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“Nolan.”
I huff. It doesn’t come out as indignant as I’d like. “No, he’s not.”
“And he seems to have great taste.”
“Because he ate a stomach-pumping amount of your meat loaf?”
“Mostly that. Only secondarily because he doesn’t seem to be able to look away from my most oblivious daughter.”
I’m 93 percent sure that he’s about to place a napalm bomb in ourbasement, I don’t tell her.Or maybe he wants to rob us. He’ll abscond with the family nickel jar the second we’re distracted. And with what’s left of the meat loaf.
I still have no idea why he’s here. He’s asking my sisters “Which one of the characters isRiverdale?” with his soothing NPR voice, making them giggle and slap his forearms, and I want him gone from my house. Stat.
And yet it’s over one hour before Mom reminds Darcy that she needs to finish her English homework, and Sabrina locks herself in her room to video- chat with derby friends about how Emmalee should be jammer and what’s wrong with Coach these days, anyway?
“I’m going to bed,” Mom says, a tad too pointedly. I look outside the window: the sun’s not done setting.
“Nolan’s leaving, too.”
“He doesn’t have to.” She gives him a brilliant smile and walks away, leaning on her cane.
“Yes, he does,” I yell after her.
Eavesdropping is not something I’d put past my family, so when Nolan follows me outside, I walk all the way to the apricot tree. This time of the year, it’s little more than a handful of leaves on scrawny branches— as any other time.
Hands on my hips, I turn around to face him. At dusk he’s even more imposing than usual, the angles and curves of his face clashing dramatically against each other.
Honestly, it doesn’t make sense. I shouldn’t find him this handsome, because he simply isn’t. His nose is too large. His jaw too defined. Lips too full, eyes set too deep, those cheekbones too . . . toosomething. I shouldn’t even bethinkingabout this.
“Now that you’ve eaten approximately twelve pigs with mymom’s meat loaf as a vehicle, do you mind telling me why you’re here?”
“Pretty sure it was ground beef.” He reaches for one of the tallest branches. Easily. “Does your family think we’re dating?” He doesn’t look upset. More in the ballpark of proud.
“Who knows.”Probably. “Is it a problem?”
I want him to say yes, and then throw in his face that it’s his fault for showing up unannounced. He thwarts my move. “Who doesn’t love a good fake dating scheme.”
I arch my eyebrow. “I’m surprised you’re familiar with the concept.”
“A friend is a huge Lara Jean fan. I sat through, like, six of her movies.”
He means his girlfriend. “There are only three.”
“Felt like more.”
He’s so assured. So effortlessly at ease. You’d expect a known sore loser with temper problems who spends 90 percent of his time studying opposite- colored bishop end games not to excel in social situations. And yet.
I think about the mountains of self-confidence he must have within himself. Wherever they might come from.Look at him, the voice in my head supplies.You know where they’re from.
Oh, shut up.
“Why are you here, Nolan?”
He lets go of the branch. Watches it bounce a few times, then settle against the darkening sky. When he reaches out for me, I’m ready to roundhouse kick him in the chin, but he pushes a loose strand of hair away from my face. I’m still dizzy from the brief contact when he says, “I want to play chess.”
“You couldn’t find someone in New York? You had to drive allthe way to New Jersey?” I’m assuming he owns the Lucid Air parked in front of the Abebes’ place. Because of course he’d own my dream car.
“I don’t think you understand.” He holds my eyes. I think his throat moves. “I want to play chess withyou, Mallory.”
