Page 8 of Mr. North
Fuck. That is what happened. Raphael clenches his jaw, lowering his gaze. His knuckle is red now as he picks up another of his pawns and moves it to c3. “It’s okay, Ms. Dreymon. I know I’m a source of fascination to a lot of people. I’d be surprised if you weren’t curious.” He pauses. And then, “Am I not allowed to be curious about you in return?”
I castle my king.
“Nice ,” Raphael concedes.
“You aren’t being curious. You’re being rude.”
“Hmm.” He’s doing that thing again, looking at me like I’m a new species of animal, never seen before. “I’m gonna think about that,” he says. I sit very still, trying to understand what the hell is going on right now and why he’s acting so strange. It’s as though he hasn’t had a normal, regular conversation in a very long time. With business meetings, trips overseas, rushing about from one conference to the next, I’m sure the majority of his time is spent discussing business matters and not much else. Even studying law, I often find myself realizing that that all I do is discuss landmark cases from the eighties and nineties, arguing about legislation and government regulations. When the time comes to have a fun, light conversation with someone outside my law circle, there are times when I can’t quite think of anything to say.
That’s not what this is, though. This is something else entirely. It’s as if Raphael has forgotten all of his social skills. Surely that can’t be the case. It wasn’t that long ago that he was out wining and dining with New York’s most popular social influencers, staying out until three am on the weekends, getting caught making out down alleyways with beautiful, unobtainable actresses.
We shuttle through another two rounds of fast moves, neither of us saying anything. Chess games can last for hours, days sometimes. There are speed rounds too, of course, held against the clock. We seem to be oscillating between rash, quick decisions and labored, drawn out plays that take longer than they should. After about fifteen minutes, Raphael takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair. “You’re right,” he says. “I was being rude. I’m sorry.”
Wow.
Of all the things I thought he was going to say, I’m sorry isn’t one of them. He doesn’t strike me as the type to apologize. For anything. Ever. I don’t know this man, though. Despite all of the speculation and drama online, I have no real knowledge of him. It may seem like there’s a mile high, flawlessly smooth, impenetrable wall erected between us right now, but in truth he could be as open and welcoming as Thalia. I might just need to get to know him.
“No problem. I’m nervous. I might have overreacted a little,” I say.
“Can we start over?”
For a second I think he’s talking about the game. “Neither of us has taken anything yet. Neither of us has lost anything. It’d be a waste to start from scratch.” The corners of his mouth twitch, almost turning into a smile. Almost, but not quite. I realize my mistake, then. “Oh, you mean…yes, of course. I’m sorry. You can ask me anything.”
He nods, just a very small dip of his head. “Are you an only child?”
“No, I have a brother, David. He’s a year older than me. He lives in New York, too.”
“But you’re not from here?”
“No, Kansas originally.”
“So you’re a Midwestern girl, then. Charming. Your family are farmers? Were you surrounded by fields of wheat as a child?”
“That’s quite the stereotype there.”
“So what then?” He castles his own king to d5. “What do your parents do?”
“Sunflowers.”
“Sunflowers?”
“Yes. They grew them commercially. Sold them wholesale to florists and event planners. Things like that.”
“On a farm?”
“Yes.
“So your family are farmers. You grew up in fields of flowers instead of grain. That must be why you have such a sunny disposition.” He’s straight-faced. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or he’s teasing me. His words certainly aren’t truthful. I’ve been tense and edgy since I arrived. I sure as hell am not in possession of a sunny disposition.
We each take another turn. Still, we’re just skirting around the board, testing each other, looking for any signs of weakness in each other’s defenses. Then, he takes my pawn with his knight.
“You have a boyfriend?” he asks.
I take his pawn with mine. “No.”
He watches me place his pawn next to the right hand side of my board, his gaze lingering on the piece I just took for a second. Then he takes a deep breath. “Why not?”
“My studies haven’t left me much time for a relationship. I work part time as well.”
