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I was aiming for a sharp, jugular- cutting jab. But Sawyer does something I did not expect: hesmiles.
Why is hesmiling?
“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’tknow. “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 . . .
I flushed. No one else paid attention.
“Have you been working at the senior center long, Nolan?” Mom asks.
I stiffen, spearing a single green bean. I press my kneeagainst Nolan’s under the table, to signal him to be quiet. “We don’t have to talk about— ”
“A while,” he says smoothly.
