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Chapter no 15

Check & Mate

โ€ŒDarcy loves the guinea pig hoodie I bought her (โ€œthough itโ€™s a copout, as Goliath will not want to copulate with a 2D piggyโ€) and even Sabrina is impressed with her new maple leaf skates that I almost missed my plane to buy and nearly couldnโ€™t fit into my luggage.โ€Œ

But her love for me comes and goes. โ€œYouโ€™re the best!โ€ she tells me on Wednesday, after I give her a ride to McKenzieโ€™s. But on Thursday, when I find her crying in the living room over something McKenzie posted on social media, itโ€™s โ€œWhy do you have to be soย nosy? Why canโ€™t youย everย mind your own business?โ€

โ€œIf they find my corpse in a ditch,โ€ I say to Mom, โ€œtell the police not to look into her. She probably did it, but I donโ€™t want her to spend her life in prison.โ€

โ€œItโ€™s not just you. Sheโ€™s mad at the entire world.โ€

โ€œWas I this intense at fourteen?โ€ Itโ€™s such a ridiculous question. Iโ€™m still eighteen, but I feel as ancient as the lady fromย Titanic. Except when I compare myself with Easton and feel stuck in some pubescent stage.

โ€œI once asked you to stop leaving the peanut butter jar open, and you called me a dictator.โ€

I groan. โ€œWill Darcy be like this, too?โ€

โ€œYup.โ€ She pats my shoulder. โ€œThough sheโ€™ll leave the Nutella open.โ€

All in all, though, I come back from my trip to the puzzling revelation that no life- threatening emergencies occurred, and that without me, my

family . . . did just fine. Iโ€™m half shocked, half relieved.

Oz and Defne are at the Pasternak, which means that Iโ€™m mostly unsupervised. I should use the extra time to catch up on the Garcรญa Mรกrquez readathon I signed up for on Goodreads, memorize the world capitals, dye my hair vomit green. Anything, really. Instead, I study Nolanโ€™s games.

The fury of our last night in Toronto has settled into cold resentment. Nolan said lots of things about me, some of which were correctโ€” by pure coincidence. Broken clock, twice a day. Still, he had no right. His question game was stupid. I hope to never see him again. Probably wonโ€™t.

But I do want to study the aggravating masterpieces that are his games, and my hands itch to pull them up on the chess engine. I revel in his delicious ability to wear down his opponents, deprive them of active play, and then strike like a tiger. Iโ€™m developing a more- than- mild obsession, and thatโ€™s probably why Iโ€™m thinking of him when I match up with a guy named Alex on an app on Sunday night.

ALEX:ย Hey!

MAL:ย love the dog in your profile pic, is he a pitbull?

My phone immediately pings with a reply, but for several minutes Iโ€™m too distracted with lying back on the couch and analyzing the Sawyer variation for the Berlin Defense to check it.

ALEX:ย Yup. How have you been?

How have Iย been? Thatโ€™s kind of a weird question. I scroll back to his profile pic, thinking that he looks a bit familiar. Heโ€™s cute. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Not that dark, though. Not as dark as . . .

MAL:ย have we met before?

ALEX:ย Are you kidding?

Nope. Not kidding. Thankfully, he reminds me before I have to admit it.

ALEX:ย We went to school together. I was a year ahead of you. I asked you to junior prom.

Oh.ย Thatย Alexโ€” except, now he has facial hair. I do remember. Heโ€™d been so . . . bland. Probably why I havenโ€™t really thought about him since.

MAL:ย sorry, i didnโ€™t recognize your pic. howโ€™ve you been?

ALEX:ย Good! Iโ€™m at Rutgers. What about you?

MAL:ย iโ€™m not in school

ALEX:ย Taking a year off? It suits you, from your profile pic. You were always really hot, but now . . .

The next text is three fire emojis. Given the reason Iโ€™m on this app, I should probably find it flattering instead of . . . blah.

Instead, I wonder how Nolan would do this. Be online. Hook up. Poorly, probably. Isnโ€™t he a virgin? Useless in the sack.

But itโ€™s so hard to picture him doing anything poorly. With his dark, attentive eyes; the precise, purposeful way his large hands close around the chess pieces; his voice, always so careful; his beautiful, brilliant strategies. Heโ€™d murmur indiscernible words under his breath at the Olympics, when he made a mistake or regretted a move. Sometimes the hairs at the nape of my neck would rise, and it shouldnโ€™t have been pleasant, but Iโ€”

My phone pings again and I look at it, startled. I forgot it was in my hand.

