‌Darcy loves the guinea pig hoodie I bought her (“though it’s a copout, as Goliath will not want to copulate with a 2D piggy”) and even Sabrina is impressed with her new maple leaf skates that I almost missed my plane to buy and nearly couldn’t fit into my luggage.‌

But her love for me comes and goes. “You’re the best!” she tells me on Wednesday, after I give her a ride to McKenzie’s. But on Thursday, when I find her crying in the living room over something McKenzie posted on social media, it’s “Why do you have to be so nosy? Why can’t you ever mind your own business?”

“If they find my corpse in a ditch,” I say to Mom, “tell the police not to look into her. She probably did it, but I don’t want her to spend her life in prison.”

“It’s not just you. She’s mad at the entire world.”

“Was I this intense at fourteen?” It’s such a ridiculous question. I’m still eighteen, but I feel as ancient as the lady from Titanic. Except when I compare myself with Easton and feel stuck in some pubescent stage.

“I once asked you to stop leaving the peanut butter jar open, and you called me a dictator.”

I groan. “Will Darcy be like this, too?”

“Yup.” She pats my shoulder. “Though she’ll leave the Nutella open.”

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. I’m half shocked, half relieved.

Oz and Defne are at the Pasternak, which means that I’m mostly unsupervised. I should use the extra time to catch up on the García Márquez readathon I signed up for on Goodreads, memorize the world capitals, dye my hair vomit green. Anything, really. Instead, I study Nolan’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 correct— 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 won’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. I’m developing a more- than- mild obsession, and that’s probably why I’m thinking of him when I match up with a guy named Alex on an app on Sunday night.

ALEX: Hey!

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

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

ALEX: Yup. How have you been?

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

MAL: have we met before?

ALEX: Are you kidding?

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

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

Oh. That Alex— except, now he has facial hair. I do remember. He’d been so . . . bland. Probably why I haven’t really thought about him since.

MAL: sorry, i didn’t recognize your pic. how’ve you been?

ALEX: Good! I’m at Rutgers. What about you?

MAL: i’m not in school

ALEX: 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 I’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. Isn’t he a virgin? Useless in the sack.

But it’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. He’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 shouldn’t have been pleasant, but I—

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

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

Hook up, he means. Though he’s being appropriately subtle about it. I bet Nolan wouldn’t be nearly as low- key. I bet he’d say something like “to have sexual intercourse” and—

Oh God.

Oh God.

MAL: actually, probably better not. i’m way too busy with work, shouldn’t even be online. so sorry to waste your time.

I silence my phone, and when it vibrates with Alex’s response, I don’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?

That’s it. I’m done. This is upsetting. Confusing. Stupid. Unprecedented. No more Nolan games. No more Nolan. I need to— I can’t keep thinking about him.

Starting tomorrow, I tell myself as I wait for the shower jet to warm up enough. I won’t look at his games anymore. I’ll purge him. Starting tomorrow.

I actually believe it. Until tomorrow happens.

 

 

THE PIECE IS IN VANITY FAIR.

Which is a problem in and of itself, as I’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 BFF’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 it’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: don’t have access to the article. tl;dr?

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

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS: You WANT to read this.

MALLORY: im poor and i hate jeff bezos.

BOULDER EASTON ELLIS: That’s the Washington Post and USE INCOGNITO MODE jeez what’s wrong with you. Boomer.

Incognito mode works, and how did I not know about that? I’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 world’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

— and did not attend the awards ceremony.

“He seemed tired,” Andreas Antonov, the Georgian GM, said in an interview. “Which isn’t surprising, considering that he came on a red-eye straight from Toronto and played his first match one hour after landing.” Sawyer’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.

“That’s what happens when you put chess after your girlfriend,” Koch, Pasternak’s winner, said to ChessWorld.com. “The Sawyer era of chess is over. Next

month I’ll triumph at the Challengers, and then I’ll take the World Championship.”

Although Sawyer hasn’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 F**king Six. It’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. He’s staring at me, an oddly soft expression on his usually unreadable face.

Who took this? When? Why?

. . . Sawyer, who’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 no no. Oh, fuckity fuck fuck.

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

Nolan. Nolan will know. He’ll want to fix this, too. I need to get in touch with him, but how? I don’t have his number. Do I summon him with a pentagram made of rooks, or— Emil!

