’ve emailed the new slide deck out to the class already. They should have enough time to review it all before Thursday.”

  “Good. Thanks.” She props her shoulder against the doorframe, assessing us with an amused glare. “What were you all moaning about when I walked in?”

  “Food,” Ryan replies. “What else?”

  She rolls her eyes and disappears, returning a minute later with a tray of sandwiches in tow.

  “I stole these from the faculty lounge. Don’t rat me out.”

  She sets the tray on the edge of my desk, and like hungry vultures, we converge on it.

  “Hey, easy!” Kayla says, shoving Ryan with her shoulder. “That was my finger you nearly yanked off.”

  “You do all eat, don’t you?” Professor Olmsted asks, looking to me for an answer.

  I shrug as Julia replies, “Sure. We’ve got our three basic food groups: cereal, ramen, and Pop-Tarts.”

  “Lord help us,” Professor Olmsted says, pressing her hand to her forehead.

  “I did have a vegetable last week,” Ryan says with a proud smile.

  We all laugh as Professor Olmsted shakes her head.

  “Right, well. I’m sure you all have enough work to get to so I won’t keep you, but I wanted to give you these.”

  She tugs a white envelope out of the back pocket of her pants and holds it out for Ryan to take since he’s the closest to the door.

  “What’s this?”

  “A little treat.”

  Ryan opens the envelope and slowly pulls out what looks to be a stack of tickets. His eyes go wide with wonder.

  “No shit.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Professor Olmsted says with a cheeky smile.

  His gaze flits back and forth between her and the tickets. “Is this a joke? These are insanely good seats. Practically courtside!”

  “Courtside for what?” Julia says, trying to grab for the tickets, but Ryan holds them just out of her reach. The two of them are eternally at odds and, I suspect, secretly in love.

  She pokes his ribs and he finally passes three of them over. She takes one and keeps them moving so Kayla gets one and then finally the last one is passed to me.

  I look down at the ticket in my hand and my heart stops, then immediately starts hammering hard in my chest, pummeling my ribs.

  “These are basketball tickets,” I say dumbly.

  “What gave it away?” Ryan asks sarcastically. “The huge basketball in the top right corner or…?”

  Professor Olmsted laughs. “I know none of you are the sporty type—”

  “I take no offense to that,” Ryan retorts with a wide-mouthed grin.

  “But…I figure it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And it’s free.”

  “I love free,” Kayla says.

  “Don’t you want to use them?” I ask, trying to foist the ticket back on Professor Olmsted. “I can’t accept this.”

  She shakes her head. “They were a gift to my husband from his firm, but we have dinner plans that night. I thought I’d pass them on to you lot since I know how hard you all have been working lately. And they include a meal and drink package too. It’s a real splurge.”

  “You had me at meal,” Kayla says before taking another bite of her sandwich.

  Professor Olmsted smiles. “Good. Go and enjoy. Raelynn—” My gaze shoots up to meet hers, and she smiles gently. “You’ll go, won’t you?”

  I nod gently, knowing full well that I’m lying. When she looks relieved, guilt washes over me. I know she keeps a careful watch on me compared to the others. She worries about me when she shouldn’t. I’m doing perfectly fine. I’m doing well in all of my seminars and courses, and my work on my master’s thesis is ahead of schedule. Though something tells me it’s not my schoolwork she’s concerned about.

  After she leaves, running off to a staff meeting, I set my basketball ticket down beside my laptop, my attention sliding back to it every few seconds. Annoyed, I eventually shove it into my bag so I don’t have to keep looking at it—not that it truly matters. Even if I were able to focus on my work, the others are still chatting about the basketball game. They can’t believe their luck; I can’t believe the odds.

  “I don’t know a single thing about the sport,” Julia admits. “Are there halves or quarters or what?”

  “Who cares? Ben Castillo will be there. That’s reason enough to go,” Kayla insists.

  “Ben Castillo?” Julia asks curiously.

  I squeeze my eyes closed as my stomach ties itself into a knot.

  Kayla groans. “Hold on.” I listen to her turn back to her computer and start to type. Then she swivels her screen so Julia has a clear view of it. I glance quickly over my shoulder to confirm what I suspect, and then I force my attention back to my computer.

  “Are you kidding me? That’s a real basketball player?”

  “Yes. God, look at him.”

  I can’t.

  Even after all this time.

  “Raelynn, check him out.”

  I wave her off. I refuse to turn and ogle whatever image Kayla has pulled up. It’ll only hurt to see him, and I already have it hard enough as it is. I’ve been back in Los Angeles for a year and a half, and everywhere I turn, Ben is there. He’s on magazine covers and in commercials. Yesterday I heard people discussing him on the campus bus and wished I could afford fancy headphones to block them out. Half the student body at Caltech owns at least one of his jerseys, and I’ve seen even more crop up lately because of how well Los Angeles has been playing in the western conference. They’re currently on a winning streak, and Ben’s expected to carry his team to another NBA title. I know all of this not because I seek out information about him—in fact I actively try to keep my blinders up when it comes to Ben Castillo, but it’s utterly futile in a city where he’s so beloved.