Page 49 of How We Play the Game
“Because I take you seriously. I take what you want seriously. I always have.”
He’s got a point there. Ivan may have gone about it in the most boneheaded way possible, but the day he met me, he only interfered because he thought he was helping me get what I wanted. The back of my neck suddenly feels warmer than it should in the shadow of the castle.
“Thank you for doing that,” I mutter.
Based on the way Ivan is gazing dreamily at the sunset, it’s unclear whether he heard my response. I can’t help but linger on the look of him like this, bathed in fading sunshine. I’m able to shift my attention to a very intriguing rock beside my foot when he whips around suddenly, an overeager smile on his face that just screams trouble.
“Let’s take something to post on WiTch,” he suggests, already pulling his phone out of his pocket. In a blink, the dreamy moment is gone and I remember what we’re doing here in the first place. Getting to know each other outside the game so we can pretend to be into each other later. For an audience. To beat an algorithm. Now is actually the perfect time to post something on WiTch.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, resigning myself to striking some poses and grimacing for another camera.
“Let’s do a few selfies. Extra cute, extra gross?” he responds with a raised brow.
I bite my lip as I run my hands along my smooth, bare arms. “I’m not in my Kavi-and-Trieu-approved Zora Face,” I explain, tossing my arms into the air and letting them fall limply back at my sides.
Another key aspect of social media: you only ever post when you look your best. And from what I saw in the reflection of the subway door a few minutes ago, the humidity hasn’t been especially kind to me.
“You still look great,” Ivan says so easily, even though it knocks me back like a shove. I’m able to keep my ground, but just barely. Since when does Ivan Hunt—and not the Ivan Hunt who’s actively pretending to date me—think I look great?
“But—”
“You look like you,” he adds before I can protest that my hair is not a fan of the moisture level in the air. “It’s perfect.”
I’m not sure if he means that me in all my messy hair and makeup-free glory is perfect, or if the façade is. That we can still be the happy, beautiful, adoring couple even when I’m not wearing enough makeup to make me feel like I have a second skin on. But my heart doesn’t care about the difference. It kicks into hyper speed, beating so fast and loud I’m sure everyone within a five-mile radius can probably hear it.
Before I can decipher the who, what, and how of my heart palpitations, Ivan’s hand is in mine, tugging me toward the edge of the castle. The world is a blur as we weave through crowds of sweaty tourists until we reach a free patch of grass right in front of the rockface along the side of the castle. The perfect angle that when Ivan holds up his phone, we can capture both the castle and the lake at the base of it in frame.
“Try to not look like hanging out with me gives you chest pains,” he says as he quickly fluffs his hair.
I hear the click of a camera shutter seconds after I laugh, my cheeks flushing as I whip around to look at the camera. “I wasn’t ready yet!” I protest, attempting to fix my hair as quickly as possible.
Ivan pockets his phone and makes a little rectangle out of his fingers and peers through it to frame the landscape around the castle. “Now let’s do a video, wait—I got this. Let’s tell a little story. It’s going to be awesome. Can you walk toward the castle’s stairs?”
I used to think Ivan was arrogant, but when he says something will be awesome, he can craft an entire universe out of words and smiles and pointed little gestures to make sure it’s actually awesome.
“Okay, Richard Avedon. Relax. What’s the story we’re telling right now?”
It’s only now that I notice Ivan hasn’t followed me up to the castle. I’ve crossed a footpath and am two steps up, but when I turn around, he has his phone out and is filming me walking from behind.
“Ivan!” I call to him. “Warn me!”
“No!” he says with a very un-Ivan giggle and slowly moves across the path to keep his camera shot smooth. I don’t know what’s got him so giddy. Maybe this is what he’s like when he’s got some endorphins in him after performing light cardio. Maybe Veselka’s pierogies induce mania in those unused to their doughy perfection. Or maybe he’s … no, is he really having fun? Am I having fun? The thought stops me in mytracks and I make a confused enough face for Ivan to lower the phone and stop taking video.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I’m potentially fine. I’m fine.
“That was pretty good up until the end. We can cut that part out, though. Here, look.”
He shows me his phone—ugh, his screen is cracked; that always gives me agita—and taps the video he just took. From where Ivan was standing, the sunset over the park makes my whole right side glow, and I looked half-golden when I turned around and spotted him filming. Even without the emphasis of Trieu’s makeup, I can tell my lips aren’t in the annoyed, angry purse I thought I remembered making.“Ivan! Warn me!”I say in the video, but it sounds different this time. I don’t recall laughing when I said it a few moments ago, or my laugh being what made Ivan break into a corny snicker behind the camera. But that’s what I’m seeing on-screen.
“Oh, favorite part. Right here,” Ivan says. The camera moves closer to me, still a bit shaky despite his attempts at being a human Steadicam, and the closer angle makes a lens flare halo around my head. The fuzzy curls in my four-day-old twist-out catch the light in shimmery C-shapes that dance when I shake my head as Ivan gets closer. And here comes the part we’re definitely cutting out. The quick change from my huge, sunlit smile to an immediate frown would be comical if I didn’t remember what I was thinking when it happened.
“That looks … ,” I trail off. I look amazing. Ivan wasn’t kidding.
“Good enough to post,” Ivan replies smugly. He can be smug about that one; he deserves it. “Even on our day off.”
Well, no. That doesn’t make any sense.
