7. DNA, RNA, and Proteins
DNA, RNA, AND PROTEINS
*Samantha*
F or a moment, the world went completely silent except for the slow metronome of my heart in my ears. There was no way it was him. Couldn’t be. No way he’d show up at my apartment.
And yet, I’d heard his voice crackling through the old door speaker, Andreas Kristiansen, here to see Samantha .
Diya’s eyes cut to mine, then away, then back again, a question behind them. Unable to spare a single synapse to regulate my facial expression, I simply stared at her in return, straining my ears.
Nakita, never one for subtlety, snorted. “Yeah, right. Get lost.”
There was a beat of dead air, and then through the intercom, “Please tell Samantha that Andreas is here for her.” He sounded irritated.
All at once, I was out of the kitchen, sprinting to the wall-mounted speaker. I pressed the button with a trembling thumb. “I’m here. Sorry. Andreas, I’m buzzing you in.”
The response was a flat, “Thank you,” with an intonation that made it sound suspiciously like, Finally.
Then click . Silence.
When I turned around, both Diya and Nakita were staring at me with curiosity, but Nakita’s eyes also held disbelief. “Wait. You actually know someone named Andreas Kristiansen?”
I bit my lip. “Yeah. He’s—” I tried to figure out how to explain him without triggering an avalanche of follow-up questions. “We go way back.”
Diya, master of the understated eyebrow, let hers inch upward. “Should I recognize the name? And, by ‘way back,’ do you mean to the childhood you never talk about?”
I tried to smile and huff out a laugh. It came out more like a snort. “Yes. Childhood. Our parents were—uh—business partners.” This was the biggest understatement since “the Titanic ran into a little trouble.”
Nakita’s brain appeared to be working at double speed now. “But—like—is it that Andreas Kristiansen?”
I played dumb and tried employing a non sequitur, which sometimes distracted her enough for me to plot an escape. “He’s not a politician, if that’s what you mean.”
“Who is Andreas Kristiansen?” Diya glanced between Nakita and me.
Nakita shook her head vigorously, ponytail whipping, ignoring Diya.
She reached out and gripped my upper arm.
“No, no, I mean the chess guy. The prodigy? Best player in the world? The dude who destroys other grand masters in thirty seconds or less and then just walks off stage like, whatever. That’s your Andreas? ”
I tried not to grimace and failed. “I don’t know. Who’s to say. It’s been a while since we—” The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs cut me off.
The color drained from Nakita’s face. “Holy shit. It’s him, right? Is he coming up? Oh my God. You know Andreas Kristiansen! Why didn’t you say anything? I would’ve put on pants!”
I wiped my palms down my thighs, a new burst of adrenaline making my hands sweat. “It’s not a big deal. He’s just a person. Also, you’re literally wearing pants.”
“I meant real pants, not pajama pants!” she hissed.
There was a knock on the door and all three of us flinched like house cats sprayed with water.
Diya, the only person in the apartment who could reliably do anything with grace, peered out the peephole and then looked back at me, her eyes three sizes bigger than normal. “You should get the door,” she whispered, then to Nakita added, “Are all chess players so hot? Holy shit!”
I hesitated, then motioned for Nakita to stand to my left. “Back up,” I whispered. Nakita nodded gravely, like this was the most important moment of her life.
With my heart banging against my ribs, I undid the chain and the three dead bolts, then turned the knob and swung the door open.
There he was, brooding in a black wool coat and a perfectly ironed dark green button-up, standing in my doorway, looking as though he’d just stepped out of a magazine cover.
His hair was a little messier than last week, and his dark, thick eyebrows were drawn low over those absurdly intense eyes. He looked annoyed, but also a bit wary.
“Hello, Samantha,” he said, voice low and—God help me—still unreasonably attractive.
I realized I was just standing there, holding the doorknob with both hands like an idiot. “Uh. Hi. Come in.”
He did, brushing past me in a wave of cool air and rosemary-scented something, pausing at the entryway table. He sized up Diya and Nakita, then looked back at me as if waiting for an introduction.
Nakita, apparently unable to contain herself, blurted, “Oh my God, you’re Andreas Kristiansen!”
His face did not move. “Yes.”
I turned to Nakita and shot her the most vicious side-eye I could muster. “Can you not?”
