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“What does that mean? Together. We’ll do it together. We can release a press statement. Invest in skywriting.Something.”
“I won’t. But you can.”
I scowl. “What do you mean, you won’t? My sister, my friends, they’ll read the article and think it’s true.”
“I’m happy to text your friends, or FaceTime them, or skywrite at them to explain the situation. But I won’t talk about my personal life to the press.”
“Why?”
“Mal, I understand that this is upsetting, but it’s not the first time this has happened to me. There’s no way to fight the press when they’re wrong. You can only ignore it. First rule of Chess Club: never google yourself.”
I cover the soup with a lid and lean against the counter, arms crossed. “Pretty sure the first rule of Chess Club is White moves first. And I understand you were burned by the Baudelaire rumor, but— ”
“I was referring to the shit they printed about my grandfather.” He gives me a vacuous look. “What’s the Baudelaire rumor?”
I look away. Embarrassing, that I know of it and he doesn’t. Makes it sound like I care more about his love life than he does. “Just . . . people said you dated a Baudelaire?”
“Oh, yeah. The sisters, right? Emil told me about it.”
“Is it true?”
His eyebrow lifts. “You know it isn’t.”
Right. I do. “How did the rumor start, then?”
“One of them was at some party my manager made me go to, back when I still listened to her. That was probably enough.”
I lean my elbows on the island, hating how interested I am. “Which Baudelaire?”
“Name started with aJ, I think?”
I sigh. They all haveJnames. “So, what happened? You were talking and you didn’t want to . . . you know.”
“Would you?”
“If it were me? Hell yeah.”
He tilts his head. “Why would you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What would you get out of it?”
I shrug. “I like sex. It’s fun. It feels good—reallygood, sometimes. Especially when you’re in the mood and you do it with attractive or interesting people. I’m not ashamed of it.”
“You shouldn’t be,” he says, but I can tell that he doesn’t completely get it. That sex, desire, are something he’s still wrapping his head around. “What about feeling closer to someone? Making a connection?”
“Maybe. I’m sure sex means different things to different people, and they’re all valid.” I swat the memory of last night and Alex away, like it’s a fruit fly. “But the human connection part . . . that’s not whyIdo it. It’s risky.”
“Risky? How?”
I shrug, not about to explain. “I don’t need that stuff. I’m busy enough.”
He nods like he knows. “Taking care of your family, right?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Weren’t we talking about your Baudelaire affair?”
“I don’t really remember what happened. We— Wait.”
