AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Delete.
hi.
I don’t hit Send. But I leave it there, in the typing box. And when I set my phone against my chest and go back to watching TV, it feels several pounds heavier than ever before.
After a match— usually during one of those press conferences that I always assume will have twelve viewers but instead are streamed by hundreds of thousands of nerds like me— people will ask me how, in a specific moment, at a specific turn of the game, I decided what to do.How did you know to sacrifice the pawn? Why that trade? Rook e6 was perfect— what made you think of that?
People ask me. And all I can say is: I just knew.
Instinct, maybe. Something innate within myself that helps chess come together like a fully formed shape. A rudimentary, gut understanding of how thingscouldbe if I let myself follow a path.
The pieces tell me a story. They draw pictures and ask me to color them in. Each one, with its hundreds of possible moves, billions of possible combinations, is like a beautiful skein of yarn. I can unspool it if I like, then weave it together with others to create a beautiful tapestry. A new tapestry.
Ideally, a winning tapestry.
If it hadn’t been for Dad, that instinct would have stayedcoarse, unspun within me. If it hadn’t been for years of hard work, of practicing, studying, analyzing, thinking, reliving, obsessing, playing, playing,playing, my instinct would be worth very little. If it hadn’t been for Defne, after falling asleep for four years, it would have stayed dormant.
But I wouldstillhave it. If things had been different, my instinct wouldstillbe a raw ball of unknowns knotted inside me: waking me up at 3:05 a.m. on the most important day of my life, thrumming within me, pulling me out of bed.
I don’t even remember falling asleep. The TV is still on, Netflix pointedly asking if we’re still watchingRiverdale, and I have no idea why my sisters decided to infiltrate my room instead of returning to their overpriced suite. Climbing out of bed takes Cirque du Soleil– grade coordination and a nearly sprained ankle. Once I’ve peed and drunk what’s left in my water bottle, I’m just not motivated enough to dive back in.
I try to keep quiet as I put on Easton’sCU Boulderhoodie. It stops just below my shorts, and I should probably grab a coat and some thick sweats, but I don’t bother turning on the light for something warmer, and instead let myself out of the room.
The hallways are silent and gelid. The sea, quiet. There are no ferries, no boats, no seagulls, because all of Venice is fast asleep. I make my way down the stairs, the shiny pinks and whites of the marble floors pure ice under my bare feet, hair bouncing over my shoulders.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I know in my stomach that it feels right. It’s good, this: being alone with the night sea breeze, exploring the deserted gardens, inhaling the smell ofgrass and salt. I spot some lights in the distance, from the little glass house where I’ll spend the next two weeks, immersed in chess and heartache. I follow the stone path, shivering, tracing the steps for the first of thirteen times. Wondering if come morning, the precious calm I feel right now will tangle into a pile of exposed nerves.
I stop in my tracks when I see him, but I’m not startled. Maybe I should be surprised to see him there— the time, the place, the coincidence don’t exactly make sense—but my gut tells me that this is fine.
This is why I’m here: for Nolan.
He gives me his back, standing tall in front of a familiar frame. Marcus Sawyer’s picture has been moved into the glass house, flanked by three others— all the world champions who have been crowned here in Venice. Tomorrow, when the first game starts, they will surround the players. Place them right within history.
I watch the relaxed line of Nolan’s shoulders and think about my next move.
Think about turning around.
Think about my cold limbs and the pile of sisters back in my room.
Think about his messy hair and a box of Froot Loops and his wide eyes as he said,Kasparov was there.
Think about him nuzzling my belly button, and his penchant for the Scotch Game, and the way I liked being with him so much, maybe I got a bit scared.
A lot scared.
My next move, then, is to keep on walking. Horizontally,through an unoccupied path. Like a rook would. And Nolan . . . he must hear me open the glass door and enter, but he doesn’t turn. Nor does he acknowledge my presence. He continues to study his grandfather’s picture, dark eyes to dark eyes, stubborn jaw to stubborn brow. When I come to stand right next to him, close enough to feel his heat, and say, “I’ve been studying his games,” his answer is simply:
“Have you?”
I missed his voice. Or: I missed the way his voice sounds when it’s the two of us and no one else. Rich. Lower than usual. Stripped of its coats and edges. I missed letting it flow through me.
“Because I couldn’t bear to study yours.”
“That boring, huh.”
I exhale a shaky laugh. “No, it’s just . . . Come on. You know.”
He nods, still facing the picture. The soft lights play beautifully across his skin. “I do know.”
