“You’ve got this, Ray,” I called, trying to be supportive despite my earlier jab.
Ray began cutting his fabric, his athletic hands steady with the small scissors. But as he moved to the stitching phase, his frustration became evident. The needle was tiny, the thread kept breaking, and the precise folding required a delicacy that didn’t come naturally to him.
“Damn it,” he muttered as he pricked his finger for the third time.
The garbage collectors and sorority sisters arrived, selecting their team members for the challenge. Ernie joined the crafting table with Gemini.
Adrienne finished first, presenting her mola to the craftsperson for approval. She examined it carefully, then shookher head, pointing out several flaws in the stitching. Her military precision had backfired—she’d rushed through without paying enough attention to the artistic elements.
To everyone’s surprise, Gemini was progressing quickly, her sorority crafting experience apparently transferable to this traditional art form. “We make all our own bid day decorations, y’all,” she explained cheerfully as she deftly manipulated the fabric. “That’s when we issue invitations to new girls to join the sorority.”
Ray was now visibly sweating, his hands shaking slightly as he attempted to follow the pattern. He kept glancing over at me, clearly hoping for some assistance or encouragement, but I remained impassive.
“Jeffrey,” he finally called. “Any tips?”
I hesitated, torn between my petty desire to let him flounder and the promise we’d made to each other. The realization hit me with sudden clarity: this was a test. Not the mola—that was just fabric and thread. The real challenge was whether we could break this cycle that had become second nature over twenty-five years.
What lesson was I learning if I kept defaulting to the same response? What was Ray learning if I abandoned him to prove a point?
With a sigh, I approached the edge of the crafting area, careful not to cross into the workspace, which would violate the rules.
“Slow down,” I advised, moving closer to the edge of the crafting area. “You’re rushing the stitches. Make each one count rather than doing a lot of messy ones. Just like a triathlon, you don’t want to blow all your energy racing through the swim. You still have to bike and run, so find your pace and maintain it.”
The relief in Ray’s eyes when he looked up at me was like a physical weight on my chest. How many times had we done thisdance? Him needing something from me, me withholding it to punish him for not being what I needed?
“Also, fold the fabric under more tightly before you stitch,” I added. “That’ll give you a cleaner line.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Gemini finished first, earning her team the next clue. The sorority sisters squealed with excitement, hugging each other before racing off toward their next destination. Adrienne finished shortly after, her second attempt meeting the craftsperson’s standards.
Ray was third, presenting his mola with nervous anticipation. The craftsperson examined it carefully, then smiled and handed him our next clue. The relief on his face was palpable.
"You did it," I said as he returned to me, still holding the delicate textile. His hands were slightly unsteady, whether from the precise work or the stress, I couldn't tell.
"Thanks to your advice," he acknowledged, his eyes meeting mine with something I hadn't seen in months—genuine gratitude mixed with surprise, as if he hadn't expected me to help him succeed.
As he handed me the mola to examine, our fingers brushed briefly. The fabric was beautiful, intricate, far better than anything I could have managed.
"What does the clue say?"
Ray tore open the envelope, but not before placing his free hand briefly on my shoulder. We'd functioned as partners instead of competitors, because I'd chosen to help him succeed rather than watch him struggle. He'd chosen to accept that help rather than push me away.
It was a small moment, but it felt like the first real step back toward each other.
Ray read, “Make your way to Cinta Costera and search for your next clue near the Panama sign.” He turned to the woman who had judged him and asked in Spanish if he could use her cell phone, and she handed it to him.
“That’s the coastal beltway,” he said after a moment. “It’s along the waterfront, not far from here.”
We took off running, leaving the remaining teams working on their molas. The nearest exit from the plaza led us to a bustling avenue, where we quickly flagged down a taxi.
“Cinta Costera, el signo de Panamá,” Ray told the driver as we jumped in, with Cody in the front seat and us in the back.
“The teams from the second flight will be landing soon,” I noted, checking my watch. “We need to maintain our lead.”
Ray nodded, looking determined. “We will. We’ve just proved we can work together when it counts.”
He was right, but as the taxi navigated through Panama City’s congested streets, I couldn’t help wondering if one moment of teamwork could outweigh years of growing apart. The weight of all we hadn’t said to each other—about his affair, about my withdrawal, about the future we’d once planned—hung between us, heavier than the humid tropical air.
