“And he’s okay? With it being it?”
“Nolan is . . .” I stop.
This is the first time. The first time I’ve said his name out loud since our argument. The first time I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge him and the novel, oddly shaped hole he’s left in my chest. It’s like picking at a scab. Digging a wound open, finally admitting that it was never patched up.
“I think we both said some things that we regretted.” I swallow. “Things that we knew would hurt.” I swallow again. “Mostly me.”
“That’s what happens when you fight with someone who gets you.”
I close my eyes. The reminder of how much Nolan gets me is like a punch in the stomach. “I accused him of orchestrating Bob firing me.”
Easton snorts. “What?”
“It just seemed like suspicious timing.”
She bursts into laughter. And laughter. And more laughter. A group of French tourists gives her suspicious looks, but she sobers up when she notices my glare. “Dude, I was there when it all went down. I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened. Bob had been gagging to fire you ever since your uncle left. You were cramping his upselling lifestyle and were utterly replaceable.”
I glance away, irritated. And then I admit something for the first time— out loud and to myself. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I do. But I still have the right to be mad that he didn’t tell me about the fellowship.”
“Okay, but it’s not the same at all. I mean, getting you fired from your job is taking something away from you. The fellowship is giving you something. The two are not even comparable, and— ”
“I know,” I repeat through gritted teeth. I did not miss this about Easton. The way she reads my mind. I’m just thankful she and Nolan don’t know each other and never will. “The worst of it is . . . when I accused him, he didn’t even bother denying it. He just said . . .” I swallow.
“What did he say?”
“That he wished he had.” I sigh. “That I needed to be shaken out of my life.”
She nods. The horn of a ferry punches the lingering quiet between us. “Well, you know how I feel about agreeing with white guys with trust funds, but . . . I might have to give him a brownie point here.”
“God.” I groan and lower my head between my forearms. “The things I said to him. About him. About his family. I just . . . I was so mad, Easton.”
“Who were you mad at, Mal? Nolan? Your dad? Life? Yourself? All of the above?”
I don’t want to face the answer to that. So I just lay my head on her shoulder, let her pet my hair, and for the first time in weeks I remember how much I liked him, even when I didn’t. The way I laughed and felt unsettlingly, tantalizingly seen. The thrill of watching him play, and my trembling heart as I watched him sleep. The odd relief in acknowledging that with him was exactly where I cared to be. And then the anger I felt for allowing myself to do that.
For the first time in weeks I can admit it:
I wish I had the prospect of exchanging more than gambits with him.
I have no idea how to sit across from him for twelve games.
I will have to shake his hand tomorrow, before the first game even starts, and my fingers itch from wanting it so desperately. He must be close, on this island, and I feel it in my bones, his presence. I feel him in my stomach.
“Easton. I think I messed up,” I say.
“Yeah.” She nods. “But I think that, maybe because of what happened with your dad, you tend to believe that when people mess up, that’s it. They don’t get a second chance. And sometimes that’s true, but other times . . .” She shrugs. “I’m here. Your family is here. Nolan . . .” She doesn’t continue.
So I sigh. And she sighs, too. And for a long time we just listen to the seagulls, watch the boats paint white stripes in the canal, and pretend there’s nowhere we need to be in about one hour.
I enter the press conference a little like Meghan Markle would: flanked by two FIDE people whose names I didn’t catch, followed by a burly man who, I suspect, has something to do with security. The camera flashes explode the second I step into the room, but in a subdued way that’s more middling politician announcing long-shot presidential run than BTS land at LAX.
I know, then and there, that I’ll never, ever, ever get used to this. And that I probably shouldn’t have worn my green Chucks with the hole in the left pinkie.
A couple of journalists in the first row greet me. I’ve never met them before, and yet they smile at me like I’m the distant cousin they see only at weddings and baptisms but nevertheless like. This is . . . weird. Much weirder than casual chess fans asking for autographs.
Never, ever, ever.
“Hi, guys.” I wave awkwardly and glance around. There’s no one I know here: press passes were required, and Defne didn’t get one. I’m crowdedly alone in a fancy Italian room full of antique velvet curtains, and the worst is yet to—
In the last row, someone is grinning and waving at me. Eleni from the BBC, half submerged by the small mountain of equipment she’s carrying. Clearly, still an intern. I smile back at her and feel marginally better.
The table on the podium is long and narrow, with three sets of mics and plaques. The middle one is already taken by the moderator, a middle-aged man who happens to be one of FIDE’s many VPs and whom I vaguely remember from the Challengers. The one on the right bears my name, and that’s where I sit.
The remaining one, at the moderator’s left, is empty when I arrive.
And stays empty for one minute.
Two.
Two and a half.
Three, and I was already a bit late, because the ferry system is not exactly straightforward, and Easton and I needed a fourth breakfast. We’re now almost ten minutes past schedule, which is why the journalists, and there are dozens of them, whisper like this is a scandalously juicy Victorian ball.
I look at the moderator in panic.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers conspiratorially, hiding our conversation with a sheet of white paper. “He won’t dare no-show. We’ve learned our lessons with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He hates press events and always tries to skip them. But”— he points behind us, to the panels decorated with sponsors and brands— “FIDE makes lots of money from them, especially this year. So we write steep fines into his contracts that make it impossible for him to avoid them.” He gives me a cunning, if warm, smile, and lowers the paper before clearing his throat and turning on his mic. “Well, everyone. It seems like there are some delays. Why don’t Ms. Greenleaf and I entertain you all with a game of chess. I’ll take White.”
The murmurs get louder. I glance around, find no set, then realize what his plan is when he says into the mic, “d4.”
“Oh.” I scratch my nose. “Um, d5?”
“c4.” His eyes shine and he turns toward the journalists. “Will she accept my gambit?”