The taxi swerved sharply to avoid a street vendor, throwing me against Ray’s shoulder. He steadied me with a hand that lingered longer than necessary, and our eyes met.
"Jeffrey," he began, his voice low and serious, "there's something I need to tell you."
The taxi horn blared as another car cut us off, and Ray's words were lost in the cacophony of traffic. Whatever revelation had been on the tip of his tongue remained unspoken as we pulled up to Cinta Costera, the impressive waterfront stretching before us, the race—and all its uncertainty—still ahead.
Chapter 17
Mind the Gap
There was no time to continue that conversation because we both had to pay attention to our surroundings. As we emerged from the labyrinth of Casco Viejo’s one-way streets, the road suddenly widened into a modern six-lane boulevard, Avenida Balboa. The contrast was jarring. From centuries-old Spanish colonial architecture to gleaming skyscrapers in an instant.
The taxi accelerated as we joined the flow of traffic on what a sign in English called the Coastal Beltway. This impressive strip of highway ran along the Pacific Ocean, with landscaped parks and recreational areas buffering the road from the water.
The air conditioning in the taxi struggled against the tropical heat, and sweat beaded along my hairline despite the cool air. Outside, joggers and cyclists moved along dedicated paths parallel to the highway, seemingly unbothered by the humidity.
“There it is!” Ray pointed ahead to the colorful Panama sign that stood proudly along the roadside – oversized letters spelling out the country’s name in bright primary colors.
The clue box had to be somewhere near there.
The sign offered the perfect backdrop for photos, with either the impressive skyline or the vast Pacific Ocean behind it, depending on which way you faced.
“Estamos aquí,” our driver announced, pulling over to the curb. “El signo de Panamá.”
The letters were tall enough for people to pose inside them for photos. We thanked our driver and stepped out into the wall of heat. My heart rate quickened as I saw the clue box – our next challenge awaited.
Adrienne and Fletcher were already there, retrieving their clue. Gemini and Blaine were nowhere in sight—they must have taken a wrong turn or gotten stuck in traffic.
“This way,” Ray said, already moving toward the sign. But before we’d gone more than a few steps, he caught my arm, pulling me to a stop beneath the shade of a palm tree.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, glancing anxiously toward the clue box in the distance. “We need to keep moving.”
I looked at him, really looked at him—his tanned face flushed from the heat, sweat beading at his temples, his eyes holding something I hadn’t seen in months: vulnerability.
“I’ve been thinking about that day you found Russell’s text,” he said, the name still landing between us like a stone. “You asked me what it was about, and I said it wasn’t just sex. That he made me feel young again.”
I stiffened. “Is this really the time?—”
“It’s exactly the time,” Ray interrupted. “Because what happened back there with the mola—you helping me instead of letting me fail—it made me realize something.”
Around us, tourists streamed past in bright shirts and sun hats, oblivious to our bubble of tension. Cody had discreetly positioned himself to capture whatever was unfolding between us. I caught him in the corner of my eye and tried to ignore him.
"Russell never saw me fail," Ray continued, his voice dropping lower. "He only saw the version of me I wanted to show him---the athlete, the competitor, the guy who had everything figured out. But you... you've seen me at my worst. You've seen me fail, and instead of walking away, you step in. You always have."
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. My chest tightened, and I felt something crack open inside me—not breaking, but opening. Twenty-five years of small moments flashed through my mind: Ray struggling with Leo's math homework while I quietly solved the problems on scratch paper, sliding them across the table. Ray's food poisoning in Cancun when I'd held his head and brought him ice chips. The day his mother died when he'd collapsed in our kitchen and I'd simply held him.
I'd never thought of those moments as stepping in. They'd just been... love. The automatic response of a partner who couldn't bear to watch the person they loved struggle alone.
"Ray," I started, but my voice came out rough. I had to clear my throat and try again.
He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read—vulnerable but hopeful, as if he'd just revealed something precious and was waiting to see if I'd treat it carefully.
"I never thought of it that way," I managed, my hands trembling slightly. "I just... I couldn't not help you. That's what you do when you love someone."
"I know that now," he said softly. "I'd forgotten, but I know that now."
The weight of his admission settled between us like something sacred. For a moment, the tourists and cameras and competition faded away, and it was just us—two men who'd built a life together, one moment of support at a time.
Then a familiar voice called out.
