Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Chess
I left Finn and New Orleans like a thief on the run. I’m not proud of it. I should have said goodbye. But panic took hold,
and I needed to see a familiar face that wasn’t Finn’s. I went to New York, my hometown, and to James, my oldest friend, thinking
that maybe distance would make it easier to breathe again, and to figure out what the hell just happened.
Finn doesn’t call or come storming after me, demanding we talk things out.
Did I expect him to? I can’t say. It’s horrible to admit that I’d wanted him to maybe show even a little bit of resistance.
But he let me go.
A week out, I get a text from Charlie, asking for my address. Since I’m not trying to hide, I give it to him. Charlie sends
me the bulk of my clothes.
I cry myself to sleep that night.
I throw myself into work. I guess Finn does, too. He wins one game and then the next. I cry again when I watch him celebrate
on the field with his teammates, the sight of his smiling, victorious face too much to bear. But I’m not a total masochist,
so when they go to interview him, I turn the TV off.
Two days after they officially announce Finn and his team are in the playoffs, a New Orleans gossip e-mag I subscribe to shows a picture of Britt and Finn walking into a restaurant, Finn’s hand protectively on her arm as they shy away from the camera.
Another grainy image of them sitting at a table for two follows.
I cry myself to sleep for a second time.
Do I think he’s with Britt now? My heart says no. My brain keeps flashing to the image of them together, and I am sick with
bitter jealousy. Part of me thinks I deserve this. It’s my own fucking fault for leaving. Another far angrier part of me says,
Fuck that noise.
Ironically, every other aspect of my life is fantastic. Michael’s SoHo loft is so perfect it makes my bones hurt with envy.
I remember that he’s from New York real estate royalty and probably doesn’t have to work a day of his life if he chose not
to, and I feel a little better about myself. I’m grateful all over again that he offered me this opportunity.
The project is a dream come true. Every day, I look forward to working. I meet established Oscar-winning actors who flirt
shamelessly, and young Hollywood A-listers who act like overgrown boys, which unfortunately reminds me of Finn and his guys.
I keep waiting for someone to throw attitude or be a dick, but it doesn’t happen. It’s as if the stars have aligned and fate
is telling me this is exactly where I need to be.
I hate fate.
I’m sitting in the sun-drenched living room of Michael’s loft, curled up on his oversized Italian leather couch and eating
a New York bagel with apple cinnamon cream cheese, when Finn calls.
I should have known he’d hunt me down when I was the most content I’d been since leaving him. Face prickling with heat and
heart pounding hard, I stare at the phone, his name lit up on the screen, as if it might up and bite me.
I don’t want to pick it up, but the damn phone won’t stop. It rings and vibrates, making the coffee table rattle. My fingers dig into my thighs. Finn.
Answer it, you weenie. It’s just Finn, for fuck’s sake, not Satan.
Grumbling, I snatch the phone up.
“Hey.” I sound like I’ve been eating glass.
“Hey.” The timbre of his voice, rough and unsure, lodges between my ribs and digs in.
I close my eyes and bring my knees to my chest as if I can protect myself. Finn clears his throat but doesn’t speak.
“I should have called you.”
“I wanted to call you.”
We speak over each other, and he huffs out a small laugh before his voice lowers to something hard and tight. “You left me.”
A shard of guilt goes through my heart. “I said I was leaving.”
“But not like that. Not without saying goodbye.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It hurt, Chess. We deserved more than that.”
A lump swells in my throat. “I know. It was shitty.”
Finn doesn’t say anything for a long moment. But when he finally speaks, it’s a strained rush. “I took Britt out to dinner.”
Hearing the words from his mouth makes it more real.
“I saw pictures of it.” I lick my lips and taste salt. Another fat tear runs down the side of my nose, and I bat it away.
Finn makes a sound. “I was afraid of that.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay silent.
He sighs, long and tired. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”
A wave of dizziness comes over me, and I rest my head against the couch pillow.
“I’m trying to be her friend,” he goes on. “Like you suggested.”
As if he’s trying to appease me? I don’t feel appeased. I’m miserable. I swipe at my eyes. “That’s good. She needs a friend.”
That it’s the truth doesn’t make it any easier for me to picture them together. Silence descends.
“How’s work?” Finn blurts out, as if forced.
“Good. Great. Tomorrow I’m photographing The Avengers. Well, the guys, that is.”
A choked sound comes through the phone then abruptly cuts off. “Naked Avengers?”
I almost smile. “They get to hold their weapons. Iron Man is wearing his glove.”
“Oh, well at least his hand is covered,” Finn grumbles.
