Mr. North

by Callie Hart

  I look down at the board. I’ve completely lost where I am now. I scan the pieces, figuring out where he moved last. I move my bishop to c5 right next to his. I’m thoroughly perplexed right now; the way Raphael is speaking is very to the point. Brusque, even. I’ve never met someone so combative before, and to be like this five seconds after we meet? I don’t know what I’ve done to offend this guy, but I’m beginning to think this was all a horrible idea.

  “I’m sorry, I seem to be a little confused. Did you want someone to come here to play chess with you, or did you want someone to come here so you could insult them? For the record, I did think this was a risky thing to be doing. I said as much to Thalia, at least three times. I even turned down the job twice. And then…”

  He presses the knuckle of his index finger into the table, hard. It’s a subtle action; I wouldn’t see if it if I was trying to stay a step ahead of him in the game. He presses so hard, his skin blanches white. “And then your friend said my name, and you changed your mind.”

  Fuck. That is what happened. Raphael clenches his jaw, lowering his gaze. His knuckle is red now as he picks up another of his pawns and moves it to c3. “It’s okay, Ms. Dreymon. I know I’m a source of fascination to a lot of people. I’d be surprised if you weren’t curious.” He pauses. And then, “Am I not allowed to be curious about you in return?”

  I castle my king.

  “Nice ,” Raphael concedes.

  “You aren’t being curious. You’re being rude.”

  “Hmm.” He’s doing that thing again, looking at me like I’m a new species of animal, never seen before. “I’m gonna think about that,” he says. I sit very still, trying to understand what the hell is going on right now and why he’s acting so strange. It’s as though he hasn’t had a normal, regular conversation in a very long time. With business meetings, trips overseas, rushing about from one conference to the next, I’m sure the majority of his time is spent discussing business matters and not much else. Even studying law, I often find myself realizing that that all I do is discuss landmark cases from the eighties and nineties, arguing about legislation and government regulations. When the time comes to have a fun, light conversation with someone outside my law circle, there are times when I can’t quite think of anything to say.

  That’s not what this is, though. This is something else entirely. It’s as if Raphael has forgotten all of his social skills. Surely that can’t be the case. It wasn’t that long ago that he was out wining and dining with New York’s most popular social influencers, staying out until three am on the weekends, getting caught making out down alleyways with beautiful, unobtainable actresses.

  We shuttle through another two rounds of fast moves, neither of us saying anything. Chess games can last for hours, days sometimes. There are speed rounds too, of course, held against the clock. We seem to be oscillating between rash, quick decisions and labored, drawn out plays that take longer than they should. After about fifteen minutes, Raphael takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair. “You’re right,” he says. “I was being rude. I’m sorry.”

  Wow.

  Of all the things I thought he was going to say, I’m sorry isn’t one of them. He doesn’t strike me as the type to apologize. For anything. Ever. I don’t know this man, though. Despite all of the speculation and drama online, I have no real knowledge of him. It may seem like there’s a mile high, flawlessly smooth, impenetrable wall erected between us right now, but in truth he could be as open and welcoming as Thalia. I might just need to get to know him.

  “No problem. I’m nervous. I might have overreacted a little,” I say.

  “Can we start over?”

  For a second I think he’s talking about the game. “Neither of us has taken anything yet. Neither of us has lost anything. It’d be a waste to start from scratch.” The corners of his mouth twitch, almost turning into a smile. Almost, but not quite. I realize my mistake, then. “Oh, you mean…yes, of course. I’m sorry. You can ask me anything.”

  He nods, just a very small dip of his head. “Are you an only child?”

  “No, I have a brother, David. He’s a year older than me. He lives in New York, too.”

  “But you’re not from here?”

  “No, Kansas originally.”

  “So you’re a Midwestern girl, then. Charming. Your family are farmers? Were you surrounded by fields of wheat as a child?”

  “That’s quite the stereotype there.”

