Mom sighs. “Sabrina.”
“I apologize, okay?” she says defensively. “I didn’t think you felt this bad about it— it’s not like you show emotions, ever. But it also is your fault, a little bit. It used to be fun, hanging out with you. We’d do stuff without Mom and Dad and Darcy, and I’d feel like you and I were a thing. You treated me like a person. Now it’s like you’re ready to narc me out on anything I do. You give me orders and act all superior and like you’re trying to be Mom. You treat me more like a child now than you did when I was a child— ” Her voice breaks, and she quickly bends her neck to hide her tears. “Maybe I’m a bitch, but I’m not ungrateful. I’m very grateful, actually. I know how much you do, and if you didn’t try to be so secretive about it, maybe I could actually show it. But if you want, I can send you a thank-you card, or— ”
She stops between sniffles, and I want to stand, I want to go hug her, I want to tell her that it’s okay and I don’t want her stupid card, I just want my sister to stop crying. But Mom’s hand closes around mine.
“When you stopped playing chess, Mal, I assumed that you did it because your father’s actions made it too painful for you. I assumed you’d find your way back to it once you were healed. And when you decided not to go to college . . . well, you seemed genuinely hurt and offended whenever I tried to talk you out of it, so I told myself that you were an adult, and were making choices that were best for you and your well-being, and I had to respect that.
“But when Darcy told me about your fellowship, it occurred to me for the first time that maybe there were other reasons. That maybe your main goal was to protect me from something, and if that’s the case . . . let me tell you something: when I think about chess, I don’t think about Archie, or about the other women.” She smiles through her tears. “When I think about chess, I think about my brilliant oldest daughter, doing what she loves, and kicking ass while she’s at it.” Her chin trembles. “I watched you at the Challengers, Mal. Hours and hours of you being so beautiful in your”— she lets out a wet laugh— “in your Corpse Bride dress. And even though I couldn’t understand one single thing you were doing, I was so proud of you— ”
I can’t look at her anymore. I can’t bear one more word, so I hug her. More forcefully than I should, given her joint issues. And she hugs me back, her arms around mine, like she used to when I was little and needed my mom. And when I hear a putupon “Oh, fine,” and Sabrina’s arms close around us, I feel whole in a way I haven’t in over four years.
“Way to make me feel excluded, bitches.”
“Darcy,” we all say at once, all in the same disapproving tone.
“What?” She shrugs from the door. “I thought we now just sprinkled the word generously in conversation. For seasoning.”
“We most certainly do not,” Mom tells her.
“God,” Sabrina mutters, shuffling away from us. “There is no privacy in this house.”
“Of course not,” Darcy says. “It’s minuscule and the walls are made of toilet paper and Tazo tea bags. Mallory, can you please win that stupid World Championship and move us elsewhere with your smart checkers money?”
I scowl at her. “Great job keeping secrets, by the way.”
“Technically, I kept the fact that I hadn’t kept the secret, secret from you.”
I mull it over as I rub my cheeks clean. Then I nod, impressed despite myself.
“Well.” Mom pats my knee. “Now we can move on to talking about that handsome ‘senior center coworker’ of yours.”
“Right. Do you and Nolan fall asleep together to scalp massage ASMR like Twitter says?” Sabrina asks.
“What? No! We’re not— I’m not— ” I wipe my nose with my sleeve, which comes back full of something that looks suspiciously like snot. We really need a parental control firewall, I almost say. Then remember what Sabrina said about me trying to be her parent.
“Did you guys break up?” she asks. “What’d he do?”
“He . . . lied to me.”
“Ah, yes. Lying. Something you’d never stoop to.” Mom’s tone is soft, but I wince anyway. “Let’s hear about this lie.”
I tell her about Defne, and the fellowship, and Koch’s TikTok. After I’m done, Mom takes a deep breath and says, “Listen, I like Nolan. And when I saw the two of you together . . . I think he’s been good for you. But this is not about him. It’s about chess, and about you.” She squeezes my hand. “You made good money from the tournaments you’ve been in. My new meds are working well, and I’ve been able to work regularly for weeks. Things are so much better than they were even just six months ago. I appreciate what you’ve done for us, but now it’s time to focus on what you want.
“Guilt and responsibility are heavy burdens, Mallory. But they’re also something we can hide behind, and now you can’t do that anymore. You are free to do what you love. Which might be never thinking about chess against and moving to Boulder to be with Easton. It might be becoming an auto mechanic. It might be taking a year off to backpack around the world. It can be whatever you want— but it has to be your decision. Your choice, free of constraints. And to do that, you’re going to have to look into yourself, and be honest about what you want. And yes, I know that’s terrifying. 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.”
I turn to Darcy and Sabrina. They’re looking at me with identical shades of blue eyes, identical serious expressions, identical wispy blond strands framing their pretty faces.
“And one more thing,” Mom says. “If you need something, you are allowed to ask for it. God knows we have been. But I know you’re not good at it, so I’m going to offer: whatever you decide to do, about chess, about your life . . . may we be there for you? May we be part of your life, from now on?”
I can’t bring myself to say yes.
But maybe I’m making progress anyway, because at least I manage to nod.
PART THREE
End Game
Darcy spends the eight-hour plane ride to Italy quizzing Oz about the ins and outs of the World Championship.
“When does it start?” In five days.
“Why are we going so early, then?” For Mallory to get used to the time zone.
“How many games?” Twelve.
“How many hours per game?” No limit.
“So they can go to the following day?” We’re in the computer era—games cannot be adjourned anymore, or players would just turn on an engine and evaluate their positions.
“Who wins?” Whoever wins the most games.
“What if they draw?” That’s why there are twelve games. “What if they draw aaaaaall the games?” They go to tie breaks, which are rounds of rapid chess, and . . .
Oz scowls. “This flight has complimentary Wi-Fi. Can’t you Bing it or something?”