Page 66 of Chess Not Checkers
“Really? I mean, with how sad your fridge looked, it doesn’t surprise me that much—” She cuts off with a squeal when I tackle her to the bed and start tickling her.
“Stop!” she says through a fit of giggles, flinging all her limbs at me in a futile attempt to stop me.
“Tell me I’m a great cook,” I say as I tickle her mercilessly.
“I’m not—” she squeals. “A liar.”
I torture her extra for that before finally relenting and falling beside her on the bed. We lie side by side, chests heaving aswe stare at my ceiling. My hand finds hers and I intertwine our fingers. Something clicks as I do. A deep, soul-level feeling that I can’t put words to yet, but I know I never want to let go of this woman’s hand ever again.
“Jasmine?” I turn my head to look at her.
“Hmm?” She turns her head toward me. Her curls are splayed around her, the wildness of their state matching the joy sparkling in her eyes.
“Thank you for fighting for me.”
She smiles, and I feel as though I’m being lit from within. “Always.”
Chapter thirty-three
Passing Notes
Jasmine Chamberlain
“I’m leaving for class!” I yell as I put an apple danish in a Ziploc bag.
After spending a few hours with Shepherd yesterday, I came home and told the girls the whole story while making the sticky, sweet pastries. Since I have a class with him this morning, I figured I could take one and tell him they were leftovers from what I made for the girls. Which is the truth. I definitely did not have his dimpled grin in mind while making them.
Saylor pokes her head out the door, at the exact stage of her routine that she always is at at this time. Hair in rollers, contour on but not blended. The first sign of the apocalypse will be her breaking routine.
“Have a good day! Enjoy class with yourboyfriend,” she sing-songs.
I laugh, my life feeling as sweet as the pastry in my bag. “I will. Hope your day is—”
“Productive,” she inserts.
“Restful,” I counter.
“Balanced?” she compromises.
I nod in agreement, to which she gives me a sparkling smile.
“See you later. Love you!”
“Love you too,” I say as she shuts her door. I’m almost positive she started scheduling in this interaction and I went over my allotted time.
Aurora and Marigold give muffled goodbyes as I make my way to the front door, neither of them chipper enough to move from bed. I fling open the door with a bright smile, ready to take on the day, and freeze in my tracks. There, blocking my way out, is Jameson Sinclair. The Traitor. He widens his eyes as if he’s surprised to see me too. His dark hair is wet, making it look onyx in the mediocre hall lighting. He’s wearing a Thrashers Hockey hoodie—is he on the team?—with dark jeans. There’s a slightly puffy cut above his right eye that makes me think he must be a hockey player.
“Can I help you?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder to see if any of the girls have come out. All clear, I look back at him.
He holds up a worn copy ofEmmaby Jane Austen.
“Goldie left this in the library yesterday. I tried to find her to give it back, but I…couldn’t.”
Because she’s been avoiding him.
“Goldie?” I question, as though I don’t know exactly who he is and who he’s referring to.
“Marigold,” he clarifies in a tone that says he’s onto me.