  “So what then?” He castles his own king to d5. “What do your parents do?”

  “Sunflowers.”

  “Sunflowers?”

  “Yes. They grew them commercially. Sold them wholesale to florists and event planners. Things like that.”

  “On a farm?”

  “Yes.

  “So your family are farmers. You grew up in fields of flowers instead of grain. That must be why you have such a sunny disposition.” He’s straight-faced. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or he’s teasing me. His words certainly aren’t truthful. I’ve been tense and edgy since I arrived. I sure as hell am not in possession of a sunny disposition.

  We each take another turn. Still, we’re just skirting around the board, testing each other, looking for any signs of weakness in each other’s defenses. Then, he takes my pawn with his knight.

  “You have a boyfriend?” he asks.

  I take his pawn with mine. “No.”

  He watches me place his pawn next to the right hand side of my board, his gaze lingering on the piece I just took for a second. Then he takes a deep breath. “Why not?”

  “My studies haven’t left me much time for a relationship. I work part time as well.”

  “So you’re too busy for love.”

  “I’m sorry? That’s a really strange way of putting it.”

  He shrugs. Looks to his right, out of the window, over the city, his eyes seemingly unfocused. “But true. You’ve prioritized the foundations of your career and your ability to care for yourself over romantic connections.”

  “I suppose so, then.”

  “You don’t want children,” he says. Not a question. A fact.

  There are people I’ve known for years who have never asked me these questions. It’s confronting that Raphael is asking me them now. They trip off the end of his tongue like he has every right to know the answers. I find myself responding without giving it a second thought, despite my discomfort. “I haven’t even thought about it.”

  He looks at me, hands resting on his legs, index finger tapping absentmindedly against the outside of his knee. “That’s not true,” he says, shaking his head a little. “I’m betting you’ve thought about it a lot. I’m betting you feel bad about wanting a career more than you want a family. Sons join the military, like their fathers. They take over the family business. They become doctors like the men who came before them. Women aren’t meant to just be mothers and homemakers anymore, Ms. Dreymon. You don’t have to feel bad about the choices generations of women have made in the past. They weren’t choices, after all. They were the only avenues open to them at the time.”

  A fierce prickling sensation travels over my skin; it starts on my scalp and travels down over my cheeks, around the back of my neck, behind my ears, down my spine, over my shoulder blades. It feels like individual pinpricks of fire singeing my nerve endings. I grind my teeth together, my nostrils flaring.

  “Why are you angry?” he asks.

  “I’m not.”

  “The look in your eyes says otherwise. Am I totally wrong? Do you want children?”

  I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’s right. Not only right, but precisely on the money. Over the years, I’ve seen high school friends online get married, buy houses and start families. I’ve watched their lives evolve into something completely unrecognizable from my own and I haven’t observed this evolution with jealousy. I’ve witnessed it with fear. Fear that it might happen to me, too, before I’ve accomplished all of my goals, be
fore I’ve realized my dreams, before I’ve had chance to travel the world, see new countries, experience new cultures. I’ve feared it, because the people in the pictures on Facebook have all looked so deliriously happy. Content with their lot. The things they held dear, the goals they strived toward so hard and for so long, are now secondary to something else—to the men and women they love, to their children and their dogs. I do not know who I am without my goals. If I abandon them, I abandon the very root and core of myself.

  Raphael sighs down his nose. Takes my pawn with his second knight. I take his knight, and so it begins. We go to war. The board is our battlefield, and we are both wrestling for supremacy. No more feeling each other out. No more dancing around, waiting for the other to strike. Both queens come out. My bishop. I take his knight. His queen takes my bishop. My queen then takes his queen. This is a ruthless, bloody game, and neither one of us backs down. Rook takes rook. Raphael guards his king fiercely, as do I.

  “How old were you when you lost your virginity?” he asks casually.

  “What ?”

  “I’m guessing you were young. And that you immediately regretted it.”

  “Why the hell are you trying to psychoanalyze me?”

