Page 44 of The Hot Shot

“They came out well, I think.” Chess is babbling now. “Meghan wants to use Dexter’s photo for December.”

“You gonna put a Santa hat on him?” I quip.

Her body jerks, and instantly, I feel like a shit. But she doesn’t reply. A woman bumps into her, and they start chatting. I’m left to my beer and the curious stares of people circulating the room.

I’m starving. Smoke stings my eyes and fills my mouth. My feet hurt from standing, and I’m starting to feel like an old man because all I want to do is sit down where it’s quiet and comfortable. When yet another person bumps into me, giving me a double take, I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.

“Use the one upstairs, darling,” a pretty, older woman tellsme when I discover the downstairs one is occupied. “Malcolm won’t mind.”

I find the bathroom with ease, but I don’t really need to use it. It had been an excuse to get away.

At the end of the hall, a set of French doors leads out to the upstairs gallery—a wide porch that runs the width of the back of the house. I step outside, closing the door behind me, and draw in a deep breath. Light from two wall sconces illuminate the space. It’s quiet here, the sounds of the party dim. I take a seat on a wooden porch swing and let it slowly rock.

I shouldn’t be up here. I should find Chess and...go? Stick it out? I don’t know if I’m just feeling off tonight or if I imagined things about her that were never there.

The door opens, and I stiffen. But it’s Chess. It isn’t a fluke, the way my pulse kicks up whenever I see her, because it does it again. All my senses attune themselves to her as if she’s my true north.

“There you are,” she says, stepping onto the gallery. “I was wondering if you’d run away screaming.”

Almost did.

I stand. “Just getting some fresh air.”

“I don’t blame you. Sometimes I forget how much people smoke at these things.” Chess comes close, and I see that she’s holding a plate covered with a napkin. “Makes my throat hurt.”

Her skirt rustles and froths as she sits on the swing. “Here,” she says, handing me the plate. “I brought you some food.”

Surprise makes my movements shaky as I take it from her. “You didn’t have to do that.”

But I am so fucking grateful she did, I’ll eat every damn bite, no matter what it is.

“Of course I did,” she says as I lift the napkin. “I dragged you out here. I’m not going to let you starve.” She leans in. “It’s a sandwich.”

“I see that.” Actually, it’s several sections of what looks tobe a muffuletta. I eat one section in two bites. Yep, definitely a muffuletta.

A small groan of appreciation escapes me.

Chess smiles. “Oh, wait.” She stands, and plunges her hands into the folds of her wide skirt, which obviously has hidden pockets because she pulls out a can of soda and something wrapped in another napkin. “A Coke, and a brownie for dessert,” she says proudly.

I nearly propose right there.

She sits quietly as I eat, and shakes her head when I offer her a sandwich section. Because I’m hungry, and because I don’t like the idea of her having to wait for me to eat, I wolf down my food. The brownie follows with a few, quick bites. I wash it down with the Coke.

Wiping my hands on a napkin, I set the plate and empty can on a side table, and then let out a contented sigh. “Thanks. I needed that.”

Her smile is small and quick. “I should have fed you as soon as you got here.”

“I’m good now.”

Chess braces her hands on the seat and leans forward to watch her feet as we slowly rock the swing. Silence descends, thick and awkward, and for the first time in her presence, I’m at a loss for words.

I don’t know this girl. Not really, and yet I’ve inserted myself into her life with a determination I usually reserve for winning games. Except I have no endgame here. I told her I want to be friends, but how does that work for us?

Our friends and lives couldn’t be any more different. Parties for me are self-congratulatory events, filled with people whose sole focus seems to be bolstering my ego, followed by me searching for a quick hookup. My friends are all part of football in some way. We talk football or sports. It’s a narrow focus life, but it’s my comfort zone. That chafes too, knowing I live a lifethat seems wild and free to outsiders but is small and structured on the inside.

The silence has stretched too long. I should go, but I don’t move. If I go, I know it will be the end of whatever this is. Embarrassment will have me avoiding seeking her out again. Likely, she’ll do the same and that will be that.

The knowledge sits like a stone on my chest.