Prologue #2
Those aren’t technically board games, I scoff internally, but I’m suddenly too distracted to pick the fight.
A fond old memory swims behind my eyes: my sticky kid fingers gripping hard at a d20 die, my dad’s rolling laugh at my sister’s in-game antics filling the kitchen.
“Not entirely,” I say. “I’ve always loved both. ”
“Is that right? Let’s see.” He spins on his heel and moves to turn on my PlayStation where it’s nestled against the wall opposite my bookshelf.
Somehow, though, his audacity stretches only so far: he squats in front of my TV rather than sinking into my beanbag chair.
The screen paints his face blue, highlighting where his blond hair is still slick and wet.
He murmurs to himself as he picks up a controller and begins to scroll through my library of games.
As my collection fills the screen, one corner of his lips remains tugged up.
Briefly, the alcohol seems to wash over me in a warm wave, and I’m tempted to fall into the beanbag chair and watch him.
Does he have the same titles? Is my collection more extensive than his?
But it’s the slight narrowing of his eyes and the arc of his slow, sardonic gaze that reminds me who exactly has invaded my space.
He’s already opening his mouth to criticize something.
But I won’t be picked apart like this—not by him. Not in class, and definitely not in my own fucking house.
“Get out of my room, Wesley,” I snap.
“But I’ve only just—”
“Out.”
He settles a tiny frown on me like I’m the world’s greatest killjoy. Like we were playing a game, and I’m ruining it. His eyes shift to the door, still open; pulsing red lights streak the hallway walls. The furrow in his brow deepens, and his jawline tenses.
“Just one, Reagan,” he says, and there’s almost a pleading note in his tone. Some of his air of casual laziness has slipped away, and I notice for the first time a hint of discomfort.
“One what?” I ask.
“One game. If I win, you let me stay. Just for a while.”
But why? And then I see the way his nose scrunches as he looks back toward the party. “Who are you hiding from?” I ask.
“People,” he says vaguely. “I just need a breather, okay?”
Even though I can sympathize, I let out an exasperated scoff. “You came to my party,” I remind him. “Why come if you didn’t want to socialize?”
Wesley says nothing—just gives me a long, drawn-out stare. I can’t read his face, can’t imagine the thoughts simmering behind his dark eyes.
I huff. “You could leave,” I suggest cheerfully.
He breaks out of whatever trance he was in and waves a hand. “You don’t scare me, Reagan.”
I should, I think, seething. But that old competitive itch is crawling under my skin again, and as I look down at the controller he’s holding out toward me, I can’t help but ask, “What happens if I win?”
Wesley shrugs. “Then I’ll go.”
I could just kick him out. I don’t have to take this bet, I know that. My house, my rules, and whatnot. But I’ve always had a hell of a time backing down from a challenge.
Especially one from him.
“Pick one, then.”
He selects an older classic fighting game that pits different gods and heroes from Greek mythology against one another, then murmurs, “Always wanted to try this one.” It’s an old favorite of mine, though I haven’t played it in years—not since high school, sitting with my sister, Ramona, in her hospital room every weekend.
Lucky guess on his part—or unlucky, considering the way I’m about to destroy him.
I shut the door to my room and settle down onto the beanbag chair. Wesley sinks to the floor.
As the game loads, I realize that this is the first time I’ve ever actually played a game with Wesley. We’ve spent the last four years playing each other’s creations, arguing over the merit of classics, and debating engines, but we’ve never played a game together.
It doesn’t last long—the first fight is over quickly.
His shoulders stiffen as my Athena lances her spear into his Poseidon’s chest. When he looks back at me, his eyes are shadowed. Darker.
His voice is low and tense. “Best of five?”
And so it goes, with Wesley alternating characters while I stick with the goddess of war.
But the same scene keeps playing out in different flavors: Athena with her foot on Apollo’s neck; Hades brutally sent back to the Underworld; Ares on his knees before her, chin tilted forcefully up by the blade of her sword.
With each new duel, my heart rate rises to a gallop, a rush of adrenaline flooding my veins as if I’m the one holding the weapon.
As I win again, after insisting we play out all five games, just for the hell of it, I have to bite my lower lip to hide my grin.