ALEX:ย Do you want to meet sometime soon, catch up?

Hook up, he means. Though heโ€™s being appropriately subtle about it. I bet Nolan wouldnโ€™t be nearly as low- key. I bet heโ€™d say something like โ€œto have s*xual intercourseโ€ andโ€”

Oh God.

Ohย God.

MAL:ย actually, probably better not. iโ€™m way too busy with work, shouldnโ€™t even be online. so sorry to waste your time.

I silence my phone, and when it vibrates with Alexโ€™s response, I donโ€™t bother checking it. Why the hell am I thinking about Nolan right now, while setting up a meeting with another person? Why is he in my head?

Thatโ€™s it. Iโ€™m done. This is upsetting. Confusing. Stupid. Unprecedented. No more Nolan games. No more Nolan. I need toโ€” I canโ€™t keep thinking about him.

Starting tomorrow, I tell myself as I wait for the shower jet to warm up enough.ย I wonโ€™t look at his games anymore. Iโ€™ll purge him. Starting tomorrow.

I actually believe it. Until tomorrow happens.

 

 

THE PIECE IS INย VANITY FAIR.

Which is a problem in and of itself, as Iโ€™m out of free articles for the month. It means that when Easton texts it to me (Are you hooking up with him? Good to know I have to find out about my BFFโ€™s life from Vanity Fair!!!), I can see the title (Sawyer places second at Pasternak invitational, draws to Koch in volatile final match) and nothing else.

I just woke up after tossing and turning all night. Outside itโ€™s still dark,

the glow from my phone pierces my bleary eyes, and Goliath is proudly licking his butthole somewhere by my left ear.

I really do hate my life.

MALLORY:ย donโ€™t have access to the article. tl;dr?

MALLORY:ย how are you, by the way? did a sasquatch capture you and make you her bride?

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS:ย You WANT to read this.

MALLORY:ย im poor and i hate jeff bezos.

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS:ย Thatโ€™s theย Washington Postย and USE INCOGNITO MODE jeez whatโ€™s wrong with you. Boomer.

Incognito mode works, and how did I not know about that? Iโ€™m wondering how to exploit this newfound knowledge when the first paragraph of the article catches my eyes.

. . . that Sawyer seemed uncharacteristically out of shape. Of course, out of shape for the worldโ€™s No. 1 is still better than most Super GMs, but many were surprised when he placed second at one of the most important tournaments of the year

โ€” and did not attend the awards ceremony.

โ€œHe seemed tired,โ€ Andreas Antonov, the Georgian GM, said in an interview. โ€œWhich isnโ€™t surprising, considering that he came on a red-eye straight from Toronto and played his first match one hour after landing.โ€ Sawyerโ€™s decision to participate in the Olympics was a topic of much discussion in the chess community. He was the only top-20 player who chose to do so.

โ€œThatโ€™s what happens when you put chess after your girlfriend,โ€ Koch, Pasternakโ€™s winner, said toย ChessWorld.com. โ€œThe Sawyer era of chess is over. Next

month Iโ€™ll triumph at the Challengers, and then Iโ€™ll take the World Championship.โ€

Although Sawyer hasnโ€™t spoken publicly about his personal life, it seems likely that Koch was referring to Mallory Greenleaf, a talented player who has drawn some attention since the Philadelphia Open. Greenleaf is currently rated 1,892 but is rapidly climbing the rankings. At the Olympics, Greenleaf and Sawyer were part of the US team with Tanu Goel (ranking: #295) and Emil Kareem (ranking: #84) and placed third. They were also spotted together outside the tournament (see this picture) . . .

I click on the link, which brings me to Page Fucking Six. Itโ€™s a photo of Nolan and me on our last night in Toronto, playing tic- tactoe in a semi- dark room. My head is bent, pencil in hand. Heโ€™s staring at me, an oddly soft expression on his usually unreadable face.

Who took this? When?ย Why?

. . . Sawyer, whoโ€™s a bona fide rock star, is rumored to be dating fellow chess player Mallory Greenleaf. The two were caught having an intimate moment late on . . .

Oh, fuck. No noย no. Oh, fuckity fuck fuck.