She grinned, hands clasped under her chin now. “Sorry, but do you even know how much I am freaking out right now? My sister would lose her mind if she knew you were in our apartment. She literally talks about you every day. Like, every day.”
Andreas looked at me, then at her. “Your sister plays chess?”
Nakita nodded. “She plays tournaments, women’s chess.”
This was news to me, but it tracked with everything I knew about Nakita’s family.
Diya interjected, “What’s ‘women’s chess’? Why isn’t it just chess?”
Andreas held his gloved fingers out to Diya for a shake. “Andreas.”
“Diya,” she said, accepting the handshake.
“The short answer is, women’s chess exists because men are horrible,” Andreas answered her question, very matter-of-factly. “But it persists because not many girls and women play chess—for many reasons—and therefore women make more money in women’s chess.”
Diya made a choking sound, her eyes widening with surprise, presumably at his candor.
But Nakita only grinned wider. “My sister has a livestream account with a ton of followers. She sits in Central Park and challenges people to games in real time. If they win, she pays them fifty dollars.”
“Does she ever have to pay out?” Diya asked.
“No, never.” Nakita beamed. “But a lot of men get angry—I mean, absolutely furious—when they lose.”
I was trying to keep up and abruptly realized the door was still open. I shut it and took the opportunity to shake out my hands, telling myself I had no reason to be so nervous.
“Ah, yes. I think I’ve seen her videos.” Andreas nodded subtly. “She has a strong end game, but favors the Ruy Lopez.”
Nakita gasped and inched forward like she might grab him. “Are you serious? We are such huge fans. She would absolutely die if she could play you. Or just meet you.”
Andreas’s expression remained unreadable, but he sounded thoughtful as he said, “I do not usually play strangers in parks.”
Diya, who’d watched the interaction between Nakita and Andreas like a true spectator, gave him the once-over. “Do you play women?”
“Whenever my counterparts are willing, of course. But I am a man and therefore not allowed to play in women’s chess tournaments.”
Diya crossed her arms. “And do you always win when you play women?”
He stared at her for a beat, then said, “I generally win, no matter who I play.”
I couldn’t decide if he sounded arrogant or not, so I looked at Nakita to see if his words bothered her. She was still grinning at him like he’d invented cheese. Either she didn’t notice his arrogance or wasn’t bothered by it.
“But, yes. I have lost to a player before who happened to be a woman.” Andreas, tone flat, began removing his gloves.
My heart spiked, pulse fluttering, and I grabbed his wrist to still his movements before he could reveal his ridiculously sexy hands. “Are you here to—why are you here? I mean, what do you want?”
“I want to talk to you,” he said, voice low, communicating with a small incline of his head that he’d prefer to speak in private. Which, given the crowd, was fair.
And, just in case I hadn’t understood his head tilt, he added, “Alone, if possible.” His voice was a touch softer than before.
I glanced around the crowded entryway and then toward the small sitting area and even smaller kitchen. “Sure, we can ...” I trailed off, searching for a more private venue than the kitchen table.
Diya saved me, gesturing down the hall. “Use our room,” she said, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “I’ll keep Nakita occupied. Come on, Nakita, let’s go see if my chai chia pudding recipe actually worked.”
Nakita frowned for the first time since Andreas had walked in, shooting me a look that threatened, We’ll talk later! and followed Diya toward the kitchen, her head turning back toward us with every few steps.
Andreas waited until they’d disappeared before facing me. “Lead the way.”
And, with my heart in my throat, I did.
I realized as we walked down the hallway that I’d left a week’s worth of dirty laundry in a mountainous heap in the middle of the floor last night, sorted and ready for the coin laundry down the street.
I also realized that my desk probably looked like a tornado had passed through, if that tornado had a fondness for empty ramen bowls, highlighters, and sticky notes with things like “NIEMINEN IS A GNOME WITH TINY HANDS” written in all caps.
Preemptively mortified, I hurried ahead and started scooping up clothes, balling them into a nest and shoving them into my closet, which immediately caused a small avalanche of more items to tumble out.
Andreas watched the process in silence, hands still gloved and hanging at his sides. He looked slightly less out of place in my tiny room than he had in the entryway, but only slightly.
“You share this room,” he observed.
Finally able to shut the closet door by pressing my back against it, I pointed at the cracked faux-leather desk chair. “You can sit. Sorry about ... all of this.” I waved my hand, taking in the entirety of my mess.