Page 75 of The Oath We Give

When I was young, my father told me that every self-respecting man needed to know how to play chess. It was while learning that game that I fell in love with computers. He would rattle off moves using algebraic notation. Pawn by Pawn, Knight is taken.

Hacking is one big chess game. It’s why I’m so good at it.

“Not to rush your genius, but you need to be at the courthouse in less than an hour,” Rook says next to me, as if I needed to be reminded of what today is.

Today is my wedding day.

Coraline’s face appears in my mind, fingers slowing down a little on the keys as I recall the feel of her tight, warm body pressed into mine three days ago. My tongue runs across the front of my teeth, the smell of her still lingering in my nose.

Lavender and honey.

Simple ingredients, addictive on her skin.

She’s ignored every signal one of my texts since then, minus today when I sent her the time to be at the courthouse in Ponderosa Springs, which got me a simpleOk.

Not even the full word.

I can’t tell if she’s avoiding me because she hated what happened in the elevator or she liked it, which scares her. Everything about her is an enigma. There is a softness that shows, only to be combated by a regal hardness that echoes across her sharp tongue.

Like her brain feels herself being vulnerable and sends bots to shut it down, choosing to snap at anyone who dares get too close to breaking her walls. I know she feels it, that connection between us.

“Speaking of your fiancée,” Rook says. “What’s up with that?”

I turn toward him a little, arching an eyebrow.

He moves his feet from the desk, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Does she know about your schizophrenia?”

Do you?I want to ask.

This guy has been my best friend for years. He forced me to eat when all I wanted to do was wither away. Stood by me while I was bitter, celebrated when I healed.

There’s never been a moment, good or bad, without Rook Van Doren in it.

Yet, he still doesn’t know me.

Not entirely, not fully, not the way I know him.

“She grew up in the Springs, didn’t she?” I retort.

Rook grew up in a violent home with a father who instilled in him that anguish would be his way of repenting. Every day, even when I don’t see him physically, I know he struggles to not chase the high of pain. It’s RVD’s favorite drug.

The bite, the sting, the rush of suffering.

It festers in him like a bad habit, and he’s fighting through recovery.

We used to race each other through the woods around the Peak when we were kids. I’ve been beside him while we ran from the police. I know he’s terrified of losing the good things he has in his life.

Sage. The boys.

Smiling to hide his darkest secret of all. That sometimes, he’s not happy. Sometimes, the nightmares of his past still creep into bed with him and hold him hostage.

“I just want to make sure she knows about your meds. That way, you don’t—”

“I don’t need a fucking caretaker, Rook.” My voice is harsh, cold, and cutting. The sad thing is I’m not even mad at him.

I’m frustrated at the situation.

I don’t blame him for his hovering. I know he’s only afraid of losing me after everything we went through, but it also makes him impossible to talk to.

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