I spring out of bed. This is bad. Badder than bad.ย Baddest. What do I do? How do I ask for a retraction fromย Vanity Fair? Do they have a manager I can pull a Karen with?

Nolan. Nolan will know. Heโ€™ll want to fix this, too. I need to get in touch with him, but how? I donโ€™t have his number. Do I summon him with a pentagram made of rooks, orโ€” Emil!

I text him, then remember his schedule back in Toronto:ย notย a morning person. Who knows when heโ€™ll wake up, and I canโ€™t wait that long when someone is wrong about me on the internet. So I run a hand through my hair and do what anyone else would: I google Nolan. I have to comb

through more results than anyone whoโ€™s barely twenty years old should have, including a Tumblr of him as a cat, and explicit erotic fanfiction of him and Percy Jackson sixty- nining on a hippocampus. Then find something useful: an article about Nolan emancipating himself from his family and moving into a Tribeca penthouse.

And because the internet is a scary place that doesnโ€™t believe in boundaries, there is an address.

Apparently I donโ€™t believe in boundaries, either: Iโ€™m going there to talk to Nolan. Itโ€™ll take over an hour. By then Emil will have replied, and Iโ€™ll text Nolan that Iโ€™m in the area.ย Letโ€™s get Starbucks to talk about chess and a possible defamation lawsuit to a major news outlet! Coffeeโ€™s on me!ย Perfect plan.

Made only slightly less perfect by the fact that I find myself in the lobby of Nolanโ€™s building, and Emil still wonโ€™t reply or take my calls. Because heโ€™s still asleep. The doorman takes a look at the oversized sweater I threw over my most boho dress and is ready to eject me from the building.

I smile shakily. โ€œIโ€™m here to see Mr. Sawyer.โ€

The doormanโ€™s expression clearly says,ย I know you chess groupies, and I wonโ€™t hesitate to bother the police with this. It makes me want to die a bit.

โ€œPlease?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m under instruction not to let up unexpected visitors.โ€

โ€œBut I . . .โ€ An idea occurs to me. It makes me want to die a lot. โ€œHe just came back from Russia and I wanted to surprise him, because Iโ€™m his . . .โ€ย Donโ€™t gag. Show the good doorman the Page Six article. โ€œGirlfriend. See?โ€ย See this pic thatโ€™s on the internet and must therefore be true?

Two minutes later Iโ€™m on the fourth floor, thinking Nolan needs way better security, when he opens the door.

I fully expected to word- vomit at him and demand that he ask his . . . publicist? Press team? Masseuse? That he askย someoneย to fix this shitshow. But when heโ€™s standing in front of me, hair wild, skin pasty white, white tee and plaid pajama pants rumpled from the mattress, I cannot help but say . . .

โ€œYou look like death.โ€

โ€œMallory?โ€ He rubs the heel of his palm in his eye. His voice is hoarse with sleep and something else. โ€œAnother dream, huh?โ€

โ€œNolanโ€” are you okay?โ€

โ€œYou should come to bed. This is a stupid setup. I like it much better when weโ€” โ€

โ€œNolan, are youย sick?โ€

He blinks. His expression clears. โ€œAre youย reallyย here?โ€ โ€œYes. Whatโ€™s wrong with you?โ€

He scratches his nape and sinks into the doorjamb, like orthostatic balance is not something he has fully mastered. โ€œNot sure,โ€ he mumbles. โ€œEither everything or nothing.โ€

Nolanโ€™s apartment is a duplex three times larger than my house, a giant expanse of uncluttered spaces, wide windows, hardwood floors, and bookshelves. In the middle of the hallway thereโ€™s an open suitcase, abandoned; on a nearby table, a stack of books that include Emily Dickinson, Donna Tartt, and a monograph on the Macedonian phalanx; all over, the deep, complex scent Iโ€™ve come to associate with Nolanโ€” but better. Stronger. Deconstructed in its separate layers.

I follow him as he leads somewhere he forgot to say, trying not to be nosy about his space, not to stare at the cotton clinging to his wide shoulders. Itโ€™s odd, being here. Like the peculiar atmosphere that every room exudes as soon as Nolan Sawyers enters it has been distilled, condensed, poured over the walls and the floors.

This impromptu trip might not have been a wise decision. โ€œDo you have a fever?โ€ I ask in the kitchen.

