Good Game (The System, #1) (18)
“Stephanie Andwell, do you want to embarrass this family?”
“Pardon?” I can hear her heels clacking on the floor in the background.
“I just had lunch with Marisol Broadshire, and she informed me that you and Chauncy have not only broken up again, but that you have been acting like a complete child and are ignoring his calls?”
I gag a little at my mother’s use of Chase’s given name.
“Well, if you must know, I caught him with—”
“The Taylors are hosting their annual party in a few weeks, and I expect you to have this situation sorted before then. Katalavaineis?”
Do I understand? Seriously. I don’t even want to touch the irony of that sentence with a ten-foot pole. Sort the situation. I scoff. Yeah, like I’m so excited to reconcile with my ex-boyfriend so we can attend a party hosted by the family of the latest girl he cheated on me with. A real hoot. Let me just go pick up my rose-tinted glasses while I’m at it, maybe a dunce hat as well.
“Stephanie, did you just scoff at me? Since when did you become so disrespectful?” She tsks. “This is what happens when you spend all that time inhaling paint fumes.”
I don’t bother reminding her that her friends have bid on my pieces before. That they’ve paid me tens of thousands of dollars just to hang my work in their homes. Instead, I tune her out as I walk the five flights up to my apartment. There is an elevator, but it is atrociously slow, so I only use it when I have groceries or large packages. She is still droning on, slipping into Greek every once in a while, by the time I reach my door and unlock it. Dumping my purse on the table, I toe off my sneakers and flop onto my couch.
“I’ll have your father wire you extra money to pick out a dress. Vittoria is wearing red, so please do not clash with her like last time.”
Vittoria is my older brother’s fiancée, and my mother is in love with her. I don’t blame her; I adore Vittoria, too. She works as a neonatal nurse practitioner and is literal sunshine. She met my brother when he was a resident at her hospital. Now Michail works as a facial plastic surgeon at his own private practice, which my mother also loves for obvious reasons. Practically free Botox at her disposal and a heavily discounted face lift she will deny she had if you ask her. Really. She won’t even admit it to me, and I saw her the weekend after with her face covered in gauze.
My mother and I weren’t always at odds. We had a pretty good relationship when I was young. I was her little star. Her asteraki. I loved going to parties with her and getting dressed up. I still do. But I’m no longer her prized daughter to show off unless I’m attached to Chase’s arm or the arm of an equally outstanding man. It’s frustrating. It’s almost worse that she was so amazing and attentive growing up because I know what her love feels like. Not that she doesn’t love me, but her judgement always comes first. I had my role in the family, and I’ve ignored it. Apparently, I’m choosing to be selfish by pursuing my own dreams. My choices are disrespecting how hard my yiayia and papou worked to make it in America. My chest goes hollow, and my eyes begin to prickle. I know it’s not true. My grandparents only ever wanted me to be happy—it’s why yiayia left me this place. I squeeze my eyes shut for a few seconds, focusing on my breathing.
“Stephanie?”
“Yes, Mother. I won’t clash with Vittoria, and I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“And Chauncy. Every relationship has its hiccups, but that is no reason to throw away the last five years of your life. You aren’t getting any younger.”
I’m twenty-five, not fifty-five.
“Love you, Mother. Talk soon. Bye!”
I hang up before she can say anything else. It’s a little rude and she’ll berate me for it later, but there was no way she was hanging up first unless I conceded to trying to get back with Chase. Not happening.
I don’t even miss him. Which is weird. You would think after years of dating that I would. I went back to him three times, for Christ’s sake. One would assume I was borderline codependent on him because of that. I probably was, in the beginning. I started dating him my junior year of college after a nasty breakup. He was my rock. Now he is nothing but a leech, sapping my strength instead.
I roll off the couch and snatch my laptop from the coffee table, opening it to run through my emails. There is a slight chill in my apartment, so I grab my knitted blanket and curl back up on the couch for a long evening.
My mind can’t focus though, eyes glazing over every word. I groan, throwing my head farther back on the arm rest.
Tentatively, I open a new tab and type in NightBlade32. The first few things to pop up are the articles from the VSAs, the gossip blogs going off about his supposed fight as well as acclaimed ravings about his Golden Vazer Award. I scroll down a little and find the link to his streaming channel.
I’m shocked a little when the screen opens up and shows that he is currently live, playing Frontline Doom with some other streamers, it sounds like. His voice filters out of my laptop straight into my veins.
“Oh, fuck you. You did not just steal that ammo drop.”
“Ha ha. Snoozers are losers, mate.” A British voice joins in; it must be the platinum blond champagne guy.
Blade’s face isn’t on screen–not that I expected it to be. But weirdly enough there is a live video in the corner of his hands on the keyboard and mouse. He is wearing the leather fingerless gloves again, the kind bikers wear. His black nail polish glints as his hands flicker across his red LED keyboard.