Check & Mate
: Part 3 – Chapter 28

Her hair has grown a lot since August, well past her shoulders. It looks darker and glossier than back in the summer, after the sun bleached her tips and the seawater frizzed them. Perhaps it should surprise me, but it doesn’t.

Thank you, Instagram stalking.

“Why . . . What are you doing here?”

She rolls on the bed, then props herself up on her elbows. “Sabrina texted me.”

“Sabrina?”

She nods. “Yea tall? Blond? Pubescent? Aggressively sullen?”

“I know who Sabrina— ” I shake my head. “She texted you?”

“I made the mistake of giving her my number before leaving New Jersey. During the week of all those rides? I blame you for it.”

“You’ve been corresponding with my fifteen- year- old sister?”

“No. I’ve been leaving your fifteen- year- old sister on read when she sent TikToks of people dancing, about which I care nothing, or TikToks about roller derby, about which I care, astonishingly, even less. But a couple of weeks ago she texted me about you. So I replied.”

I’m slowly recovering from the near stroke. Easton is here. On my side of the bed, without even taking off her shoes. We haven’t talked in ages. Millennia.

It’s possible that I’m annoyed.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Shouldn’t you be in Colorado?”

“Shouldn’t, shmouldn’t.”

My eyes narrow. Maybe annoyed is not the right word. “I’m surprised you were able to pry yourself away from college, since you love it so much.” I sound so acid, I nearly wince.

Her head tilts. “I don’t remember ever saying anything like that.”

“You didn’t need to say it.”

“You read my mind?”

“I read your Instagram.”

“Ah, yes.” She nods sagely. “I do bare my heart and confess my deepest pains to Instagram.”

I lower my eyes, feeling like an idiot of the pettiest kind.

“I mean,” she adds with a shrug, “I do see where you’re coming from. It’s not like I didn’t think the exact same.”

“Really?” I lift my eyebrow back to sour. “I haven’t updated my Instagram since I saw that giant leopard moth three years ago.”

“You haven’t. But one doesn’t need social media to keep up on the whereabouts of the great Mallory Greenleaf. Not when Jezebel has an entire article about your wardrobe.”

“No, they don’t.” I exhale. Shit. “Do they?”

“They have, like, four. Anyway.” She rolls some more and sits on the edge of the mattress. “There’s something exquisitely humbling about replaceing out that your best friend of many years is dating someone, for the first time, and didn’t bother telling you— ”

“I’m not dating— ”

“— or that she neglected to mention that she won the Philly Open, that she was selected for the Challengers, that she is now buddies with the best player in the world, that she is going to be his opponent for the World Championship— should I go on?”

I don’t answer. I just look at her as she stands and steps in front of me. A dozen little puzzle pieces are working overtime to click together inside my head.

“You know . . .” She scratches her temple. Her brown eyes are serious and beautiful. “When you started texting less and less, I thought you were over me. You had this super- cool fellowship, an objectively hot boyfriend, prize money, and you are— Jesus, Mal, you’re famous, it’s so weird. And I figured I was just being . . . phased out. I was being outgrown.”

“I— ”

“But then.” She lifts her finger. “Then Sabrina texted me about how much of a miserable mope you’ve been, and I remembered something very important.”

I swallow. “What is that?”

“That you are an idiot.”

I flinch.

“Here’s the deal,” she continues. “You’ve always been like this, and I don’t know how I could have forgotten. Even before your dad did what he did, you didn’t want to be a burden. Didn’t want to impose. You were always the leave ’em before they leave you kind of person. And normally I would have realized sooner what you were doing, but I was a bit in my head, too.” She wets her lips. “College is . . . not easy. And not that fun, sometimes. And it’s pretty lonely. And I gained six pounds. Now my bra chafes.”

“Ouch.”

“It’s okay, I’ve ordered new ones. The point is, I was too busy to realize that you were just trying to anticipate my move with that chess brain of yours.” She pauses. I watch her slip her shoes off with her toes. “I think that when I left, you were scared that I’d get over you. So you decided to get over me sooner.”