  “I’m just figuring out who you are, Ms. Dreymon.” He sounds so reasonable, not defensive at all, which makes me feel like I’m flying off the handle. I’m not, though. People don’t just ask strangers when they lost their virginity. It’s not polite. It’s really fucking rude .

  “How does knowing when I lost my virginity help you figure out who I am?”

  “It’s the small, unexpected details that often give me the most insight into a person,” he replies.

  “When I lost my virginity is not a small detail to me. It’s private. Personal.”

  “I lost my virginity when I was sixteen to a girl in a graveyard. She was five years older than me. I lasted about three seconds before I lost it and came. She was seriously unimpressed.” He cracks his thumb knuckle, looking me dead in the eye. “See? It’s that easy. You could have just said, I didn’t lose my virginity until I was twenty-one. Or fifteen. Or twenty-eight. You could have said the brutal rape my mother suffered through when I was a small child made me wary of forming physical connections with people. You could have said—”

  My cheeks start to burn. What. The. Fuck. Did. He. Just. Say? He’s still talking, I can see his lips moving, but all I can hear are those words playing on repeat. He knows about my mother’s attack? How ? My father never even knew about what happened that day. My brother. Mom made me promise I would never tell a soul, and I kept that promise. So…how the fuck does Raphael North know about it? My eyes must have glazed over. Raphael’s stopped talking, and he’s gone back to cracking his knuckles.

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps that was tactless of me,” he says.

  “Tactless? Bringing up my mother’s rape during our very first conversation was tactless ? God, I can’t fucking…” I shake my head, about to get up out of my chair. Raphael holds out a hand, leaning forward in his chair, though.

  “I haven’t had a proper conversation with a normal human being in a very long time, Elizabeth. I’m afraid my social skills leave a lot to be desired. I’m very sorry if I’ve offended you. Just…don’t get angry. Please.”

  This guy…this guy is something else altogether. I’m boiling mad, but I don’t want him to see that. I slam his pawn I’ve just taken down next to all the other pieces I’ve claimed. Six thousand dollars, Beth. Six thousand dollars. I keep the number in my mind, focusing on everything I’ll be losing if I walk out of the apartment now. Grinding my teeth together, I say, “Okay. How about this? I won’t completely lose my temper and storm out of here, but I’m going to take a leaf out of your book and tell you that what happened to my mother is none of your fucking business . I don’t know how you even found out about that, and I don’t want to know. I never want to speak with you about it again.”

  Raphael sits back in his chair, very still for a moment. His body is relaxed, though, at ease. His breathing is steady and even, unlike mine. I’m holding my breath.

  A long, terrible minute stretches out before us. A rhythmic thumping, pounding sound breaks the silence. Raphael turns to watch as a helicopter rises beside the building, maybe only a hundred feet away, hovering in place for a second before it peels off to the left, lifting higher into the sky. When he turns back to me, he’s smiling sadly.

  “Fair call, Ms. Dreymon,” he says. “I deserve that. I’ll never bring it up again. You have my word. And congratulations.”

  “What for?”

  “On winning the game.” He nods towards the chessboard. “You have me in check mate in three moves. See?”

  I look down at the remaining pieces, running through the remaining plays, and I see that he’s right. My bishop to his king. I always, always play three or four moves ahead if I can, trying to analyze and anticipate where my opponent is going to go next. This time, however, I’ve been on the back foot, strategizing on the fly. His moves have been unpredictable, his game strong. And, let’s face it, I’ve been pretty damn distracted. Raphael gets to his feet and offers out his hand.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Dreymon. I have some pressing work I must attend to now, though. I trust you can see yourself out?”

  “Yes. I know the way.” I stand and shake his hand, my stomach twisting itself into knots. Damn. This has not gone well. This has not gone well at all.

  Raphael doesn’t speak again. He inclines his head, a deferential gesture completely at odds with how he’s behaved the last forty minutes, and then he turns and walks away. He exits through a door at the other end of the room, and the silence he leaves behind is deafening.

