Chapter 1 #2
I’d brought Nakita a fancy tin of loose-leaf Assam, and for Kendra I’d brought a cozy wool throw blanket because she was always complaining that the apartment was too cold.
“You don’t need to thank me,” I said, meaning the words.
I’d been compulsively sending gifts to all three of my former roommates for weeks, unable to resist the urge to buy their goodwill one macaron tower or cold brew subscription at a time. Retail therapy, except the therapy was for my own guilt and the recipient was always someone else.
Nakita swirled her mug, then returned to her favorite topic.
“Anyway, the Sam-Dreas shippers don’t even care that he legally adopted you.
Once I explained how you two used to know each other and that he was just trying to do the right thing by making sure you inherited your family’s shares, they totally came around.
Like, overnight. There’s even a new board called the Inheritance Trope Safe Zone, and you are their queen.
” She grinned, like this should be good news.
I did my best to school my expression, but I could feel my cheeks heating up anyway.
The biggest mistake I’d made while explaining myself to my former roommates was not explicitly telling Nakita to keep it all a secret.
Within days, she’d shared the details online, which led to a cascade of posts and, eventually, emails from real-life journalists asking for comment.
Not that I’d ever had much of an online presence, but I’d gone completely underground after that, deleting all the accounts I did have and avoiding social media and online news.
I also had to block reporters and screen all my phone calls.
Tara still worked with me, which had been a huge blessing.
We’d started dressing in identical outfits.
Both her competence and the fact that we looked so much alike had saved me more than once.
She was great at running interference with anyone who tried to approach me, mostly outside my work, by pretending to be me and leading reporters away so I could safely walk from the car to the biology building or vice versa.
Last week an influencer with a chess-adjacent online following had staked out the biology building, waiting for me to emerge so she could get “a reaction video” to the news that Andreas had been spotted in Central Park with Roman Buckley. Tara darted away and the influencer had followed.
Basically, I was grateful for Tara every single day.
“Hey,” Nakita said, plucking another strawberry from the fruit bouquet and popping it into her mouth. “So, have you heard from Andreas?”
I forced a noncommittal smile as a cold lump formed in my stomach. “No.”
This was not a lie. I hadn’t spoken to him once since Paris. But every time I saw Nakita, she always asked me about Andreas. My answer was always some variation of the same response.
No. I’m sure he’s very busy.
No. We don’t really know each other.
No. We’re not actually friends and don’t keep in contact.
No. He helped me, and that’s basically it.
Nakita squinted at me, and for a second I wondered if she could read minds. “When’s the last time you heard from him?”
“I’m sure he’s busy,” I said, picking up my tea for a sip.
“I know he’s busy, but when is the last time you two spoke?”
I shrugged. “Uh, just after the will reading, right before Christmas.” Which was true, if you didn’t count the emails from his personal assistant, Elio. Which I didn’t.
Elio had emailed me several times since the new year, usually with some random piece of information or paperwork related to finalizing the transition of my father’s Genetix shares. He had also been the one to send me the real version of Oskar Kristiansen’s will.
Most recently, Elio had emailed about logistics for the lawsuit brought by Henrik and Tobias contesting my inheritance of the Genetix shares, and whether I wanted to retain their preferred law firm.
“Of course,” he’d typed, “Mr. Kristiansen is anxious to help you fight this frivolous claim in any way possible. All you need to do is reach out.”
Of course.
Every message from Elio was formal and signed off with, “Mr. Kristiansen wishes you the very best.” At first the messages made me so damn mad, especially when I’d read the real will.
But more recently, they made me cry. The last one in particular had sent me straight into a bubble bath of feelings.
I hadn’t allowed myself to think about why.
It felt too big, too dangerous, and too unwieldy to contemplate.
“Andreas hasn’t called you at all?” Nakita continued to press.
Maintaining my unconcerned smile, like this was very normal and fine, I modulated my voice to indifferent. “Like I’ve mentioned before, we’re not close. At all. He helped me with this one thing, that’s it. I honestly don’t even know him very well.” This, obviously, was also true.
What did I know about Andreas Kristiansen truly? Nothing.
When I looked back at the almost two months we spent together, I realized that he’d never communicated anything meaningful about himself.
I knew about his childhood because we’d grown up together during our shared summers.
But any time I’d asked him about himself during those weeks we’d spent in his apartment, he either gave me basic answers or redirected the conversation back to me.
Even so, I missed him. I missed him so much it made my stomach hurt whenever I let myself think about him.
Nakita finished her tea and sat back in the chair, openly studying me. “Well, have you called him? Because he’s been basically off the radar since losing the Italy tournament to Roman. I think this is the longest he hasn’t posted anything on social media.”
I blinked. “He didn’t lose the tournament in Italy, he came in second,” I said, before I could catch the words.
Nakita raised both eyebrows. “For him, that’s losing. First time he hasn’t won a major tournament in years. Are you sure you don’t want to call him?”
I shook my head, then realized Nakita was waiting for more explanation. “No. I’ve been busy, too. I haven’t really had any time.” I set my mug down, wishing I could crawl under the kitchen table and never come out.
Nakita made a noise that was half annoyed, half disbelieving. “You’re so stubborn. He literally got you your father’s shares back, and you can’t even check to see if he’s alive?”
