Propped next to Nana and Pops’ 1960’s wedding photo, the folded flag above the fireplace hasn’t moved since it was placed there eighteen years ago.
“My dad,” I say.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was eight. It was a long time ago.”
Pops returns and the questions floating around in that beautiful head of hers get put on hold. My grandfather shuffles over in his plaid pajamas, loafer-style slippers, old-man robe, and older old-man bifocals.
He drops into the chair, motioning for Hannah to do the same.
“Alright, Norm. Let’s see what ya got.” She cracks her knuckles, ready for a battle, then pulls the cuffs of her long sleeves down around her hands.
“You cold?” I ask.
She waves me off as Pops says, “Your move.”
A glint flashes inher eyes.
White pawn E4.
Her shoulders slump deeper into her chair and she folds her arms, body curling inward.Stubborn woman.I grab my gray Army hoodie off the back of the couch and hand it over. She doesn’t put up an argument this time as she slides it on.
Black pawn E5.
White knight F3.
Black knight F6.
White knight takes E5.
Black pawn D6.
White knight takes F7.
My grandfather and I recognize it at the same time. His expression falters when he takes it in. “Cochrane gambit.” The statement is a breath, reverent.
Hannah doesn’t hear him. She’s too proud of her handiwork, sitting there all cool as a cucumber and looking hot as sin in my sweatshirt.
Pops’ mouth tips up. I notice the instant Hannah clocks the barely there grin because she glances at me, eyes delighted.
Black king takes F7.
Despite her aggressive opening, Pops still squeaks out a victory—though it was harder fought than I’d anticipated. Hannah concedes with grace and reaches a hand across the table. She may have lost the game, but in every way that matters to me, she won.
Pops closes himself in the bedroom for the night, leaving Hannah and I alone. Dread presses in—that weight that exists between whatcouldand whatshouldcome next.
I don’t want her to leave.
Her chair scrapes beneath her as she stands up. “Well…” she begins, reaching for her phone. “I should probably?—”
“Wanna sit on the dock with me?” I ask, jolting to my feet. Our bodies are only a breath apart like this. Close enough to count her eyelashes.
She looks up at me, arms lost in the sleeves of my hoodie. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Rowan, but you’ve got a lot going on here with your grandpa, and I don’t wanna intrude more than I already have.”
“I promise you’re not.”
A smirk and an eye roll might as well be calledThe Hannah Special.