Page 9 of Chess Not Checkers
“Sorry, I was trying to think of the best way to answer,” he says.
I frown. “I thought it was a pretty simple question.”
“Yeah, you’re right. It is.” He lifts his hat up off his head and rakes a large hand through his blond hair. “When we were younger, I started playing because of him, but over time, the love of the game became my own. I don’t play for him. I play for myself.”
His tone is more stilted than his usual smooth one. I analyze my question but can’t come up with a reason why it would have made him upset. I’m probably reading into it too much. It’s not like I know anything about the man except for a few fun facts.
“That makes sense,” I say as I type his answer into my notes.
“What about you?” he asks after a moment. “Did someone inspire you to become a chef?”
My hands freeze on the keys. My throat tightens. I bite the inside of my cheek.Do not cry. You cannot cry in front of Shepherd Kingsley.
It’s not like I haven’t talked about my mom since she and my dad passed, but there are times when it feels more difficult than others. Like when I think about how she would have been so excited for my first year of college. She would have loaded up the car with all sorts of supplies and snuck in our favorite gourmet chocolate bonbons that we ordered from a French chocolatier.She would have called today just like Dahlia did. Made me laugh so that I wasn’t so nervous.
“My mom,” I force myself to say.
I feel Shepherd’s eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. I’m as transparent as a freshly polished drinking glass.
“That’s nice,” he says in a low voice.
My follow-up questions for him stick in my throat.
“I think we got enough to satisfy the professor. We can relax until class is over, if you think that’s a good idea?” he asks.
I nod. The notes I wrote will have to be enough. I don’t know if I could manage to say any more. We settle in a less-than-comfortable silence. I’m grateful for it, even with the odd tension between us. Even if I wanted to, it’s not as though I could open up to Shepherd. It’s hard enough sharing about my grief with the people I love most. No one needs to be saddled with my burdens. We’ve all got our own.
After my classes for the day were over and I’d done my required conditioning exercises for cheer, I headed back to the apartment to decompress. Which is how I found myself wrist deep in a bowl of bread dough. Whenever I need to get out of my head, I get into the kitchen. Today’s therapy of choice is chicken gnocchi soup paired with crusty bread and pumpkin chocolate chip muffins for dessert. Because even though it’s still over eighty degrees outside, I’m pretending it’s fall. Maybe if we turn the temperature down low enough, we can manifest it.
The front door to the apartment opens, and Marigold storms in. Her auburn locks are piled atop her head in a messy bun that has a black pencil sticking out of it, with several strands falling down around her face. Her navy plaid skirt and matching cable-knit sweater are indicative that she’s on board with pretending it’s fall. She huffs and slams her brown leather messenger bag onto the kitchen island. A puff of flour pollutes the air, and I lift a hand away from kneading to fan it away. I cough.
“Sorry,” she mumbles and drags the bag closer to the edge of the counter.
“I take it you didn’t have a great first day?” I ask with a sympathetic smile.
“My day was great until I went to the paper. Then I had to deal withhim,” she growls.
I raise my brows and continue to knead the dough. “Him?”
Her nose scrunches up. “I don’t even want to say his name, but I’ll tell you so if you see him you can know to avoid him at all costs.” She draws in a deep breath. “His name is Jameson Sinclair, but I like to call him The Traitor.”
“That’s an intense moniker,” I comment as I continue kneading the bread. It sticks to my fingers, so I pat on some excess flour.
Since we aren’t super close yet, I don’t want to push too much by prodding Marigold for details. It’s way too early in the semester to cause a rift.
“Yes, well, when the guy steals your dream internship and then follows it up by taking the best story on the first day, it’s well deserved.”
“That’s awful! Did you know him before?”
She sighs and sits on the barstool opposite of where I’m standing. The stove beeps, letting me know the muffins are ready. I place my dough in a bowl lined with a tea towel so it can finish rising, then grab a mitt out of the drawer next to the kitchen. One place I took the reins on organizing was here in the kitchen. While Saylor has color-coding down, I know how a kitchen functions best. Thankfully, the girls all agreed that I could arrange things to my liking.
I pull the muffins out, and the scent of pumpkin and chocolate fills the air.
“Everything in here smells amazing,” Marigold says instead of answering my question. I poke one of the muffins with a toothpick. The pick comes out clean, so I leave the muffins to cool in the pan for a few minutes, after which I’ll place them on a rack.
“It should all be done by the time Saylor gets home at five. Did Aurora say how long she’d be?” I ask as I lift the lid on the gnocchi soup. The fragrance of sweet onion and garlic bathes my senses. I stir the pot to make sure nothing sticks, then place the lid back on.
“She left before me, but I think she mentioned that she spends a lot of hours at the dance studio, so I’m not sure how late she’ll be. Want me to text her?”