โ€œImpossible to tell.โ€

I arch my eyebrow. โ€œLet me tell you about thermometer technology.โ€ โ€œAh, yeah. I forgot.โ€ Thing is, I donโ€™t even think heโ€™s being a smart-ass.

I watch him grab two regular-sized mugs that look almost comically small in his hands (one saysย Emilโ€™s #1 Little Bitch), a box of Froot Loops, a half- drunk gallon of milk thatโ€™s visibly curdled. He offers me the non- Emil mug like itโ€™s a whiskey shot.

โ€œNolan, youโ€” โ€ I push up my toes to reach his forehead. Heโ€™sย burning.

This close, he smells like sleep and fresh sweat. Not unpleasant. โ€œYour hand is so cool,โ€ he says, closing his eyes in relief.

I make to take it away, but he traps it under his. โ€œStay.โ€ He leans into me, breath warm, chapped lips against my temple. โ€œYou never stay.โ€

โ€œNolan, youโ€™re ill. We have to do something about it.โ€

โ€œRight. Yes.โ€ He straightens away from me. โ€œBreakfast. Will be like new after.โ€

โ€œAfterย this? You need nutrients, not food coloring in microdonut shape.โ€ โ€œItโ€™s all I have.โ€

โ€œSeriously?โ€

He shrugs. โ€œI was gone somewhere. Canada?โ€

โ€œYou were in Russia. Also, you have a stack of bowls in that credenzaโ€” who has cereal in a mug?โ€

โ€œOh.โ€ He nods. Then collapses slowly, until his forehead rests on the kitchen island. โ€œWhoโ€™s Credence?โ€

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Iโ€™m a good person. I pick up Mrs. Abebeโ€™s garbage can when the wind tips it over, smile at the dogs at the park, never make fun of people who sayย irregardless. I donโ€™tย deserveย this. And yet. โ€œListen, stay here. Donโ€™t eat that. Iโ€™ll be right back.โ€

I half carry him to the couch, his solid muscles heavy and scorching hot against me. In less than ten minutes, I run downstairs, spend a small European countryโ€™s GDP at the corner bodega, and come back up to find him sleeping.

Iโ€™m Mother Teresa. Reincarnated. I need a halo for my trouble.

โ€œTake this.โ€ Nolanโ€™s couch is a giant sectional but still too short for him.

Ridiculous.

โ€œIs it poison?โ€

โ€œRapid- release ibuprofen.โ€ โ€œWhatโ€™s that smell?โ€

โ€œYour armpits.โ€ โ€œNo, the good one.โ€ โ€œIโ€™m cooking.โ€

His eyes spring open. โ€œYouโ€™re making chicken soup.โ€ โ€œWhich you do not deserve.โ€

โ€œFrom scratch?โ€

โ€œItโ€™s really easy, and canned stuff tastes like lead poisoning and despair. By the way, you owe me forty- three dollars. Yes, Iโ€™m charging you for the emotional- support Snickers bar I bought for myselfโ€” you can Venmo, but please donโ€™t writeย For Drugsย in the memo line. Just . . . take a nap. Iโ€™ll be back.โ€

He doesnโ€™t, though. Take a nap. He sits at the kitchen island and watches me in a glazed- over, pleased way as I move around quietly. It doesnโ€™t bother me, really. His eyes on me usually do strange, uncomfortable things, but today . . . maybe I just love this kitchen. Itโ€™s large and cozy and modern, and I want to use it every day. I want to common- law marry it and adopt an entire pack of incontinent shar- peis with it.

โ€œWhy are you here?โ€ he asks twenty minutes later. With the meds kicking in, he seems a little less out of it.

โ€œThere is this article inย Vanity Fair,โ€ I explain absentmindedly while chopping carrots. Now that Iโ€™m here, taking care of Nolan in his warm apartment that smells like him and comfort food, itโ€™s hard to scrounge up the level of indignation I felt one hour ago. โ€œAbout you losing to Koch.โ€

โ€œIย drewย with Koch. But I did lose to Liu, who in turn won to Oblonsky, and I tied with Antonov, so I placed second at the tournamentโ€” โ€

โ€œYes, Iโ€™m sure your dick is longer than Kochโ€™s, but letโ€™s focus on the matter at hand, which is that Koch toldย Vanity Fairย that you and I are dating, and Page Six published pics of us in Toronto, and now whatever small nerdy percentage of the world cares about chess thinks that we have a thing.โ€