  It’s a straight shoot back down the hallway to the anteroom. When I leave through the glass door, Nate is already standing there, waiting for me. “You haven’t been crying,” he says with a grin. “That’s impressive.”

  Crying ? What the hell? How many other women has he had come here to play chess with him? And how many of them have fled his penthouse in floods of tears? “I’m not that easy to intimidate. I don’t make a habit of allowing assholes to get under my skin.”

  Nate’s head rocks back, and he roars with laughter. “Perfect,” he says between gasped breaths. “You’re just…that’s fucking perfect. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

  He opens a small closest inside the actual elevator and gives me back my shoes. On the way home, Nate chats to me about the weather, about sports, about his past. He talks to me about everything I was warned not to discuss with Raphael North. My mind is only half on the conversation. As we pass through the familiar streets of New York, I wonder just what Raphael North really wanted when he answered that ad on Craigslist. Yes, we were playing a game from the moment our eyes met through that door in his apartment, but it wasn’t fucking chess. And the thing that vexes me the most about that? The thing that has my fists clenching by my sides the entire ride home?

  I can’t for the life of me tell who really won.

  Four

  Beth

  “S o ? How did it go? What was his place like? Was he handsome and charming? Tell me everything. I have to know.” For such a smart, empowered, independent woman, Thalia sure does like to act like a gossiping teenager from time to time. It’s nine P.M. I silenced my phone and have been avoiding looking at the screen for the past four hours, but I just knew she’d end up at my building, hammering down my door if I didn’t tell her what happened and soon. So I checked, and sure enough I had five missed calls from her.

  “There’s not much to tell,” I say. “We played our game. Yes, he was handsome. His place was insane. He was a little…cold.”

  “Cold? What do you mean, cold?”

  I mean his attitude was positively glacial. I don’t say that to Thalia, though. I don’t want her to worry. Instead, I say, “Like…odd . He asked me a bunch of really personal questions.”

  “And?”

  “And I don
’t think he liked that I didn’t bend over backwards to give him the answers he wanted.”

  “Oh, boy. Please tell me you at least let him win the game?”

  I’m quiet for a moment, and then I say, “I didn’t even notice until he pointed out that I was going to win. I was so angry, I figured I was bound to lose. I was all over the place.”

  “Beth! What the hell!”

  “I’m sorry! What do you want me to do, go back in time and spill my deepest darkest secrets to him like a good little girl? It’s too late now. I blew it. At least he’ll pay us for this session. You can keep the money. I don’t mind. I have a couple of interviews tomorrow anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?” Thalia asks. “You can’t go to those job interviews. You don’t have to. Raphael’s assistant emailed and said he wants you to go back on Monday.”

  “What?” I can’t think of anything else to say. He wants me to go back? That makes no sense. I was off kilter and annoyed, and he was pushy and aggressive. The artic chill that was blowing off him ninety percent of the time I was sitting opposite him almost had my teeth chattering.

  “You must have done something right,” Thalia muses. “But next time, try and remember which side your bread is buttered on, girl. This is easy money, and that guy is heavenly to look at. Fucking heavenly . Don’t waste this opportunity, or I will bitch slap you so hard you won’t remember your name for a week.”

  If anyone else were saying this to me, I’d think they were pissed at me for jeopardizing their cut of the money Raphael promised to pay every month. Thalia’s business minded, though. While she never misses an opportunity to make some money, she doesn’t particularly need it. Her parents are loaded. Not quite Raphael North loaded, but still, she came into her inheritance when she was twenty-one. She told me when we were drunk one night that her parents hate that she’s studying law. She said she didn’t have to work another day in her life if she didn’t want to, and that her parents had grand dreams of her becoming a tennis pro. Their dream, though. Not hers. So the two grand she’s taking out of the money from Raphael is peanuts to her. And she knows the other six are vitally important to me.