He shrugs and takes a long swig of his IPA. “We could raise the stakes. Make it fun.”
“I’m not going to play for money.”
“I don’t want your money. What about questions?”
“Questions?”
“If I win, I get to ask you a question, any question, and you answer. And vice versa.”
“What could you possibly want to ask me that— ”
“Deal?”
It seems like a bad idea, but I can’t pinpoint why, so I nod. “Deal. Five minutes. Then I’m turning in.” I pluck the pencil from his fingers and write down my O.
The first three games are draws. The fourth goes to me, and I smile ferociously. I do love to win. “So I get a question?”
“If you want.”
I’m not sure what to ask, but I don’t want to forfeit my prize. I wrack my brain for a moment, then settle on, “What’s the Challengers tournament?”
His arches an eyebrow. “Your question to me is something you could easily google?” I feel slightly embarrassed, but he continues. “It’s the tournament that determines which player will face the current world chess champion.”
“Which would be you?”
“At the moment.”
I snort softly. “And for the past six years.”
“And for the past six years.” There is no boast in his voice. No pride. But it occurs to me for the first time that he became world champion at the same age I left chess for good. And that if I’d only stuck around a couple of years longer, we’d have met much earlier. In completely different circumstances. “The Challengers has ten players, who qualify by winning other super-tournaments or are selected because of their high FIDE ratings. They compete against each other. Then, a couple of months later, the winner competes for the World Championship title.”
“The one whose prize is two million dollars?”
“Three, this year.”
My heart skips a beat. I cannot even conceive what that money would do for my family. Not that I’d win against Nolan in a multiday match. Or that I’d end up at the Challengers, since I’m not invited to super-tournaments and my rating is currently hanging out with a piece of gum under the sole of my shoe.
I grip the pen a little too forcefully and draw another grid. My mind must still be on the money, because Nolan wins the following game.
I roll my eyes. “I was distracted. You don’t really deserve— ”
“Why did you quit chess?”
I tense. “Excuse me.”
“In September, after Philly, you said your father’s death wasn’t the reason you quit chess. What is it, then?”
“We never agreed that questions would be about— ”
“We agreed to any question.” He holds my eyes, a hint of a challenge in his tone. “Of course, you can always back out of the game.”
It’s exactly what I should do. Get out and leave Nolan alone with his stupid, invasive question. But I can’t make myself, and after a few seconds of lip biting and a burning desire to carve my next O into his skin, I say, “My dad and I became estranged a while”— three years, one week, and two days— “before he died. I stopped playing then.”
“Why did you become estranged?”
“That’s two questions. And if you win again, no follow-up questions are allowed.”
He frowns. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Because I say so,” I bite out. He is quiet for a second, but he reads my tone well, because he nods.
After that, we draw a few games. As in: twenty-three games. It becomes clear that neither of us wants to be in the position of being asked the next question when I win the twenty-fourth game, and Nolan channels his most traditional self by slapping his palm on the table. Honestly, it feels nice.
I wasted my Challengers question, so I think hard about what I’d like to know about him. Something about his relationship with Koch, maybe? The Baudelaire story? His grandfather? There’s something I’ve been wondering for weeks, but it seems like too much.
On the other hand, he did ask about Dad, and I am feeling vengeful. Maybe even vicious.
“At my house, when Sabrina asked you who you have sex with, you said . . . conflicting things, and . . .” I trail off.
“What’s the question? Who do I have sex with?”
I nod quickly. My cheeks are on fire. I’m already regretting this.
“No one.”
Uh? “Excuse me?”
“I don’t have sex. Or at least, I never have.”
It takes a few moments for the words to penetrate. For it to really sink in: Nolan Sawyer, the Kingkiller, blithely admitting that he’s a virgin at the age of twenty. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But.
No. I misunderstood. What about the Baudelaire thing?
“You’ve never had sex,” I repeat.
“Nope,” he says, confident, calm, like he has nothing to prove to anyone, like he doesn’t care to be anyone but himself, fully himself. At least here, tonight, with me.
“Oh.” I feel like I should tread carefully. “So you . . . ? I mean, are you happy with that, or do you wish that . . . ?” I flush harder. He takes pity.
“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.”
“What . . . what changed recently?”
He stares for a long moment. “No follow-up questions, I was told.” The corner of his lip twitches into a smile. “Besides, I hear you have enough sex for the both of us.”
I groan. “I’ve barely been— You should never believe anything Darcy says. ”
“It’s not like it’s a bad thing.” He draws another grid. I’m still flustered, and he wins immediately. “What are you going to do at the end of your fellowship?”
“What do you know about my fellowship?”
“No answering questions with other questions.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m going to look for auto-mechanics jobs. Any leads?”
“What about chess? Are you going to just stop playing?”
“Yeah.” I steal the pen from his hand. “There’s no future for me in chess.”
He snorts. “You can’t just— ”
“Question answered. Next round.” He gives an annoyed, stubborn look, and immediately wins. How? He’s drinking and I’m not, but I’m the one slipping. “Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “No follow-up questions.”
He leans toward me over the table, dark eyes earnest, stars traveling on his skin. “Do you know how incredible you are?”
I cannot breathe. Temporarily. So I force myself to laugh. “Really? You’re wasting your question on this?”
“I am serious. Do you realize how exceptional you are, Mallory?”
“What are you— ”
“I have never seen anything like what you do with chess. Never.”
“I— You are ten times better than me. I beat you once, while playing White, and you were probably expecting an easy game.”
“You haven’t answered my question.” He leans in even farther. He smells like soap and beer and something good and dark. “Do you know how fucking good you are?”
My eyes hold his. “Yes, I know.” It almost hurts to admit to it. To this boundless talent I have, for something that I swore to myself I wouldn’t pursue— a promise I fully intend to keep. “Does it bother you, that I’m that good?”
“No.” He’s not lying. Does he ever lie? “Maybe it should. But.” He lets that but dangle mysteriously.