by Sky Corgan
I glance down at her, and my eyes instinctively zero in on the miles of cleavage peeking up from the low-cut blouse she's wearing. Holy boobs. I instantly avert my gaze, feeling bad for looking at her so lecherously. If she noticed, she doesn't let on.
“My friend here is driving me home since my car is in the shop,” Peter tells her matter-of-factly.
“Oh? I heard the two of you talking about going out to dinner. I'm hungry, if you'd like extra company, and I promise to be entertaining.” Her face lights up with a smile.
The tortured expression that Peter is making causes me to grin from ear-to-ear. He shakes his head no while Becky isn't looking. Watching him squirm is too fucking good. If he only knew the hell he's put me through because of Willow just for existing. Besides, it will be nice to be the one getting hit on for once.
“Yeah. We were going out to dinner. And sure, you can come,” I tell her.
“Awesome. I'll follow you guys.” Becky hops with excitement.
If looks could kill, Peter would have struck me down the second we both turned away from her for her to follow us out into the parking lot. I can't help but smirk at his misery. This is definitely going to be a fun dinner.
At least, that's what I think until we're actually seated at the restaurant. Within minutes, it quickly becomes apparent that Becky has forgotten about her crush on me entirely. Peter is in her cross-hairs today, and it's like I don't even exist. I guess my plan backfired, I think with a forced smile as I watch her make eyes at him from across the table.
“You're so smart and successful. I want to be like you someday,” Becky tells him dreamily. She's being so blatantly obvious that I want to vomit. Isn't this exactly what she told Willow not to do?
“Oh. Do you have any aspirations?” Peter keeps completely professional.
She nods. “I want to be a famous fashion designer.”
“Really?”
“Most of the outfits I wear to work, I made myself.” Becky glances down at her clothes.
I'm impressed. To be honest, I'd never be able to tell that her outfit wasn't store bought. Her blouse is youthful-looking, a fitted blue top with a large white sailor's collar. The matching blue skirt she's wearing is flared and compliments her tiny figure. She's paired it with white stockings and blue flats. She definitely always looks fashionable, I think, flipping back in my mind to the handful of times I've seen her.
“That's very impressive.” Peter mirrors my thoughts.
“I want to start my own business, but I'm not really sure how. Maybe we can get together sometime, and you can give me some tips.” She bounces slightly in her seat.
As I look between then, I wonder what in the hell is going on. She just made a very bold move. How is he going to react?
“Sure,” he replies, though he seems a bit flustered.
“The two businesses aren't even related,” I chime in, feeling suddenly protective over Willow's claim on him. I know exactly where things will go if he and Becky get together alone. I highly doubt any talk of business will take place.
“I'm sure that any advice Mister Burgett can give me will be helpful,” Becky tells me.
If she's pissed that I'm trying to cockblock her, I can't tell. She plays the sweet and innocent card so well.
I sigh inwardly, thinking about how this dinner has gone completely to shit. Not only do I feel like a third wheel, but by inviting Becky along, I may have started something that's going to fuck up Willow's chances of getting with Peter. At best, she'll be pissed that we all had dinner together. At worst, Peter and Becky will hook up, and Willow will be heartbroken and blame everything on me.
I'm such a fucking idiot sometimes.
I'm never happier than when the awkward dinner is over, and Peter and I part ways from Becky. Even when we say our goodbyes, she's completely focused on him. It's like I'm not even standing there, which pisses me off. What is with this girl? No wonder Willow dislikes her so much. She's a wolf in sheep's clothing. Seemingly innocent, but so damn wicked on the inside.
“Well she was really aggressive,” I comment once we've climbed into my truck and shut the doors.
“Girls like her are used to getting whatever they want.” Peter pulls his seat belt across his chest and clicks it into place.
“What girls like her seem to want changes quickly,” I mutter.
“Are you coming to baseball practice on Thursday?” Peter changes the subject.
“Probably not.” I shove the key into the ignition and start the engine. “I have a client around that time. Willow might show up at practice, though.” I drop her name to see if he reacts. He doesn't. That's not a good sign.
As I drive Peter back to his house, I wonder which type of girl he would prefer in the long-term. Someone bold and assertive, like Becky. Or someone who would change themselves into the perfect partner for him, like Willow.
Lucky bastard has all the girls chasing him, I think with a frown. Not that it really matters, I suppose. I'm not interested in dating anyone right now. Better him than me to have to deal with this girl drama.
On my way home from dropping Peter off, I decide that it's best to disclose the details of our dinner to Willow before she finds out in some other way, probably from Becky. Maybe if I tell her what happened, she'll be less pissed at me and more pissed at Becky. I'll just make sure to omit the part where I was the one who said she could come. In hindsight, Becky did practically invite herself.
Discomfort knots in my stomach as I knock on the door to Willow's apartment. When she opens it, she seems happy to see me, but I know that won't last for long.
“What's up?” she asks.
“Can I come in?” I look past her.
“Sure.” She steps aside, and I head straight for the sofa. “You look sullen. Did something happen?”
“I just got back from having dinner with Becky and Peter,” I launch straight into it.