โ€œAnd we donโ€™t?โ€

I turn to glare at him. โ€œYou donโ€™t haveย things. You told me so.โ€ โ€œI also said โ€˜until recently.โ€™ โ€

My heart skips a beat. โ€œYou should be way more upset about this. Since youโ€™re on your deathbed, Iโ€™ll let that slide, but weโ€™ll have to set the record straight.โ€

โ€œSure. Feel free.โ€

โ€œWhat does that mean? Together. Weโ€™ll do it together. We can release a press statement. Invest in skywriting.ย Something.โ€

โ€œI wonโ€™t. But you can.โ€

I scowl. โ€œWhat do you mean, you wonโ€™t? My sister, my friends, theyโ€™ll read the article and think itโ€™s true.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m happy to text your friends, or FaceTime them, or skywrite at them to explain the situation. But I wonโ€™t talk about my personal life to the press.โ€

โ€œWhy?โ€

โ€œMal, I understand that this is upsetting, but itโ€™s not the first time this has happened to me. Thereโ€™s no way to fight the press when theyโ€™re wrong. You can only ignore it. First rule of Chess Club: never google yourself.โ€

I cover the soup with a lid and lean against the counter, arms crossed. โ€œPretty sure the first rule of Chess Club is White moves first. And I understand you were burned by the Baudelaire rumor, butโ€” โ€

โ€œI was referring to the shit they printed about my grandfather.โ€ He gives me a vacuous look. โ€œWhatโ€™s the Baudelaire rumor?โ€

I look away. Embarrassing, that I know of it and he doesnโ€™t. Makes it sound like I care more about his love life than he does. โ€œJust . . . people said you dated a Baudelaire?โ€

โ€œOh, yeah. The sisters, right? Emil told me about it.โ€ โ€œIs it true?โ€

His eyebrow lifts. โ€œYou know it isnโ€™t.โ€ Right. I do. โ€œHow did the rumor start, then?โ€

โ€œOne of them was at some party my manager made me go to, back when I still listened to her. That was probably enough.โ€

I lean my elbows on the island, hating how interested I am. โ€œWhich Baudelaire?โ€

โ€œName started with aย J, I think?โ€

I sigh. They all haveย Jย names. โ€œSo, what happened? You were talking and you didnโ€™t want to . . . you know.โ€

โ€œWould you?โ€

โ€œIf it were me? Hell yeah.โ€

He tilts his head. โ€œWhy would you?โ€ โ€œWhat do you mean?โ€

โ€œWhat would you get out of it?โ€

I shrug. โ€œI like s*x. Itโ€™s fun. It feels goodโ€”ย reallyย good, sometimes. Especially when youโ€™re in the mood and you do it with attractive or interesting people. Iโ€™m not ashamed of it.โ€

โ€œYou shouldnโ€™t be,โ€ he says, but I can tell that he doesnโ€™t completely get it. That s*x, desire, are something heโ€™s still wrapping his head around. โ€œWhat about feeling closer to someone? Making a connection?โ€

โ€œMaybe. Iโ€™m sure s*x means different things to different people, and theyโ€™re all valid.โ€ I swat the memory of last night and Alex away, like itโ€™s a fruit fly. โ€œBut the human connection part . . . thatโ€™s not whyย Iย do it. Itโ€™s risky.โ€

โ€œRisky? How?โ€

I shrug, not about to explain. โ€œI donโ€™t need that stuff. Iโ€™m busy enough.โ€ He nods like he knows. โ€œTaking care of your family, right?โ€

I arch an eyebrow. โ€œWerenโ€™t we talking about your Baudelaire affair?โ€ โ€œI donโ€™t really remember what happened. Weโ€” Wait.โ€

โ€œWhat?โ€ I lean closer, wide eyed. โ€œKasparov was there.โ€

โ€œThe former world champion?โ€

โ€œYes. He wanted to play with me.โ€ โ€œAnd?โ€

โ€œWhat do you mean, and? I went to play.โ€

โ€œLet me get this straight. You chose playing chess with an old man over getting laid?โ€

He looks at me like heโ€™s a cloistered nun and Iโ€™m explaining Bitcoin to him. โ€œDid you get that it wasย Kasparov?โ€

I laugh. Then I laugh again. Then I laugh some more, forehead against my palms, thinking that when heโ€™s not a total dick, Nolan is actually kind of cute. When I look up, he has taken a strand of my hair and is rubbing it between his fingertips like itโ€™s mulberry silk. His eyes are still a bit glassy, so I let him.

