Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

“Two half brothers. On my father’s side.”

“How old are they?”

He squints, as if trying to remember a remote piece of information. “Somewhere in their early teens. Maybe younger.”

“You’re not sure?”

He shrugs. “I never see them.”

Mom’s brow furrows. “You must spend most holidays with your mother.”

He lets out a hushed laugh. Or maybe it’s a scoff. “I haven’t seen either of my parents in years. Usually a friend invites me over.”

“Why don’t you see your parents?” Darcy asks.

“A . . . difference of opinions. Over my career.”

“They don’t like the senior center?”

Nolan bites back a smile and nods solemnly.

“That’s kinda sad,” Darcy says. “I see my family every day of every week of every year.”

“That’s also kinda sad,” Sabrina mumbles. “Wouldn’t mind some space.”

Darcy shrugs. “I like it, that we’re always together. And we tell each other everything.”

The pointed look Nolan gives me makes me want to kick him in the gonads, but my leg is still stuck between his, so I consider drowning myself in the gravy. A slow, nutritious, tasty death.

I’m not sure how it happens, or what atrocious deeds I committed in past lives to deserve this indignity, but after dinner Nolan gets talked into staying “just a little bit longer! Pleeeeease!” and watching TV with my sisters.

“Do you like Riverdale?” Sabrina asks eagerly. She and Darcy flank him on the couch, and Goliath is in his lap. (“What a strangely familiar beast,” Nolan said when she deposited him in his hands. “I wonder if I’ve recently seen a portrait of him.” I nearly forked him in the eye.) Mom leans against the doorframe, taking in the scene with a level of enjoyment that I vastly resent. I’ve been sent to fetch ice cream sandwiches, then sent back when I brought the chocolate kind instead of strawberry.

“I’ve never seen Riverdale.”

“Oh my God. Okay, so, that’s Archie and he’s, like, the main character, but everyone likes Jughead better because hello, Cole Sprouse, and there’s this murder that . . .”

“He’s cute,” Mom whispers while I’m loading the dishwasher.

“Cole Sprouse?”

“Nolan.”

I huff. It doesn’t come out as indignant as I’d like. “No, he’s not.”

“And he seems to have great taste.”

“Because he ate a stomach-pumping amount of your meat loaf?”

“Mostly that. Only secondarily because he doesn’t seem to be able to look away from my most oblivious daughter.”

I’m 93 percent sure that he’s about to place a napalm bomb in our basement, I don’t tell her. Or maybe he wants to rob us. He’ll abscond with the family nickel jar the second we’re distracted. And with what’s left of the meat loaf.

I still have no idea why he’s here. He’s asking my sisters “Which one of the characters is Riverdale?” with his soothing NPR voice, making them giggle and slap his forearms, and I want him gone from my house. Stat.

And yet it’s over one hour before Mom reminds Darcy that she needs to finish her English homework, and Sabrina locks herself in her room to video- chat with derby friends about how Emmalee should be jammer and what’s wrong with Coach these days, anyway?

“I’m going to bed,” Mom says, a tad too pointedly. I look outside the window: the sun’s not done setting.

“Nolan’s leaving, too.”

“He doesn’t have to.” She gives him a brilliant smile and walks away, leaning on her cane.

“Yes, he does,” I yell after her.

Eavesdropping is not something I’d put past my family, so when Nolan follows me outside, I walk all the way to the apricot tree. This time of the year, it’s little more than a handful of leaves on scrawny branches— as any other time.

Hands on my hips, I turn around to face him. At dusk he’s even more imposing than usual, the angles and curves of his face clashing dramatically against each other.

Honestly, it doesn’t make sense. I shouldn’t find him this handsome, because he simply isn’t. His nose is too large. His jaw too defined. Lips too full, eyes set too deep, those cheekbones too . . . too something. I shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

“Now that you’ve eaten approximately twelve pigs with my mom’s meat loaf as a vehicle, do you mind telling me why you’re here?”

“Pretty sure it was ground beef.” He reaches for one of the tallest branches. Easily. “Does your family think we’re dating?” He doesn’t look upset. More in the ballpark of proud.

“Who knows.” Probably. “Is it a problem?”

I want him to say yes, and then throw in his face that it’s his fault for showing up unannounced. He thwarts my move. “Who doesn’t love a good fake dating scheme.”

I arch my eyebrow. “I’m surprised you’re familiar with the concept.”

“A friend is a huge Lara Jean fan. I sat through, like, six of her movies.”

He means his girlfriend. “There are only three.”

“Felt like more.”