Rory
Dray's text arrived three days after the hallway confrontation, and it was somehow more unsettling than the confrontation itself.
**Dray:** Come watch me race Saturday. No questions asked, no obligation to answer any of mine either. Consider it a truce.
I read it four times before I fully believed it said what it said. A truce implied a war I hadn't fully realized we were already fighting, and an invitation like this — into a part of his life I knew almost nothing about — felt less like an olive branch and more like another careful test, another angle he was working from that I couldn't quite map yet.
I said yes anyway. I told myself it was strategy, that getting closer to Dray meant getting closer to answers, and mostly managed to believe that right up until I found myself standi
