Chapter 21
TILDA
Bron does not avoid me.
That would almost be easier to deal with.
Avoidance would mean anger, or resentment, or the kind of explosive emotion I spent two years bracing myself for the moment he learned the truth.
I would have known how to navigate that.
I understand anger. I understand shouting matches and slammed doors and the messy emotional debris that follows two stubborn people colliding headfirst.
What he gives me instead is distance.
Quiet, deliberate distance.
And somehow that hurts worse.
The training floor smells like rubber mats, warm metal, and the faint ozone scent from the automated obstacle rigs humming overhead.
Contestants move through their morning drills with the tense focus of people who know the competition is narrowing to its final brutal stretch.
Only eight couples will remain after the next elimination.
Everyone here understands what that means.
I stand near the strategy console reviewing terrain simulations for the upcoming challenge, though the tablet in my hands might as well be blank for all the attention I’m giving it. My eyes keep drifting across the room to where Bron is working through a balance drill on the elevated beam course.
He moves with the same controlled precision he’s been showing all week.
Measured steps.
No reckless shortcuts.
No flashy leaps designed to impress the cameras.
Just careful, deliberate progress from one platform to the next.
A few days ago that transformation might have impressed me.
Now it makes my chest ache.
He finishes the drill and drops lightly to the mat below. One of the trainers says something to him—probably a correction about stance or timing—and Bron nods quietly before resetting the course markers.
No jokes.
No sarcastic comments.
Just a calm “Got it.”
I lower the tablet slowly.
“What the hell,” I murmur.
“Problem?”
The voice beside me belongs to Dartha, who has been watching the same scene unfold with mild curiosity.
“That,” I say, nodding toward Bron.
Dartha glances over.
“Your partner?”
“My… partner,” I repeat carefully.
She shrugs.
“He looks focused.”
“He’s being polite.”
“That sounds normal.”
“For him it’s suspicious.”
Dartha laughs softly.
“Maybe he’s finally learning.”
“Maybe.”
But the word feels hollow.
Because the look on Bron’s face when he left the corridor last night hasn’t left my mind.
Shock.
Pain.
And something worse.
Understanding.
The moment he realized I hadn’t told him about Jesse because I didn’t trust him to be the kind of father our son deserved.
I press my fingers against my temple and try to focus on the strategy tablet again.
It doesn’t work.
Because the question I’ve spent two years avoiding is suddenly impossible to ignore.
Did I make the right choice?
Jesse deserved stability.
He deserved safety.
He deserved a parent who didn’t treat danger like a hobby.
But watching Bron across the training floor now—calm, disciplined, deliberate—I feel a crack forming in the certainty that carried me through those early months of pregnancy and fear.
Dartha nudges my shoulder.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.”
“Uh-huh.”
I close the tablet.
“Let’s hope he keeps that attitude for the next challenge.”
The arena briefing arrives midafternoon.
Captain Photonic stands before the assembled contestants with the theatrical enthusiasm of a man who clearly believes near-death experiences should be narrated like sporting events.
“Contestants!” he announces. “Today’s challenge will test endurance, cooperation, and nerve!”
The holographic map flickers into existence above us.
A canyon.
A massive one.
Jagged rock walls plunge into a deep ravine while narrow ledges snake along the cliffside. Suspended cables stretch across open air. Minimal equipment icons blink along the route.
I narrow my eyes.
“Minimal equipment,” Bron mutters beside me.
“That’s not comforting.”
The map zooms closer.
Contestants must cross the canyon using limited gear—climbing ropes, carabiners, and a few collapsible anchors—while navigating unstable ledges and wind gusts generated by the arena’s environmental systems.
Bron whistles softly.
“That’s a long way down.”
“Yes.”
“Do we get parachutes?”
“No.”
“Figures.”
He glances sideways at me.
“What’s the strategy?”
“Balance and patience,” I say.
“That sounds suspiciously like listening to you.”
“It usually is.”
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
Then the moment passes.
The starting horn sounds.
The canyon arena smells like sun-warmed stone and dry dust.
Artificial wind systems roar through the ravine, sending bursts of air swirling across the narrow ledges. The heat from the stadium lights makes the rock surfaces almost hot enough to burn through the thin soles of our boots.
Below us the canyon floor disappears into shadow.
Bron peers over the edge once and immediately leans back.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Let’s not do that again.”
“Focus.”
“Yes ma’am.”
We step onto the first ledge.
The stone crumbles slightly beneath my boot.
“Loose rock,” I warn.
“I noticed.”
Bron secures the first anchor point while I feed the rope through the carabiner. Our movements fall into an efficient rhythm almost immediately—he handles the heavier physical work while I map the safest path along the canyon wall.
The wind howls suddenly through the ravine, rattling the cable lines stretched across the next section.
“Wait,” I say.
Bron stops instantly.
The gust fades.
“Now.”
We move.
He crosses the first cable ahead of me, balancing carefully while the rope trembles under his weight. The canyon air smells faintly of mineral dust and heated metal from the environmental generators hidden in the rock walls.
Halfway across, a louder gust slams into the line.
The cable sways.
Bron grips the support rope tighter.
“You still with me?” he calls.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Keep moving.”
He does.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The Bron I remember from years ago would have tried to sprint across the line just to prove he could.
The man in front of me now moves with careful precision.
When he reaches the far ledge he secures the anchor and turns to steady the line while I cross.
“Got you,” he says quietly.
I step onto the rock beside him.
“Thanks.”
The rest of the canyon route unfolds in similar fashion—narrow ledges, rope bridges, unstable rock shelves that threaten to crumble under too much weight.
Several teams fall behind when the wind systems intensify.
One couple misjudges a rope swing and drops into the safety net below, their elimination alarm echoing through the canyon.
Bron watches them go.
“Brutal.”
“Yes.”
We reach the final ascent as the sun begins dipping behind the arena walls.
The climb requires both of us to scale a vertical section using the last two anchors.
“I go first,” Bron says.
“Fine.”
He climbs carefully, driving the anchor into the rock face before hauling himself upward.
When he reaches the top he secures the rope and leans over the edge.
“Your turn.”
I climb.
My arms ache from the earlier sections of the course, but the rope holds steady under my weight.
Bron grabs my wrist when I reach the top and pulls me onto the platform.
The finish horn sounds seconds later.
The scoreboard flickers to life.
Eight couples remain.
We made it.
Bron exhales slowly and sits down on the edge of the platform, staring out across the canyon.
“Well,” he says.
“That worked.”
“Yes.”
For a moment neither of us speaks.
The wind whistles through the rock formations below.
Finally he stands and brushes dust from his hands.
“Good job,” he says.
“You too.”
The words feel strangely formal between us.
But as we walk toward the exit tunnel, something settles quietly in my mind.
Watching Bron today—steady, patient, dependable in ways I once believed were impossible—I realize something uncomfortable.
The man I left two years ago isn’t the man standing beside me now.
And if that’s true…
Then maybe Jesse deserves the chance to know him.
The thought sits quietly in my chest as the arena noise fades behind us.
By the time we reach the compound corridor, I’ve already started planning the conversation I never thought I’d have.
Because sooner or later, Bron is going to meet his son properly.
And this time, I won’t stop it.