“With Becky and Peter,” Willow parrots, trying to wrap her head around what I'm saying.
I tell her everything, even reciting the conversation word for word as best I can. I make it abundantly clear what Becky's intentions are and that Peter pretty much agreed to fucking—I mean meeting—her.
Not surprisingly, Willow is all frowns by the time I'm done talking. She drops heavily onto the sofa next to me, looking a mix between shocked and devastated.
“It's over then,” she says softly, her gaze distant.
“What?” I knit my brow.
Willow glances at me, and I can see the pain on her face. “It's over,” she repeats. “How can I possibly compete with that?” The word 'that' sounds like a curse, and I know she's speaking of Becky. “She's younger and prettier and in better shape. It's obvious who he would choose.”
My mood seems to sink with hers, but that's probably because I feel guilty for bringing Becky and Peter together in the first place. I need to cheer Willow up—need to make her believe that all hope isn't lost. I hate seeing her upset like this.
“Those things don't always matter,” I tell her. “Personality is more important in the long-term, and you have that in spades over her.”
“Do you really think so?” She fidgets with her fingers.
“Yes. And besides, with as quickly as she got bored of me, I'm sure that Peter is just the flavor of the week for her. She'll lose interest in him soon enough.” After she fucks him, since he's actually attainable for her.
“I hope so.” Willow sighs. “More than that, though, I hope that nothing happens between them. The thought of Becky putting her hands on him...” She scoffs. “I really don't want her sloppy seconds.”
I snort. “Every man is someone else's sloppy seconds, Willow.”
“This is different because it's her.” She hugs herself, pouting. “Maybe you should date her so that she'll stay away from Peter.”
“Do you really want that?” I quirk an eyebrow, knowing that I won't go for it either way. Watching Becky blatantly hit on Peter in front of me was a huge
turn-off.
“No.” She sulks. “I don't want you to have to be with that cunt either.”
“That cunt, huh?” I laugh.
“What? I swear that bitch is hellbent on making my life a living hell. First, she goes after you knowing that we're friends. Now she's chasing after Peter. I hope she gets hit by a bus.”
“Damn. That's some serious hatred.”
“Fucking bitch.” She shakes her head, still focused on thoughts of Becky.
I'm glad that Willow wouldn't sacrifice my happiness just to get with Peter. It means she cares about me more than she lets on. Maybe we've really become friends after all.
The following day after work, I stop to check my mail. There's a notice from the post office that I've received a package, so I head to the office to pick it up. To my surprise, it's something from my mother. Curious about what's inside, I open it up in the parking lot to reveal an old chess board that used to belong to my grandfather who passed away last year. There's also a note from my mother saying that she sent it to me because she remembered my grandfather and I playing when I was a kid, and she thought I might like to have it.
The sentiment brings warmth to my heart, remembering the time when my grandfather and I sat side by side and he patiently explained to me what all of the different pieces were and what they did. Chess was the first board game that I really got into, and I can recall playing it with my grandfather almost every week when I was in junior high. Of course, by the time I hit high school, my interests had shifted to other things. Visits to my grandparents became less and less frequent, and when I did visit them, I rarely stayed long enough for a game of chess. The board eventually got shoved into a closet and forgotten. I never really regretted it until he passed away. Back then, I had been selfish. Young and stupid and not truly aware that life is a finite thing and it's important to spend as much time with the ones you love while they're still around.
Just looking at the chess board fills me with regret. If I could go back, I would have spent more time playing chess with the old man, listening to the stories about when he was young, and watching the lines on his face as he contemplated his next move. He was always better than I was at the game, but that didn't bother me much. I just liked spending time with him and rejoicing on the rare occasions when I could outfox him, which was maybe one out of every five games.
I carry the chess board up to my apartment, trying to focus on the fond memories instead of my regrets. I'm so lost in thought that I barely notice Willow coming out of her apartment.
“Got a package?” she asks, trying to peek at the contents of the box.
“Well, aren't you nosy?” I turn to her, smirking.
“Just curious is all.” Willow huffs at me. “What's in the box?” She gestures at it, refusing to drop the subject.
“It's a chess board, if you must know.”
“A chess board?” Her face lights up.
I give her a queer look. “Not the reaction I was expecting. Do you know how to play?”
“I love chess.” She takes a few steps forward to unfold one of the flaps of the box to get a better look at the board. When she sees the wooden surface and the hand-carved pieces, her excitement doubles. “Oh, it's so nice.”
“It's old.” I smile fondly at some of the spots on the board where the black paint has chipped away from wear.
“When I was in junior high, I used to be on the chess team. I was actually pretty good. I beat a lot of the better players,” she tells me.
“Not going to the batting cages today?” I nod at her attire. She's wearing a baggy T-shirt and athletic leggings.
“Baseball practice is tomorrow. I figured that I'd give my hands a rest today.”
“So you plan on going?” I shift my weight.
Willow takes a deep breath. “That's the plan. I just hope that I play okay.”
“I'm sure you will. You've practiced quite a bit.”
“The batting cages don't really prepare me for the real game, though. All I know about it is what I've watched on YouTube recently.”
