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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 watchYoubecause I’m fourteen, and now I find out that you haveyour own stalker?”
“Should we run him over? Does blood stain wood?”
“No!” I raise my hands. “He’snotmy 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 gomeethim!” 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. “AreyouMal’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 alsorude. “You usually lose your king to me. Areyougoing to?”
