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?”
I usually don’t. I usually decline the Queen’s Gambit with e6 and then build up a solid position, but he looks so hopeful, and people do love an accepted challenge, so I grin and say, “c4, take pawn.”
People cheer. My grin widens. The tension in the room melts a little as the moderator laughs and nods, pleased. “e3,” he says, and I’m considering moving my knight to f6 just for the fun of it when—
A door opens.
Not the door I came in from, but one on the side that I hadn’t even noticed. The cameras start again. A red-haired woman whom I recognize from Philly Open— Nolan’s manager, who must be better than Defne at obtaining press passes— walks briskly into the room, looking less than happy, and right behind her . . .
I thought I had successfully fortified my defenses. Because I spent those three minutes with Easton in the bathroom, following her instructions on how to brace myself. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and repeated at her insistence: I’m a big girl, and I can handle a reunion with my ex in front of a dozen countries’ major TV outlets— okay, Easton, no. This is counterproductive.
Still, I did think I’d be fine. But when Nolan enters wearing his usual combo of dark shirt and dark jeans, eyes guarded, hair shorter than the last time I ran my fingers through it, I’m not fine.
I’m not okay at all.
He doesn’t glance in my direction, not once. He calmly steps onto the podium, and when a woman from the fourth row says, “You’re late, Nolan. Everything okay?” he just answers, “Yeah.” He speaks into the microphone, effortlessly confident. He’s done this before. He might hate it, but he has a decade of experience on me. “My car broke down,” he adds, and everyone laughs.
I fist my hands in my lap until I’m sure they’re not shaking. By the time the moderator goes through a few introductory words and picks the first question, I’ve recovered. At least a little bit.
“Karl Becker, DPA. Nolan, you haven’t made a statement about Malte Koch’s cheating scandal. Is the three-year suspension he received fair? And what do you think about him?”
“I try not to think about him at all.” People chuckle. “And it’s up to FIDE to decide what’s fair.”
“Lucia Montresor, Ansa. Nolan, how is your playing shape compared with the Pasternak?”