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soda, I stop thinking about Sawyer, or about the way his voice sounded when he said that he never wanted anything as much as chess. And I don’t think of him again for a little over two years. That is, until the day we play for the first time. And I wipe the floor with him.
HELL YES
“What charity?” “Does it matter?” “Of course. Is it for a right-wing think tank? The next Woody Allen movie?
Once again, spitting truth
I stare at her flushed cheeks for one, two, three seconds, and almost open my mouth to tell her that scholarships pay for you to go to college, but not for the house’s mortgage, or your sister’s roller derby camp, or your other sister’s kidnapped pet’s vitamin-C-reinforced pellets, or whatever it takes to melt the guilt that sticks to the bottom of your stomach.
But he’s still better than our fourth member, Josh, whose claim to fame is repeatedly implying that Easton would be a little less gay if only she made out with him at least once.
LMAO
There is a specific reason I’m lying to my family about my new job, and that reason is: I don’t know.
“Old people smell weird.” “Define old.” “I dunno. Twenty-three?”
well i am done
In my experience, commitment leads to expectations, and expectations lead to lies, and hurt, and disappointment—stuff I’d rather not experience, or force others to experience.
“Well, well, well.” I have him cornered, and he almost sounds pleased. “I see why he’s been going on about you now,”
“Are you a Grandmaster?” “At this stage of the tournament, every player is. Except for you,” he says, with no malice and a lot of relish. “You’re going to send several of them weeping into the men’s restroom.”
let out a laugh—a real one, my first since the tournament started, maybe even since Easton left. Emil stares with a kind, curious expression. “He has no chance,” he says cryptically.
I trudge through my own dread up the dais, fully expecting to trip on the steps. It is I, Jennifer Lawrence at the Oscars.
“I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments. I find that there’s a natural order to things.” I look up and smile sweetly. “I like it better when men shut their mouths and stuff their rooks up their asses, but clearly we can’t always get what we want.”
YOU TELL EM
“What are you doing here? Came to see how it’s done?” Koch’s tone is low enough that the mics won’t pick it up. He’s not talking to me. “She’ll have you in less than five moves,” a deep, assured voice says from behind me.
Sawyer is already there. Waiting. Sitting on Black, tracking all my movements. His eyes on me are unsettling. There’s something too sharp, too ravenous, almost acquisitive about them. Like the match is an afterthought, and I am what he came here for.
I have a new archenemy. I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments. My life mission is to repeat the words back to him while I checkmate his useless, bloated king.
“I’m Darcy. Like Mr. Darcy. And this is Sabrina. Like Sabrina Fair. Mal didn’t get a literary name because…we’re not sure, but I suspect that our parents took a look at her and decided to temper their expectations.
“Are you going to run away?” I frown. “What?” “You usually run away from me. Are you going to?”
“You usually lose your king to me. Are you going to?”
“It has its ups and downs. I used to love it, but a little…sameness set in, and I actually thought about quitting. Then Mallory arrived.” His knee suddenly pushes back against mine. “Now I love it again.”
“You two must work very closely together.” “Not nearly as much as I’d like.”
helllllllllll yeah
“Okay.” Sabrina sets her glass down. “I’ll go ahead and ask it, since we all want to know: Are you guys having sex?” “Oh my God.” I cover my eyes. “Oh my God.” “Sabrina,” Mom chides, “that is really inappropriate.” She turns to me. “But yes, are you?”
I love this
“Did you know Mal has sex with boys and girls?” Darcy adds. “I’m not outing her—she told me I could tell anyone.”
he seems to have great taste.” “Because he ate a stomach-pumping amount of your meat loaf?” “Mostly that. Only secondarily because he doesn’t seem to be able to look away from my most oblivious daughter.”
“I don’t think you understand.” He holds my eyes. I think his throat moves. “I want to play chess with you, Mallory.”
“It should have been you, yesterday. It was…I had you there. In front of me, across the board.” His lips press together. “It should have been you.”
“You think about chess all the time, Mallory, and we both know it.”
“We are scholars of the most sophisticated game in the world and you play Candy Crush? Nolan, say something.” He shrugs. “Seems unfair to kick him when he’s so clearly down.”
I couldn’t understand how someone could be so enthralled by the idea of being alone in a room with another person without a chessboard.” “But now you can?” He gives me a long look through his sunglasses. “Now I can.”
So I do what I’m best at: I avoid thinking about it.
“Do I wish I were having sex?” I nod again. Jesus, I can speak. I am better than this. “No.” He doesn’t even think about it. “Not until recently.”
“Mallory?” He rubs the heel of his palm in his eye. His voice is hoarse with sleep and something else. “Another dream, huh?”
“You don’t have things. You told me so.” “I also said ‘until recently.’ ”
People are saying on national television that I’m too weak to survive the winter.” “People have said on the same national television that the California wildfires were started by space lasers.”
“Is it very expensive, Malte?” I ask, plucking a chocolate-covered strawberry from a tray. “What?” “The vintage sexism you wear all the time.”
“Nolan?” “Hmm?” “Why did you come to Vegas?” His fingers tighten around mine. My heart cartwheels. “Mallory. I came because you did.”
“Chess is a bad idea.” “Why?” “Look where it got me.” “It got you here. To me.”
“I’ve got you, Mallory. Nothing bad is going to happen. You can let yourself want this, because you already have it. You have me.”
“Why would you keep something that makes you think of me?” I feel him shrug. “Because I think of you anyway, Mallory.”
“I think about this every second of every day.”
“Sometimes I’m scared that I imagined you. Sometimes I think you’re only in my head.”
“What?” I whisper. “Don’t tell them I’m here! They’ll think that I…” He gives me a confused look. “That you’re here?”
“He told me once that sometimes, with some people, it’s not about winning or losing. That with some people, it’s just about playing. Though for the longest time, I didn’t really believe him.”
“I think it’s easier for you to be with people when you feel needed than when you need them. Less risky. Less messy, right?”
DAMN
“I love you,” he says plainly. Not a desperate plea, but a calmly stated fact. His eyes are so close, I can count the different shades of dark in them, and it makes me see red.
But if you unzip your asshole and pry your head out of it, you might realize that there’s more to life than feeling sorry for yourself.”
“You don’t know me,” I yell after him. A cliché—that’s who I am. “And I don’t particularly care to.” He opens the driver’s door of his Mini. “Not if this is who you are.”
But life is too long to be afraid.” I snort wetly. “Too short, you mean.” “No. Years spent carrying grudges, talking yourself out of things that might make you happy? They go slowly.”
