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“Afterthis? You need nutrients, not food coloring in microdonut shape.”
“It’s all I have.”
“Seriously?”
He shrugs. “I was gone somewhere. Canada?”
“You were in Russia. Also, you have a stack of bowls in that credenza— who has cereal in a mug?”
“Oh.” He nods. Then collapses slowly, until his forehead rests on the kitchen island. “Who’s Credence?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m a good person. I pick up Mrs. Abebe’s garbage can when the wind tips it over, smile at the dogs at the park, never make fun of people who sayirregardless. I don’tdeservethis. And yet. “Listen, stay here. Don’t eat that. I’ll be right back.”
I half carry him to the couch, his solid muscles heavy and scorching hot against me. In less than ten minutes, I run downstairs, spend a small European country’s GDP at the corner bodega, and come back up to find him sleeping.
I’m Mother Teresa. Reincarnated. I need a halo for my trouble.
“Take this.” Nolan’s couch is a giant sectional but still too short for him. Ridiculous.
“Is it poison?”
“Rapid- release ibuprofen.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Your armpits.”
“No, the good one.”
“I’m cooking.”
His eyes spring open. “You’re making chicken soup.”
“Which you do not deserve.”
“From scratch?”
“It’s really easy, and canned stuff tastes like lead poisoning and despair. By the way, you owe me forty- three dollars. Yes, I’m charging you for the emotional- support Snickers bar I bought for myself— you can Venmo, but please don’t writeFor Drugsin the memo line. Just . . . take a nap. I’ll be back.”
He doesn’t, though. Take a nap. He sits at the kitchen island and watches me in a glazed- over, pleased way as I move around quietly. It doesn’t bother me, really. His eyes on me usually do strange, uncomfortable things, but today . . . maybe I just love this kitchen. It’s large and cozy and modern, and I want to use it every day. I want to common- law marry it and adopt an entire pack of incontinent shar- peis with it.
“Why are you here?” he asks twenty minutes later. With the meds kicking in, he seems a little less out of it.
“There is this article inVanity Fair,” I explain absentmindedly while chopping carrots. Now that I’m here, taking care of Nolan in his warm apartment that smells like him and comfort food, it’s hard to scrounge up the level of indignation I felt one hour ago. “About you losing to Koch.”
“Idrewwith Koch. But I did lose to Liu, who in turn won to Oblonsky, and I tied with Antonov, so I placed second at the tournament— ”
“Yes, I’m sure your dick is longer than Koch’s, but let’s focus on the matter at hand, which is that Koch toldVanity Fairthat you and I are dating, and Page Six published pics of us in Toronto, and now whatever small nerdy percentage of the world cares about chess thinks that we have a thing.”
“And we don’t?”
I turn to glare at him. “You don’t havethings. You told me so.”
“I also said ‘until recently.’ ”
My heart skips a beat. “You should be way more upset about this. Since you’re on your deathbed, I’ll let that slide, but we’ll have to set the record straight.”
“Sure. Feel free.”