I text him, then remember his schedule back in Toronto: not a morning person. Who knows when he’ll wake up, and I can’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 who’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 doesn’t believe in boundaries, there is an address.

Apparently I don’t believe in boundaries, either: I’m going there to talk to Nolan. It’ll take over an hour. By then Emil will have replied, and I’ll text Nolan that I’m in the area. Let’s get Starbucks to talk about chess and a possible defamation lawsuit to a major news outlet! Coffee’s on me! Perfect plan.

Made only slightly less perfect by the fact that I find myself in the lobby of Nolan’s building, and Emil still won’t reply or take my calls. Because he’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. “I’m here to see Mr. Sawyer.”

The doorman’s expression clearly says, I know you chess groupies, and I won’t hesitate to bother the police with this. It makes me want to die a bit.

“Please?”

“I’m under instruction not to let up unexpected visitors.”

“But I . . .” An idea occurs to me. It makes me want to die a lot. “He just came back from Russia and I wanted to surprise him, because I’m his . . .” Don’t gag. Show the good doorman the Page Six article. “Girlfriend. See?” See this pic that’s on the internet and must therefore be true?

Two minutes later I’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 ask someone to fix this shitshow. But when he’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 . . .

“You look like death.”

“Mallory?” He rubs the heel of his palm in his eye. His voice is hoarse with sleep and something else. “Another dream, huh?”

“Nolan— are you okay?”

“You should come to bed. This is a stupid setup. I like it much better when we— ”

“Nolan, are you sick?”

He blinks. His expression clears. “Are you really here?” “Yes. What’s wrong with you?”

He scratches his nape and sinks into the doorjamb, like orthostatic balance is not something he has fully mastered. “Not sure,” he mumbles. “Either everything or nothing.”

Nolan’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 there’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 I’ve come to associate with Nolan— 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. It’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. “Do you have a fever?” I ask in the kitchen.

“Impossible to tell.”

I arch my eyebrow. “Let me tell you about thermometer technology.” “Ah, yeah. I forgot.” Thing is, I don’t even think he’s being a smart-ass.

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

“Nolan, you— ” I push up my toes to reach his forehead. He’s burning.

This close, he smells like sleep and fresh sweat. Not unpleasant. “Your hand is so cool,” he says, closing his eyes in relief.

I make to take it away, but he traps it under his. “Stay.” He leans into me, breath warm, chapped lips against my temple. “You never stay.”

“Nolan, you’re ill. We have to do something about it.”

“Right. Yes.” He straightens away from me. “Breakfast. Will be like new after.”

“After this? You need nutrients, not food coloring in microdonut shape.” “It’s all I have.”

“Seriously?”

He shrugs. “I was gone somewhere. Canada?”

“You were in Russia. Also, you have a stack of bowls in that credenza— who has cereal in a mug?”

“Oh.” He nods. Then collapses slowly, until his forehead rests on the kitchen island. “Who’s Credence?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m a good person. I pick up Mrs. Abebe’s garbage can when the wind tips it over, smile at the dogs at the park, never make fun of people who say irregardless. I don’t deserve this. And yet. “Listen, stay here. Don’t eat that. I’ll be right back.”

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 country’s GDP at the corner bodega, and come back up to find him sleeping.

I’m Mother Teresa. Reincarnated. I need a halo for my trouble.

“Take this.” Nolan’s couch is a giant sectional but still too short for him.

Ridiculous.

“Is it poison?”

“Rapid- release ibuprofen.” “What’s that smell?”

“Your armpits.” “No, the good one.” “I’m cooking.”

His eyes spring open. “You’re making chicken soup.” “Which you do not deserve.”

“From scratch?”

“It’s really easy, and canned stuff tastes like lead poisoning and despair. By the way, you owe me forty- three dollars. Yes, I’m charging you for the emotional- support Snickers bar I bought for myself— you can Venmo, but please don’t write For Drugs in the memo line. Just . . . take a nap. I’ll be back.”

He doesn’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 doesn’t bother me, really. His eyes on me usually do strange, uncomfortable things, but today . . . maybe I just love this kitchen. It’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.

“Why are you here?” he asks twenty minutes later. With the meds kicking in, he seems a little less out of it.

