Chapter Seventeen #3
He flashes me a smaller version of that famous lopsided smile. “The first beer was for me. This is for the costume. I don’t even like red wine.”
God damn him, but it’s cute.
“Thank you for that,” I say eventually, looking down. “You didn’t need to.”
“If anything, I did it for him.” His tosses his chin in the direction in which Owen walked away, his tone playful and rich with sarcasm. “I could tell you were about to tear into him. Would’ve really killed the party, honestly.”
As the moon rises higher in the sky, the air grows colder. I’m more aware of what my costume doesn’t cover as goosebumps dimple my skin. I hug my arms around my middle.
Without saying anything, Wesley unties his cloak and drapes it over my shoulders. With its overlapping shades of red and maroon, it matches my outfit perfectly.
I try to scowl—I really do. “Hey,” I accuse. “I’m supposed to be the knight in shining armor.”
“You saved me once at a party,” he murmurs. “I’ve been meaning to repay the favor.”
This time, the reminder of it doesn’t sting as bitterly as it usually does.
It’s worse, actually. Because I’m not remembering the way my sheets felt cold when I woke up, or the tense silence when Owen told me Wesley had left. I’m remembering everything that came before.
As I look at Wesley’s face, his features soft and wondering, I see him the same way I did when he was sitting on the floor of my room all those years ago.
With his slicked-back hair so reminiscent of our college days, I remember the way my TV’s light painted his pale skin blue.
He’s looking at me now just like he had back then: the sheepish twist of his mouth after I’d beaten him at the game we were playing, his expression softening from that competitive edginess to something more admiring.
And he’s got the same intensity in his dark eyes, the same question: Will you play with me again?
I take a half step forward, press my shoulder against his. “Wes…”
I cut myself off as my voice hitches. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink—only watches me with his eyes trained steadily on my face. “Yes?”
Not here, I think. And then, more resigned, Not again.
My subject change is awkward—forced. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do next.” It’s an honest admission in more ways than one, but then I clarify, “In the game. In Tyrant.”
His eyelashes flutter a little, and then his expression shifts. “I did leave it pretty open-ended; there are several paths the party could take.” His head falls slightly to the side. “What would Sindra do?”
“She’ll probably go along with whatever the others want to do most.”
“Like she’s done this whole time?”
“Excuse me?”
Wesley crosses his arms over his chest, making the deep V of his billowy shirt more obvious. It takes me some effort to tear my gaze back to his face. “Well, she hasn’t really pushed for anything, has she?” he says. “She clearly doesn’t want to be in Moros and only follows because of Moss.”
My jaw works for a moment, but no sound comes out. And then: “She—she and Moss have a very close sisterlike relationship. Of course she cares about what Moss wants! It makes total sense that would be her primary character motivation.”
“Maybe,” Wesley muses. “But I think that’s an excuse.”
I’m so pressed that I’ve forgotten entirely what it felt like to nearly fall into the darkness of his eyes—right now I’d deny it ever happened.
“Well, spit it out,” I say. “What are you getting at?”
“You’re playing like a DM.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not investing enough in Sindra and what she wants,” he says. “You’re placing the stories of the other characters above hers and only using her and her skills to fill in the blanks.”
The seltzer sizzles against my teeth as I take a drink. “I don’t want to be the sort of player who hogs the spotlight,” I argue. “I’m sure you know as well as I do how difficult they are to manage.”
He laughs. “You’re too self-aware to be at risk for that, Reagan.
” He rests his wrists on the banister; the silk of his sleeve brushes against my upper arm, and I try not to shiver.
“You should stop worrying about the others. Relax. Play. The DM exists to lift up the stories of the other players, to build a narrative where every character has a chance to really shine. And right now—” He pauses to hook his finger under one of the chains of my pauldron, tracing where it rests against my triceps. “That’s not your job. It’s mine.
“So, with that in mind—what would Sindra do?”
I open my mouth at the same moment the screen door screeches open.
“Reagan!” Mona yells into the night before she clocks us standing at the edge of the deck. She blinks twice, tilts her head, then shakes away whatever thought crossed her mind. “Reagan,” she tries again. “I need you to help me crush Arthur in beer pong.”
“Do you really think us destroying your girlfriend’s dad will help your case?”
“It’s the only way I’ll earn his respect.”
I look at Wesley—and then take a measured, purposeful step back. Before I can come up with something to say, he saves me from it. “Duty calls,” he says.
“So it does.”