I look at where she’s pointing. Then immediately flatten myself as deep into the driver’s seat as I can go. “Shit.”
“Should you be saying shit in front of us?” Darcy asks.
“Yeah— what happened to the pedagogical modeling of appropriate behaviors?”
Impossible. He’s not here. He can’t be. I’m hallucinating. Paranoid delusions. Yes. From the chemicals in the Twizzlers. All that dye.
“ Mal. Mal?”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“A stroke, maybe? She’s starting to be of a certain age.”
“Call nine-one- one!”
“On it.”
“No— Sabrina, don’t call nine-one- one. I’m fine. I just thought I saw . . .” I glance to the porch again. He is still there.
Nolan.
Sawyer.
Is.
On.
My.
Porch.
Well. It’s either Sawyer or an alien wearing his skin. I’m kind of rooting for option two.
“Do you know him?” Sabrina asks.
“She sure looks like she does,” Darcy says. “Is he another one of your sex friends?”
“Maybe he’s her stalker,” Sabrina offers.
“Mal, you have a stalker?”
Sabrina snorts. “You didn’t let me watch You because I’m fourteen, and now I find out that you have your own stalker?”
“Should we run him over? Does blood stain wood?”
“No!” I raise my hands. “He’s not my stalker, he’s just, um, a . . . friend.” Who might hate me. If I am found strangled, look into his credit card purchases. You’ll find rope. Or lots of floss. “A colleague, actually.”
Darcy and Sabrina exchange a long, dangerous look. Then they jump out of the car with an overeager “Let’s go meet him!” I hurry after them, hoping this is a lucid dream.
Well. Nightmare.
Sawyer is leaning against the porch, arms crossed on his chest, eyes traveling between the three of us as if to soak up the resemblance that always leaves people befuddled, and I have to stop myself from blurting out, They’re my sisters, not my daughters— yes, people do assume. He’s wearing jeans and a dark shirt, and maybe it’s because there are no chessboards, no arbiters, no press in sight, but he almost doesn’t look like himself. He could be an athlete. A college student on a football scholarship. A stern, handsome young man who has not （allegedly） dated a Baudelaire, who has not （confirmedly） called an interviewer a dickhead for implying that his game looked tired.
“Are you Mal’s friend?” Darcy asks him.
He cocks his head. Studies her. Doesn’t smile. “Are you Mal’s friend?”
If the world were fair, Darcy and Sabrina would roast him and heckle him off our property. And yet, they giggle like they usually do in Easton’s presence. What the— “What’s your name?”
“Nolan.”
“I’m Darcy. Like Mr. Darcy. And this is Sabrina. Like Sabrina Fair. Mal didn’t get a literary name because . . . we’re not sure, but I suspect that our parents took a look at her and decided to temper their expectations. She said you work together?”
He nods. “We do.”
“At the senior center?”
Nolan hesitates, puzzled. Looks at me for the first time. Finds me on the verge of a panic attack. Then says, “Where else?”
“Do you ever feed the squirrels?”
“Guys,” I interrupt, “go tell Mom we’re home, okay?”
“But Mal— ”
“Now.”
They drag their feet and slam the screen door, like I’m depriving them of a fantastic afternoon staring at Sawyer. It’s not until they’re out of earshot that I let myself focus on him again.
There is, I believe, a bit of a standoff. Where I look at him, he looks at me, and we’re both fairly still. Assessing. Feeling each other out. In my case, monitoring escape routes. Then he asks: “Are you going to run away?”
I frown. “What?”
“You usually run away from me. Are you going to?”
He’s right. He’s also rude. “You usually lose your king to me. Are you going to?”
I was aiming for a sharp, jugular-cutting jab. But Sawyer does something I did not expect: he smiles.
Why is he smiling?
“Where did you get my address?”
“It wasn’t difficult.”
“Yeah, that’s not a real answer.”
“No. It isn’t.” He turns around, taking in my yard: the rusty trampoline I can’t be bothered to throw away, the apricot tree too dumb to yield fruit, the minivan I patch up once a month. I feel vaguely embarrassed, and hate myself for it.
“Could I have a real answer, then?”
“I’m good with computers,” he says cryptically.
“Did you hack Homeland Security?”
His eyebrow lifts. “You think Homeland Security stores home addresses?”
I don’t know. “Is there a reason you’re here?”
“Do you really work at a senior center?” He faces me again. “On top of chess?”
I sigh. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”
“Lying to your sisters, huh?”
“It’s not a good idea, mentioning chess around my family.” And I’m telling him this . . . why?
“I see.” He leans his forearm against the rail, drumming his fingers unhurriedly. “You know, I played against your father once.”
I freeze. Force myself to relax. “I hope you won.” I hope you humiliated him. I hope he cried. I hope it hurt him. I miss him.
“I did.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry that he— ”
“Mallory?” Mom leans out from the doorframe. While we’re talking about Dad. Shit, shit— “Who’s your friend?”
“This is . . .” I close my eyes. She probably didn’t hear. It’s fine. “This is my colleague Nolan. We work together, and we . . . made plans to go get a bite, but I forgot about it, so he’ll just . . . he’ll leave now.”
Nolan smiles at her, looking not at all like the sullen manchild I know him to be. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Greenleaf.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Nolan, would you like to stay for dinner? We have plenty of food.”
I know what Nolan sees: Mom’s in her late forties, but looks older than that. Tired. Fragile. And I know what Mom sees: a young man who’s taller than tall and handsome to go with that. Polite, too. He showed up to visit the daughter who dates a lot but never brings anyone home. Ripe for misunderstanding, this situation. It needs to end ASAP.
That’s what I’m thinking when I open my mouth to tell Mom that Nolan really can’t stay. What I’m thinking when Nolan is just a fraction of a second quicker and says, “Thank you, Mrs. Greenleaf. I would love to.”
HE SITS WHERE DAD USED TO.
Which doesn’t mean much, since our dinner table is round. And it makes sense: he’s left-handed, so am I. We should cluster— avoid elbowing the righties. Still, there’s something beyond weird in Nolan Sawyer taking jaw-unhinging bites of Mom’s meat loaf, wolfing down a portion, two, helping himself to more green beans, nodding gravely when Darcy asks, enthralled by his appetite, “Do you happen to have a tapeworm?” He obviously enjoys Mom’s cooking. He made a deep, guttural sound after the first bite, something that reminded me of . . .