โ€œWas it at least the best game of your life?โ€ I ask. He stares into my eyes. โ€œNo. It wasnโ€™t.โ€

โ€œWhich one was, then?โ€

More staring. A stray shiver travels up my spine, coming from who knows where. Then the kitchen timer rings, and we both glance away.

I put the soup in his Emilโ€™s Little Bitch mug because itโ€™s a mental image I deserve to have.

โ€œThis is good,โ€ he says after the first spoonful, sounding offensively surprised. โ€œNot as good as your momโ€™s meat loaf, butโ€” โ€

I pinch him on the biceps, where thereโ€™s almost no yield because his muscles strain the sleeves of his T-shirt, and his lopsided smile appears. He has four helpings, which he eats boyishly while I munch on my Snickers and pretend not to be flattered. My adrenaline high is coming down, and my body is starting to remember that I have given it fewer than five hours of sleep and no caffeine.

โ€œDo you cook?โ€ I ask distractedly. โ€œRarely. And mediocrely.โ€

โ€œAnd yet, you have the best kitchen Iโ€™ve ever seen.โ€ I shake my head. โ€œThe money one can earn from tournaments is a bit obscene.โ€

โ€œIt is, but I was a trust- fund baby. Iโ€™ll let you decide if thatโ€™s more or less morally vile.โ€

โ€œNice of your parents.โ€

โ€œMy grandfather,โ€ he corrects. โ€œHe used to own this apartment.โ€

โ€œOh.โ€ I bite my lip, thinking whether I want to ask. โ€œWas that your grandfather who . . .โ€

โ€œYup. Who played chess and went crazy and almost got me killed when I was thirteen.โ€ His smile is small, not as bitter as Iโ€™d have expected. I wince anyway.

โ€œNot the best way to talk about mental health,โ€ I say neutrally.

โ€œRight. My grandfather, who was diagnosed with rapiddecline behavioral variant frontotemporal dementia. Does that sound better?โ€ I donโ€™t reply. Then he adds, โ€œThere is a familial variant of frontotemporal dementia, did you know?โ€

I open my mouth, then I close it. Thereโ€™s a faraway feeling to him that seems to have little to do with his fever. I should tread carefully.

Nolan Sawyer, needing care. Sounds fake. But. โ€œAre you afraid itโ€™ll happen to you?โ€

He huffs out a humorless laugh. โ€œYou know whatโ€™s funny? I used to be terrified of it, but I know it wonโ€™t. Because I got genetic testing as soon as I emancipated. But my father, as far as I know, did not get tested, and until I stopped taking his calls, he told me every day, everyย singleย day, that if I kept playing chess, Iโ€™d end up like my grandfather. As though thatโ€™s what his problem was: he played too much chess.โ€

โ€œThat seems . . . foolish.โ€

โ€œYeah, well. Foolish people will say foolish things.โ€

Heโ€™s not meeting my eyes. He stares down into his empty mug, elbows on the marble counter, and I feel myself leaning closer. Nolan seems raw, and I donโ€™t want to risk touching him, but Iโ€™d like to beย here. With him.

Itโ€™s something I do with Easton, when sheโ€™s feeling down. Darcy. Sabrina, when she lets me. Get a little closer than is polite. Share the same air. Let our scents mix together. I do it for my sisters and my friend, and now for this stupid overgrown world chess champion that Iโ€™m apparently nursing back to health.

Weirdos, both of us.

โ€œThis apartment he left you . . . Itโ€™s big for one person,โ€ I murmur. โ€œWant to move in?โ€ His tone matches mine, intimate.

โ€œSure. Iโ€™ll sell my pancreas. It should cover the first three months of rent.โ€

โ€œYou donโ€™t have to pay rent. Just pick a room.โ€

โ€œAnd Iโ€™ll pay you back in company? Save you from having dinner alone at your candelabra- lit fifty- foot cherrywood table, like Bruce Wayne?โ€

โ€œI usually have dinner standing up in front of that chessboard over there.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m surprised you have dinner at all. And donโ€™t just sustain yourself on the tears of your rivals.โ€

He smiles again, and God.