“You'll do fine,” I try to reassure her.
“I certainly hope so.” She doesn't look so convinced.
“Well,” I glance back towards my apartment, tired of holding the box, “if you ever want to play chess, just let me know. I'm a little rusty, so don't expect much.”
“Really?” Excitement takes over her features again. The fact that she's getting so wound up over the invitation is kind of cute.
“Yup.” I make a popping sound with my mouth.
“Do you want to play right now?”
I look her up and down. “I thought you were on your way to the gym.”
“It can wait. I'd rather play chess. It's been so long. And besides, I've worked out enough this week. I can afford to skip today.” She takes the box from me and gazes down into it like the chess board is the most amazing thing she's ever seen.
I'm a little tired, but I can't help but cave. “Alright. But don't start crying when your ass gets handed to you.”
“Oh, you're on.” She glares at me playfully.
About ten minutes later, I'm eating my words. Willow outmaneuvers me so quickly that it makes me feel stupid. Within a handful of moves, I'm doing everything it takes to protect my queen and king. Within a dozen moves, she has me at checkmate.
She beams proudly as she says the word that spells my doom. “Checkmate.”
“Oh, you suck.” I roll my eyes at her, trying not to let my competitive nature shine through.
“Another game?” She suggests.
“Sure.”
This time she destroys me in only seven moves. What in the hell happened to everything I learned from my grandfather?
“You realize you're making me feel like a complete moron.” I give her a serious look.
“You're not a moron.” She shakes her head. “You're just so focused on the offense that you're not even watching your defense.”
We start a third game, and my phone rings. I glance at the caller ID to see Peter's name flashing across it. Thankfully, I have my phone tilted so that Willow can't see the screen. I'm having so much fun with her that I don't want the moment ruined by talk of Peter. The fact that she hasn't mentioned him yet is a blessing in and of itself.
“Are you going to answer that?” she asks only seconds before I reject the call.
“No. It's not important.” I silence my phone so that we won't be bothered again.
“Telemarketer?” Willow wrinkles her nose.
“Something like that.”
The next game lasts a lot longer than the first two, though I'm still bested in the end. I can't help but think that if Willow approached life with as much of a strategic viewpoint as she did chess, she'd be able to achieve anything.
By some miracle, my afternoon client cancels, so I'm able to go to baseball practice. I call Peter to let him know I'm going to show up. When he answers his phone, it quickly becomes apparent that something's not right.
“Hello,” he says as if he didn't even bother checking the caller ID before answering.
“Hey, punk. I'm getting ready to head out to baseball practice.”
“Have fun without me.”
“What? You're not coming.”
“I'm dying from the flu.”
“Dying, huh?” I laugh, though I can tell by the sound of his voice that he's definitely not joking about being sick.
“Give em' hell for me.”
“You make it sound like an actual game.” I smirk.
“Just shut up and don't play like a wanker.”
“Are we in England?” I tease.
“Fuck you. I'm going back to bed,” he replies playfully before hanging up on me.
I shake my head, deciding that I should go over to Willow's and inform her of his absence before she takes off and ends up disappointed. More than likely, she's not going to want to play if Peter isn't there.
I knock on the door to Willow's apartment, and sh
e peeks her head out.
“Oh good, you haven't left yet,” I say.
“Something wrong?” She opens the door the rest of the way.
“Peter's sick. He's not going to baseball practice.” I hold my phone up to her as if he's still on the line.
“What?” Her expression instantly contorts in concern.
“The flu,” I disclose.
She looks distant for a moment. “I was wondering why he wasn't at work today.”
“Well, now you know. Should we go anyway?” I gesture toward the parking lot, hoping she'll say yes.
Willow quirks her head back. “Aren't you concerned about him?”
I knit my brow. “I'm sure he'll be fine.”
“Does he have anyone to take care of him?”
I sigh, trying not to be annoyed by her overbearing nature. “I don't know. His family is all in Houston.”
“And he doesn't have a girlfriend which means that there's no one to take care of him,” she says slowly as if putting together the pieces of a puzzle. “We should bring him soup and medicine.”
I shift my weight. “I'm sure he has medicine. The guy is loaded.”
“Then we should at least bring him soup and make sure he's alright.”
“Haven't you ever heard the saying feed a cold, starve a fever?” I know where this is going, and I don't want to go there. The last thing I need is for Peter to get me sick.
“Oh, that's bullshit.” She waves the saying away. “Everyone needs to eat.”
“And I need to not get sick.” I tilt my head to the side, showing her that I'm not interested in taking her to coddle Peter.
“Oh, come on. You'd want someone to do it for you if you were sick.”
She does have a point. Still.
“Did he bring you soup when you took the day off?” I try to make her see reason.
“I wasn't sick, though. I was just being lazy,” she confesses hesitantly.
“I'm telling you, the guy will be fine.”
“Please, Caleb.” Willow stomps her foot like a spoiled child. “I don't know where he lives, and it would be weird if I tried to take him soup by myself.”
I stand there and stare at her for several moments. She cares way too much about a guy who is probably clueless that she even has a crush on him. This is just stupid.