“There is this article in Vanity Fair,” I explain absentmindedly while chopping carrots. Now that I’m here, taking care of Nolan in his warm apartment that smells like him and comfort food, it’s hard to scrounge up the level of indignation I felt one hour ago. “About you losing to Koch.”

“I drew 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 tournament— ”

“Yes, I’m sure your dick is longer than Koch’s, but let’s focus on the matter at hand, which is that Koch told Vanity Fair 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.”

“And we don’t?”

I turn to glare at him. “You don’t have things. You told me so.” “I also said ‘until recently.’ ”

My heart skips a beat. “You should be way more upset about this. Since you’re on your deathbed, I’ll let that slide, but we’ll have to set the record straight.”

“Sure. Feel free.”

“What does that mean? Together. We’ll do it together. We can release a press statement. Invest in skywriting. Something.”

“I won’t. But you can.”

I scowl. “What do you mean, you won’t? My sister, my friends, they’ll read the article and think it’s true.”

“I’m happy to text your friends, or FaceTime them, or skywrite at them to explain the situation. But I won’t talk about my personal life to the press.”

“Why?”

“Mal, I understand that this is upsetting, but it’s not the first time this has happened to me. There’s no way to fight the press when they’re wrong. You can only ignore it. First rule of Chess Club: never google yourself.”

I cover the soup with a lid and lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Pretty sure the first rule of Chess Club is White moves first. And I understand you were burned by the Baudelaire rumor, but— ”

“I was referring to the shit they printed about my grandfather.” He gives me a vacuous look. “What’s the Baudelaire rumor?”

I look away. Embarrassing, that I know of it and he doesn’t. Makes it sound like I care more about his love life than he does. “Just . . . people said you dated a Baudelaire?”

“Oh, yeah. The sisters, right? Emil told me about it.” “Is it true?”

His eyebrow lifts. “You know it isn’t.” Right. I do. “How did the rumor start, then?”

“One of them was at some party my manager made me go to, back when I still listened to her. That was probably enough.”

I lean my elbows on the island, hating how interested I am. “Which Baudelaire?”

“Name started with a J, I think?”

I sigh. They all have J names. “So, what happened? You were talking and you didn’t want to . . . you know.”

“Would you?”

“If it were me? Hell yeah.”

He tilts his head. “Why would you?” “What do you mean?”

“What would you get out of it?”

I shrug. “I like sex. It’s fun. It feels good— really good, sometimes. Especially when you’re in the mood and you do it with attractive or interesting people. I’m not ashamed of it.”

“You shouldn’t be,” he says, but I can tell that he doesn’t completely get it. That sex, desire, are something he’s still wrapping his head around. “What about feeling closer to someone? Making a connection?”

“Maybe. I’m sure sex means different things to different people, and they’re all valid.” I swat the memory of last night and Alex away, like it’s a fruit fly. “But the human connection part . . . that’s not why I do it. It’s risky.”

“Risky? How?”

I shrug, not about to explain. “I don’t need that stuff. I’m busy enough.” He nods like he knows. “Taking care of your family, right?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Weren’t we talking about your Baudelaire affair?” “I don’t really remember what happened. We— Wait.”

“What?” I lean closer, wide eyed. “Kasparov was there.”

“The former world champion?”

“Yes. He wanted to play with me.” “And?”

“What do you mean, and? I went to play.”

“Let me get this straight. You chose playing chess with an old man over getting laid?”

He looks at me like he’s a cloistered nun and I’m explaining Bitcoin to him. “Did you get that it was Kasparov?”

I laugh. Then I laugh again. Then I laugh some more, forehead against my palms, thinking that when he’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 it’s mulberry silk. His eyes are still a bit glassy, so I let him.

“Was it at least the best game of your life?” I ask. He stares into my eyes. “No. It wasn’t.”

“Which one was, then?”

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 Emil’s Little Bitch mug because it’s a mental image I deserve to have.

“This is good,” he says after the first spoonful, sounding offensively surprised. “Not as good as your mom’s meat loaf, but— ”

I pinch him on the biceps, where there’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.

“Do you cook?” I ask distractedly. “Rarely. And mediocrely.”

“And yet, you have the best kitchen I’ve ever seen.” I shake my head. “The money one can earn from tournaments is a bit obscene.”