He is offensively, uniquely, devastatingly handsome.

I take a step back, reaching for my purse, throwing away the Snickers wrapper. โ€œLeftover soupโ€™s in the fridge. Take ibuprofen again in five hours. And have someone come over so if you pass out, theyโ€™ll notice before the rats eat your intestines.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re here.โ€

โ€œIย wasย here. Iโ€™m leaving now.โ€

Nolan deflates visibly, and something like compassion bites into me. โ€œWhereโ€™s Emil?โ€ I ask.

โ€œIโ€™m not going to call Emil because I have the sniffles. Heโ€™s busy with midterms and spending three hours a day pining after Tanu.โ€

โ€œSomeone else, then.โ€

He shakes his head. โ€œIโ€™ll be fine.โ€

โ€œYou wonโ€™t. You were half dead when I got here.โ€ โ€œThen stay.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m already late for Zugzwang. I . . .โ€

Heโ€™s staring at me with those dark, clear eyes, and I just canโ€™t go. I canโ€™t leave him. What if he gets dehydrated and dies? Will that be on me, then? Iโ€™m not giving his ghost the satisfaction of haunting several generations of Greenleaf women. Iโ€™m keeping this jerk alive.

โ€œSince both our jobs consist of playing chess, we should play a game,โ€ he says while I text Defne that something urgent has come up. โ€œJust to be productive members of this capitalistic society.โ€

โ€œNice try.โ€ โ€œDid it work?โ€

โ€œNo. Nolan, you still look like death. Just go nap while I waste my day watchingย Dragon Ageย playthroughs on your Wi-Fi.โ€

โ€œDragonย what?โ€

And thatโ€™s how I find myself on Nolanโ€™s leather couch, telling him about elves and eggheads and the end of the world, soothed by the video and by Nolanโ€™s presence.

โ€œI like this better than the Jughead show,โ€ he says ten minutes in. I yawn, quite pleased.

Then, another ten minutes later, Iโ€™m only fast asleep.

THE EARLY AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT IS BRIGHT, BUT I DONโ€™Tย care. I get to ignore

it because the most delicious blanket is wrapped around me. Flawless, A+, 12/10, five- star Amazon review. It keeps me toasty and presses me into the back of the couch, solid and heavy, the perfect mix of hard and soft. Mostly hard, but in a good way. It even slipped a leg right between mine, and its arms are looped around my rib cage. It makes it nearly impossible for me to move, but I donโ€™t mind, because I feel protected from attacks from all sides. Like the king during good chess.

Iโ€™m not leaving this place, ever. I live here now, in heaven. I open my eyes to survey my new kingdom andโ€”

Nolan is right here. Looking at me. And something within me tells me I should panic, but all I can do is say:

โ€œHey.โ€

โ€œHey,โ€ he says back, and I nearly feel the gravel of his voice against my lips. He smells of something ineffably rich and good.

โ€œHey,โ€ I say again, stupidly, and weโ€™re both smiling, and the air between us is sweet, and his eyes, his nose, his lips are suddenly closer, andโ€”

Something buzzes and I splash back into reality. I wiggle inside of Nolanโ€™s grip, shooting up to a sitting position.

โ€œIgnore it,โ€ he orders, but I ignoreย him.

What just happened? Oh God. Iโ€™ve never slept with someone else.

Never. Not like this. Not . . . whatโ€™s happening?

And the buzz, itโ€™s still going on. โ€œI thinkโ€” my phoneโ€” โ€ Here it is.

How do you pick up? Red? No, green. โ€œHello.โ€ โ€œMal? You okay?โ€ Defne.

โ€œYes. Sorry about not coming in, Iโ€” โ€ โ€œHave you seen the paper?โ€

Oh, shit. The article. โ€œI . . . Donโ€™t worry about it. Itโ€™s a lie, Iโ€™m not sleeping with Nolan.โ€ Nolanโ€™s eyebrow lifts. His arms are still looped around my waist, and I die inside. โ€œI meant, weโ€™re notโ€” โ€

โ€œThis has nothing to do with Nolan.โ€ โ€œOh.โ€ Phew. โ€œWhat then?โ€

โ€œItโ€™s the Challengers, Mal. They chose you as one of this yearโ€™s participants.โ€

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