Page 37 of Chess Not Checkers
“Make sure to leave your shoes by the door. Saylor is a stickler about that, and even though she’s not here, I swear she’ll know,” Jasmine says with a light laugh as she opens her apartment door.
To the right is a series of hooks that Jasmine hangs her keys on before she toes off her sneakers. I follow suit with my shoes, mine looking out of place next to all the women’s shoes.
“I take it she’s a clean freak?” I ask as I follow Jasmine farther inside.
“That’s an understatement. The woman cleans to de-stress, and she’s pre-med.”
My eyes widen. “She must clean a lot.”
Jasmine nods. She walks to a door that has her name in sparkly blue font and opens it. I only get a glimpse inside as she throws her duffel bag in, because she quickly shuts the door behind her.
“Got something to hide, Chamberlain?” I ask with a laugh.
She cringes. “Just a room that makes Saylor’s eyes twitch.”
“I didn’t think you’d be the messy type.”
She heads to the kitchen next, and I follow, taking in the living room on the way. There’s a mound of blankets and pillows on the couch, an oversized coffee table with a stack of textbooks and notecards next to it, and a large painting above the couch of a sun setting over a lake. It’s the kind of place I could see myself relaxing.
An image of me stretched across the couch with Jasmine’s head resting on my chest flashes into my mind. I blink it away, but the heat in my chest remains.
Jasmine pulls a pan out of a cabinet.
“Are we having our first lesson tonight?” I ask as I sit down on one of the island’s barstools.
She shakes her head. “No, I’m too exhausted to teach. I can’t even try to trash-talk about a match. I’m certain I’m going to lose.”
It’s then that I notice the subtle droop of her eyelids.
“So, why the pan? And if you want to crash, I can leave,” I say, though I hope she doesn’t ask me to.
“Never heat up creamy pasta in the microwave. The sauce will probably break and become an oily mess. All leftovers should be heated on the stove.”
Jasmine pulls a glass container filled with green pasta out of the fridge, along with a carton of cream. I watch as she takes the noodles and puts them in the pan, adding a splash of cream before turning on the heat.
“And you don’t have to stay, unless you want to. I don’t think I’ll be the best company. All my energy depleted on the walk here.” She turns around and leans against the counter next to the stove, crossing her arms.
“Did you have a rough practice?” I ask.
“It wasn’t so bad, I guess. I might not be able to get out of bed tomorrow after all the leg raises, but hopefully my jumps will behigher for it.” She rubs her eyes. “I’m sure you have it worse, but this schedule is wrecking me. Between the double major, cheer, and chess club, it feels like I’m being stretched thin in every direction. But I can’t give anything up, you know?”
I nod in understanding. “Yeah. If you give up, it’s like you failed.”
Her hands drop. “Exactly.”
Our eyes meet, understanding deeper than the exhaustion in our bones passing between us. For the first time, I don’t feel so alone.
Jasmine turns to stir the pasta. The aroma of it has my stomach growling.
“When things get rough, I think of why I do it all, and it keeps me going.”
Her shoulders hunch slightly as she stirs. “I’m always thinking of that.” Her quiet confession collides with my heart. “I’m not sure if it helps, or if it makes everything feel heavier.”
“For me, it’s both,” I say softly.
She turns around. The emotion in her expression steals my breath.
“Don’t you ever want to put the weight down?” She whispers her question, as if asking it might be a sin. In our world, it sure feels like one. I may not know her why, but if it’s anything like mine, it feels as inescapable as my next breath.