My lip twitches. But it’s not enough. Our easy flow is broken. And we fall silent once more.
When Finn speaks again, his voice is so low and hoarse, I almost don’t hear it.
Almost.
“I miss you.”
My heart kicks against my ribs, and I clutch the phone. “I miss you, too.”
Tell me to come home. Tell me you need me.
“You were right, though,” he rasps before clearing his throat. “I needed to get some clarity. Figure out what’s important.”
Something inside me cracks. I think it’s my heart. I draw in a ragged breath. “Me, too.” Don’t cry. You’re fine. Fine. “This job has been a dream come true. Really, really. Good.”
That’s descriptive. You don’t sound at all like you’re falling apart.
He pauses. “I’m glad. You deserve . . . good things.”
Neither of us says anything. And then Finn tries again. “We made the playoffs.”
“I heard. I’m . . . so happy for you.”
Someone in the background yells for Finn. I close my eyes, knowing my time is up.
His voice is stronger now, but more distant. “I’ve got to go.”
I feel every cold mile between us.
“Yeah. Me too. I’ve been so busy . . .” I swallow hard.
“That’s good. I’m glad.”
God, we’re horrible now. “Good luck, Finn.”
It’s so quiet on his end, I think he’s hung up. But then he speaks, his voice soft and full of regret. “Sleep well, Chess.”
It’s only after the line is dead and I’m back at work that I remember he’d said the same words to me before. On the night
we met, when I’d left him at my apartment door, intent on walking right out of his life.
Finn
The door to my condo opens. I don’t bother looking up from the TV. I know it’s not who I want to see. Keys jangle and then
Charlie walks into the room.
“Manny,” he says, glancing at me then the TV. “What are you watching?”
“Singles.” My voice sounds as if it has been dragged over rust before breaking free. Charlie takes a seat next to me.
“Never seen it.”
“You’re missing out on the glory that is Cliff Poncier and Citizen Dick.”
“Citizen Dick?” He makes a sound of amusement.
I cut him a glance. “They were underrated.”
“If you say so.”
We watch for a few minutes. Every time Steve and Linda are on screen, my chest hurts. You broke his heart, Linda.
Yes, I am a fucking masochist.
“This looks like a chick movie,” Charlie says out of the blue.
“According to Chess, every movie is a chick movie.” It isn’t easy saying her name out loud, but I refuse to make her a ghost.
He’s silent for a moment. “I guess she has a point.”
“She usually does.” Fuck. I need some antacid.
Charlie turns my way. “You talk to her lately?”
“Yes.”
I don’t expand on the disaster that was our phone call. The conversation had been so stilted, it was like pulling teeth just to get the words out.
His stare is a weighty thing. “You going to go get her?”
When she’s in the middle of her dream job? With The Avengers? How the fuck do I compete against Iron Man? Or—fuck—Thor?
“She isn’t lost, Charles.”
He pulls a bottle of green juice from his backpack and hands it to me. “It’s about time to get going for the game.”
Normally, I’d drive myself, but this is a playoff game. When Charlie asked me if I wanted a ride to the stadium, I realized
that he really wanted to drive me. He wanted to be a part of this. He deserves to be. So I have myself a chauffeur, even if
he’s a nagging one.
“We have at least fifteen minutes to spare.” Because it’s in my hand, I open the bottle and take a drink. I’m not going to
say I love the green health drink, because I have working taste buds, but it does send a nice shot of energy running through
my system.
“Let’s spend them at the stadium,” Charlie says.
Charlie doesn’t like living on the edge. With a sigh, I heave myself up. “Fine. Let’s go win us a football game.”
Charlie stands too, turning off the TV with the remote. “We’ll work on your enthusiasm levels in the car.”
I’d like to think I’m a good actor, but apparently my performance today is lacking.
Despite digging deep and pulling out all the enthusiasm I can muster, as soon as it’s halftime and we’ve received all the
instruction we’re going to get, Jake plops down next to me on the bench and elbows my ribs.
Pads keep me from feeling much, but it gets my attention. “What?”
He takes a bottle from a passing ball boy and squirts water on his head before looking me over. “You’ve been playing better than you ever have.”
He’s right. I’m the best I’ve ever been. Each time I go out on the field, I become a machine, playing as if I have something
to prove. The sad truth is, I am trying to prove something. Not to myself. It’s for her. Always for her.
But in the twisted way of things, with every win, I feel worse, the distance between Chess and I bigger. Because what the
fuck am I really proving here? That she and North were right? That she was just a distraction? That I don’t need her?
I do. I fucking do.