“I didn’t— ”

“Maybe not consciously, but— ”

“I mean, I didn’t decide it,” I say, voice thick. My last vestige of irritation is washed away by something dangerously close to tears. “I just thought that you . . .”

Easton sighs. Pats me on the shoulder, once. Then moves back to the bed, sprawling again on top of the covers. Still on my side, but at least this time she’s barefoot. I have no idea what to do, so I opt for what’s natural: take off my own shoes, step around the mattress, and settle on the free side. We both turn on our pillows, facing each other, and this could have been us during a sleepover eight, five, three, two years ago. Any number of times, in any number of places.

“So.” I clear my throat. “You’re going out with that really hot girl?”

“Kim-ly?”

“Yeah.”

“Mal, I’m so gone for her. She’s so cute. Out of my league.”

I nod. “Yeah, a bit.” She punches me on the arm, and we both laugh in what feels like not just amusement but also relief. And then I blurt out: “Will you stay for the championship?”

“Dude. You think I came to Italy for a heart-to-heart and now I’m turning around?”

“You have school.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I can’t ask you to take off two weeks for me.”

“That’s fine. Since I’m offering.”

I close my eyes, feeling my chest swell. “I love you. And I’m sorry. And I missed you.” I’m tearing up again. It’s like crying once tore down what used to be a very architectonically sound dam: in the past month I’ve sobbed while watching My Girl, after Darcy’s teacher told me that my sister is gifted, when Sabrina won her derby meet. I’m a crier now. Maybe I always was.

“I missed you, too.”

“Easton, I . . .” I sniffle. “I’m never going to win this stupid championship.”

“Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter. You’re doing the thing you always wanted the most, surrounded by people you love, while sharing a room with yours truly— who, by the way, recently redeveloped sleep terrors. Lucky you.” She twines her fingers with mine, like she used to when we were little. “Mal. You already won.”

We fall asleep like that: my hand in hers, and our hair tangled together across the pillows.

I SPEND THE NEXT MORNING BEING A TOURIST WITH EASTON, and it feels like taking our friendship for a joyride.

It starts a little rocky: we ask the concierge directions for the Trevi Fountain and are met with a scandalized look and the revelation that it’s actually in Rome, some five hundred kilometers south. But it moves up when we manage to make our way to Piazza San Marco, get pecked by a horde of pigeons, end up furiously scrubbing bird shit from our clothes.

After the second person asks me for an autograph, we buy two pairs of cheap, heart- shaped sunglasses and spend fortyfive minutes browsing for a murrina for Kim-ly. We ask the shop owner, “What’s most suited for someone whose favorite singersongwriter is Taylor Swift and whose favorite director is Ari Aster?” and are left to our own devices when he pretends not to understand English. We eat three breakfasts. “Like the Hobbits,” we keep saying, sinking our teeth into baci di dama and bignes and frittelle. It’s not really that funny of a joke, but just being together again is intoxicating, and we giggle over it for two whole bridges.

Look at us.

Who would have thought.

Not me.

We’re attempting a selfie on the Ponte di Rialto when Kim-ly texts a simple Hey, how’s Italy?

The bridge is packed with tourists trying to get a good view, but we spend twenty minutes taking space on the banister, formulating the perfect response.

“Don’t send that— add that you miss her,” I insist, trying to steal Easton’s phone.

“Too clingy.”

“She sent you a heart.”

“A green heart, which means nothing.”

“Oh my God.” I laugh. “You’re an idiot. I love it.”

“Shut up.” Her cheeks are rosy, not just from the cold. “By the way, when are we talking about Sawyer?”

“Never.” I glance away, taking in once again the pretty houses packed together and the stunning view of the Gran Canal.

“Ha.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I doubt it.” Her elbow pushes against mine. “Where are you guys?”

“Nowhere.” She’s looking at me expectantly. And I’m trying to be more open and forthcoming about my needs and feelings, so I say, “We haven’t spoken since the Koch thing. I found out that he’d been paying for my fellowship. We had a huge fight over it, and that was it.”

“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.