“It is, but I was a trust- fund baby. I’ll let you decide if that’s more or less morally vile.”

“Nice of your parents.”

“My grandfather,” he corrects. “He used to own this apartment.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip, thinking whether I want to ask. “Was that your grandfather who . . .”

“Yup. Who played chess and went crazy and almost got me killed when I was thirteen.” His smile is small, not as bitter as I’d have expected. I wince anyway.

“Not the best way to talk about mental health,” I say neutrally.

“Right. My grandfather, who was diagnosed with rapiddecline behavioral variant frontotemporal dementia. Does that sound better?” I don’t reply. Then he adds, “There is a familial variant of frontotemporal dementia, did you know?”

I open my mouth, then I close it. There’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. “Are you afraid it’ll happen to you?”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “You know what’s funny? I used to be terrified of it, but I know it won’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, every single day, that if I kept playing chess, I’d end up like my grandfather. As though that’s what his problem was: he played too much chess.”

“That seems . . . foolish.”

“Yeah, well. Foolish people will say foolish things.”

He’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 don’t want to risk touching him, but I’d like to be here. With him.

It’s something I do with Easton, when she’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 I’m apparently nursing back to health.

Weirdos, both of us.

“This apartment he left you . . . It’s big for one person,” I murmur. “Want to move in?” His tone matches mine, intimate.

“Sure. I’ll sell my pancreas. It should cover the first three months of rent.”

“You don’t have to pay rent. Just pick a room.”

“And I’ll pay you back in company? Save you from having dinner alone at your candelabra- lit fifty- foot cherrywood table, like Bruce Wayne?”

“I usually have dinner standing up in front of that chessboard over there.”

“I’m surprised you have dinner at all. And don’t just sustain yourself on the tears of your rivals.”

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. “Leftover soup’s in the fridge. Take ibuprofen again in five hours. And have someone come over so if you pass out, they’ll notice before the rats eat your intestines.”

“You’re here.”

“I was here. I’m leaving now.”

Nolan deflates visibly, and something like compassion bites into me. “Where’s Emil?” I ask.

“I’m not going to call Emil because I have the sniffles. He’s busy with midterms and spending three hours a day pining after Tanu.”

“Someone else, then.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t. You were half dead when I got here.” “Then stay.”

“I’m already late for Zugzwang. I . . .”

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

“Since both our jobs consist of playing chess, we should play a game,” he says while I text Defne that something urgent has come up. “Just to be productive members of this capitalistic society.”

“Nice try.” “Did it work?”

“No. Nolan, you still look like death. Just go nap while I waste my day watching Dragon Age playthroughs on your Wi-Fi.”

“Dragon what?”

And that’s how I find myself on Nolan’s leather couch, telling him about elves and eggheads and the end of the world, soothed by the video and by Nolan’s presence.

“I like this better than the Jughead show,” he says ten minutes in. I yawn, quite pleased.

Then, another ten minutes later, I’m only fast asleep.

THE EARLY AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT IS BRIGHT, BUT I DON’T 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 don’t mind, because I feel protected from attacks from all sides. Like the king during good chess.

I’m not leaving this place, ever. I live here now, in heaven. I open my eyes to survey my new kingdom and—

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

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he says back, and I nearly feel the gravel of his voice against my lips. He smells of something ineffably rich and good.

“Hey,” I say again, stupidly, and we’re both smiling, and the air between us is sweet, and his eyes, his nose, his lips are suddenly closer, and—

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

“Ignore it,” he orders, but I ignore him.

What just happened? Oh God. I’ve never slept with someone else.

Never. Not like this. Not . . . what’s happening?

And the buzz, it’s still going on. “I think— my phone— ” Here it is.

How do you pick up? Red? No, green. “Hello.” “Mal? You okay?” Defne.

“Yes. Sorry about not coming in, I— ” “Have you seen the paper?”

Oh, shit. The article. “I . . . Don’t worry about it. It’s a lie, I’m not sleeping with Nolan.” Nolan’s eyebrow lifts. His arms are still looped around my waist, and I die inside. “I meant, we’re not— ”

“This has nothing to do with Nolan.” “Oh.” Phew. “What then?”

“It’s the Challengers, Mal. They chose you as one of this year’s participants.”