Wesley stares at the screen for a long, silent moment before he turns to face me. “Fair’s fair, then, isn’t it?” And he braces his hands on his knees and moves to stand.
God help me, I hate to admit it, but—I’m enjoying this too much. I hold up a hand.
“Let’s make this more interesting,” I suggest. “Let’s play a different game.”
“A different game?” His expression is wary, but he responded far too quickly to sound anything but eager.
I nod. “A drinking game. Clearly you haven’t got a chance of winning otherwise.”
A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Go on.”
I let him make the first rule: for the next game, I take a drink every time I make Athena use her most powerful ability (I still win, but I drink twice). We decide that the loser gets to decide the next rule, and it takes him only three more rounds to win for the first time.
As Wesley catches on quickly enough to finally make our battles feel competitive, I realize I am tipsily, viciously delighted. I tuck a smile into the corner of my mouth where I hope he can’t see it.
Even through the haze of alcohol, I can recognize that he’s quite good.
I knew that already—he’s good at everything—but it’s another thing entirely to see it in action.
No matter the game, I’ve always got practiced mechanics and clever strategy on my side, while Wesley relies all on instinct and great timing.
No wonder he lost the first few rounds; he was still learning the game.
But as he grows more familiar with it, even my most perfectly executed combos shatter in the face of him simply hitting the right button at the exact right moment.
As the playing field evens out and we take turns coming up with increasingly complex and extravagant rules that result in more drinks—him from his vodka Sprite and me from my punch—the realization sinks in.
We’re both very good, but we play very differently. We’ve got different strengths.
If we were playing a game where we didn’t have to kill each other, we’d make a great team.
As the vodka burns its way down my throat—whoops, wrong drink—I become less concerned about winning despite managing to keep the lead.
My timing is thrown off when my thumbs grow sloppy and unwieldy, and Wesley laughs as he fumbles with the buttons of his own controller.
As I slouch to the side, wobbling toward him, I let myself remember what it was like to play this game with my sister, pressed shoulder to shoulder in her bed.
I let myself have fun. I forget how annoyed I’m supposed to be to have Wesley here at all.
I don’t know when Wesley adjusts his position so that his upper arm presses against my thigh.
I hardly recall when I scoot to make room for him on the beanbag, or when he crawls up—I note only the chill dampness of his shirt, at odds with the warmth of his skin as he leans against me.
I don’t realize when his playful shove after losing another round ends with us nestled side by side on a beanbag that’s meant for only one person.
He smells like rain and the remnants of expensive spicy cologne, and I find myself taking deeper, slower breaths as I try not to let it get to my head.
I don’t know how much time passes before Wesley gingerly sets his controller down on the carpet.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had my ass so thoroughly handed to me.
” He’s not even talking to me. His attention is still on the screen.
And then, when he turns, it’s a full-body thing.
His shoulders are square with mine. At first, his lips are pressed tightly together, his features tense and unreadable—and then something gives, and his dark eyes soften as he raises his gaze to my face.
There’s a little knot of concentration between his brows as he studies me, swaying slightly.
I don’t think we’ve ever been this close before.
He’s looking at me like I’m a complicated puzzle of machinery and he’s trying to figure out what exactly is making me tick.
I feel his eyes almost like a physical touch, tracing the arch of my brows, darting between each individual freckle, sweeping across my forehead along the blunt line of my bangs.
I hope my room is dark enough to hide the way heat blooms under my skin in the wake of his attention, a blush I can’t explain climbing up the sides of my neck and warming my cheeks.
And then his gaze dips lower, to my lips.
Involuntarily, my mouth parts, and I suck in a breath.
Finally, he speaks.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question stuns us both into silence. Wesley looks surprised that he even said it at all.
“Why?”
My tone isn’t as sharp as it was before—isn’t as sharp as it’s supposed to be. It’s a gentle exhale into the rapidly narrowing space between us. I hang suspended in the moment, waiting for him to cut me free. But his gaze keeps me pinned, rooting me to the spot.
“Because I want to.” His eyes are half lidded, almost dreamy. Delusional, I think, with more amusement than bite.
The desire to deny him anything he wants is instinctual, but it’s muted this time. He shouldn’t always get what he wants, just because he wants it. It’s a sleepy, half-hearted grumble of a thought. And he lost, anyway.
But what if I want it, too?