I wanted to laugh, but knew it would sound bitter. So, instead, I spoke the truth. “Nakita, as I’ve said several times, we aren’t that close. I’m not someone he wants to hear from. I’m honestly nobody to him.”
Nakita watched me for a minute, then sighed. “He hasn’t been doing any online matches or appearances either. Instead of showing up, he’s been donating money to multiple animal rescue charities for every missed match, including his own charity.”
I frowned. “His own? He has a charity?” Again, asking the question before I could catch myself.
Nakita looked at me like I’d grown a second head.
“You know, his charity? The one he started for animal rescue and rehabilitation?” When I shook my head, she looked genuinely shocked.
“Huh. Maybe you guys aren’t that close. He never talked about his animal rescue work?
He’s, like, infamous for donating to shelters and personally funds an exotic animal rescue in upstate New York.
They had a spread about it in American Chess Quarterly. ”
This was news to me. I tried to think back. Had he ever mentioned animal rescue work? He was vegan, but had said it was for health reasons.
I remembered when we were kids, how much he’d loved animals, how he’d cried when that bird died and how we’d held a funeral for it.
I’d meant what I said when we went on that wine bar date after he returned from London.
I didn’t want to look up information about him online.
I wanted him to tell me about himself. Now, it seems, since he never told me and I’d never internet stalked him, I still knew basically nothing about Andreas Kristiansen.
Whatever. Just another thing about himself he’d never wanted to share with me.
“Let me have your phone,” Nakita said, placing her hand on the table, palm up.
I hesitated, then reached in my leggings pocket and handed it over. She unlocked the browser and started typing, narrating as she went. “You have to see this. It’s literally adorable.”
I heard a bedroom door open up somewhere and my heart leapt to my throat.
Diya is up. Turning around in the chair, I waited and listened to the sounds of Diya moving around.
Another door opened then closed. A few moments passed before she appeared, likely stopping by the bathroom first before shuffling into the kitchen.
When she caught sight of me, she stopped dead in her tracks, her hazy, sleepy gaze turning hard.
I waved, not allowing myself too much hope. “Hi. It’s good to see you. I brought you fruit.”
Her attention flickered to the alien-queen-head Edible Arrangement on the stove. She sighed. Loudly.
Silently, Diya walked past me to the refrigerator.
Meanwhile, Nakita tapped through a few links, and without looking up said, “Did you sleep okay? Were we too loud?”
“I didn’t hear you at all. Thanks for keeping it down.” Diya directed her sleep-roughened voice toward the interior of the fridge. “Where are my leftovers?”
“Behind the OJ,” Nakita responded, then turned my phone so I could see the screen.
An exotic animal rescue website home page was revealed, a study in professional branding, with a blue and white color scheme, and understated serif fonts.
In the header, a photo of Andreas crouching next to a small, besuited capuchin monkey.
The monkey perched on his shoulder, tugging at his hair, and Andreas was smiling.
An actual, unguarded smile, the kind I’d only seen on him a handful of times.
Below the banner was a product carousel featuring, among other things, a resin Andreas Kristiansen Chess Set. The pawns were meerkats, the bishops were owls, the rooks were turtles, the knights were panthers, and the kings and queens were modeled after wolves in miniature.
Nakita scrolled down to the donation stats. “He’s raised over three hundred grand in the last month. Every time there’s chess world drama, the animal rescue gets a ton of money. It’s so weird but also kind of brilliant.”
I stared at the photo, at the way the monkey was yanking Andreas’s hair and he didn’t even seem to mind, and my heart did a sad little deflating thing in my chest, like it had been punctured by sharp regret, a longing for something I didn’t wish to name because it was so entirely out of my reach.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I glanced up and found Diya looking at me. And . . . talking to me? Whoa. Diya acknowledging my existence was a huge improvement.
Straightening in my seat, I allowed my hope to balloon. “Nothing. I’m fine. How are you?”
Her expression flattened and she shut the fridge, muttering under her breath, “You’re clearly not fine, but whatever. Forget I asked.”
I glanced at Nakita, hoping for some help, but discovered she was still holding my phone and—from my vantage point—appeared to be poking around my contacts.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Nakita stood up and moved away from the table. “You need to call Andreas.”
Panic detonated in my chest and I shot up from my chair. “Don’t—no. He doesn’t want to hear from me.”
Nakita, who was much faster than I’d ever be even when I had a full night’s sleep, held the phone high over her head and danced out of reach as I tried to snatch it back.
“I don’t believe that. You two were obviously much closer than you’re letting on.
He could be waiting for you to call and say thank you for helping get your father’s company back! ”
I darted around the table, but Nakita had a good four inches and ten pounds on me, and she used both to her advantage. She pressed Call before I could even form a coherent protest. This was happening too fast, it felt like she’d knocked the wind from my lungs.
“I don’t—please—don’t—” I wheezed, but then the ringing started, and my brain went to static.
Nakita grinned. “Talk to him. He just lost his dad, he lost the Rome tournament. I’m sure he wants to hear from you. Trust me.”
The phone rang once, twice. My palms went slick and my heart banged against my rib cage. By the third ring, I felt certain he wouldn’t answer and I started to relax. If it went to voicemail, Nakita might drop this issue once and for all.
But on the fourth ring, there was a click, and then a voice on the other end of the line, clear and unmistakable.
“Hello?” Andreas said. “Samantha?”