Check & Mate by Ali Hazelwood

Sounds healthy, huh?

This late at night, at least, the place is as blessedly quiet as when we first got here. I walk past the reception counter, and one of the concierges waves at me.

“Your roommate is arrived,” she informs me. “From United States.”

I halt. “Excuse me?”

“Your friend arrived.” She points at the elevator. There might be a bit of a language barrier here.

“I . . . What? Where?”

She smiles. “Your room.”

My heart pounds as I sprint up the stairs. Is there really someone else in my room? Only one person could have arrived tonight from the United States.

But he’s not

He wouldn’t

We haven’t even talked in

I said some things that I really regret, and he probably

I look down at my trembling hand, feeling like my DNA helices are unwinding. I grab the handle and open the door, just to get it over with before an aneurysm annihilates my brain.

There is someone sprawled on my freshly made bed.

My heart stops.

Then restarts, a mix of relief and something else.

Then derails again.

“Mal, this room is a vibe,” a voice tells me from the bed. “You’re really coming up in life, bitch. And all because I pushed you to embrace the important cause of gluten sensitivity.”

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Open them again.

And whimper, more than ask:

“Easton?”





Her hair has grown a lot since August, well past her shoulders. It looks darker and glossier than back in the summer, after the sun bleached her tips and the seawater frizzed them. Perhaps it should surprise me, but it doesn’t.

Thank you, Instagram stalking.

“Why . . . What are you doing here?”

She rolls on the bed, then props herself up on her elbows. “Sabrina texted me.”

“Sabrina?”

She nods. “Yea tall? Blond? Pubescent? Aggressively sullen?”

“I know who Sabrina— ” I shake my head. “She texted you?”

“I made the mistake of giving her my number before leaving New Jersey. During the week of all those rides? I blame you for it.”

“You’ve been corresponding with my fifteen- year- old sister?”

“No. I’ve been leaving your fifteen- year- old sister on read when she sent TikToks of people dancing, about which I care nothing, or TikToks about roller derby, about which I care, astonishingly, even less. But a couple of weeks ago she texted me about you. So I replied.”

I’m slowly recovering from the near stroke. Easton is here. On my side of the bed, without even taking off her shoes. We haven’t talked in ages. Millennia.

It’s possible that I’m annoyed.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Shouldn’t you be in Colorado?”

“Shouldn’t, shmouldn’t.”

My eyes narrow. Maybe annoyed is not the right word. “I’m surprised you were able to pry yourself away from college, since you love it so much.” I sound so acid, I nearly wince.

Her head tilts. “I don’t remember ever saying anything like that.”

“You didn’t need to say it.”

“You read my mind?”

“I read your Instagram.”

“Ah, yes.” She nods sagely. “I do bare my heart and confess my deepest pains to Instagram.”

I lower my eyes, feeling like an idiot of the pettiest kind.

“I mean,” she adds with a shrug, “I do see where you’re coming from. It’s not like I didn’t think the exact same.”

“Really?” I lift my eyebrow back to sour. “I haven’t updated my Instagram since I saw that giant leopard moth three years ago.”

“You haven’t. But one doesn’t need social media to keep up on the whereabouts of the great Mallory Greenleaf. Not when Jezebel has an entire article about your wardrobe.”

“No, they don’t.” I exhale. Shit. “Do they?”

“They have, like, four. Anyway.” She rolls some more and sits on the edge of the mattress. “There’s something exquisitely humbling about finding out that your best friend of many years is dating someone, for the first time, and didn’t bother telling you— ”

“I’m not dating— ”

“— or that she neglected to mention that she won the Philly Open, that she was selected for the Challengers, that she is now buddies with the best player in the world, that she is going to be his opponent for the World Championship— should I go on?”

I don’t answer. I just look at her as she stands and steps in front of me. A dozen little puzzle pieces are working overtime to click together inside my head.

“You know . . .” She scratches her temple. Her brown eyes are serious and beautiful. “When you started texting less and less, I thought you were over me. You had this super- cool fellowship, an objectively hot boyfriend, prize money, and you are— Jesus, Mal, you’re famous, it’s so weird. And I figured I was just being . . . phased out. I was being outgrown.”

“I— ”

“But then.” She lifts her finger. “Then Sabrina texted me about how much of a miserable mope you’ve been, and I remembered something very important.”