Checkmate

31| Thrill of the jump

My thoughts don't stop spinning for the rest of the night. The more I think about it, the more I realize it's not the debate I'm upset about or even the fact that I've probably lost the campaign: it's that after Chase's confession, I've lost a little faith in humanity.

It's my fault, really. I always figured it was the really bad people you had to watch out for, murderers and criminals, and people who otherwise made it obvious they'd use you as target practice, not people like Chase. And that's what hurts: the realization that bad guys aren't monsters – they are ordinary people.

My parents quiz me about the debate over dinner. I don't much feel like talking, but I spin more lies about how great it all went and how I think I've got a chance. Afterward, I head to my room and sit on the bed, staring at the pictures of Chase and Libby that take up half of my room. When I can't stand to look at them any longer, I jump to my feet, tearing them down and throwing them in the trash.

By the time I sit back down, I'm breathing hard. I can't be in this perfect pink room anymore. Can't keep faking a smile; I need to get out of here. After changing out of my debate outfit and into something more comfortable, I grab my keys, tell my parents I'm heading to Angela's, and drive to Blake's. We haven't exactly made plans to see each other, and given that I ignored him after the debate, he'd be well within his right to tell me to get lost. I'm hoping, though, that he'll take pity on me.

It's not long before I pull into his driveway. As I kill the engine, I have this moment of panic where I question what I'm doing – since when did Blake become the person I want to be around after a bad day – but I ignore it and walk to the basement.

After a few deep breaths, I knock on the door and wait. Blake opens it a moment later, his hair slightly damp like he just got out of the shower, and he's wearing a Rolling Stones tee. He stares at me, eyes dark in a way that unnerves me, but reluctantly steps aside. I walk past him, ignoring the heat that floods my cheeks, and sit on the sofa.

He sits beside me, legs outstretched. I can feel him watching me, but I pretend to be invested in whatever is playing on the tv, praying he won't ask me questions. Right now, the only thing I want is to sit in his basement and not have to pretend.

"I've never seen anyone so fascinated by a tooth plaque ad," he says.

I don't say anything, but I'm acutely aware of his gaze on my profile. If I had any sense, I'd have stayed home and wallowed in my misery alone, but I guess what they say is true: misery loves company.

"Votes are in a week, right?" he says. "There's still time to retcon."

I let a few moments pass before facing him. "I don't want to talk about the campaign anymore. I just want to sit in the dark in my misery."

His mouth lifts. He picks up his vape and flips it in his hands. "All right."

I sit back, shoulders sinking as the tv flashes before me. When some paranormal show comes on, I break my vow of silence to say, "Can we watch Ginny and Georgia?"

He stops flipping his vape to look over. "I'd rather gouge my eyes out." My shoulders slump lower. He must think I'm on the verge of a breakdown because he sighs and hands me the remote. "One episode."

Giddy, I take the remote and turn on Netflix while he continues to play with his vape. He wants to smoke, I can tell, so I half-turn to face him while scrolling through the channels and say, "You never smoke around me anymore."

His eyebrows furrow like he hadn't noticed. "You don't like it."

It's my turn to furrow my eyebrows. Since when does Blake make decisions based on what I do or don't like? And more importantly, why does this sliver of information excite me? "I don't mind," I say, clicking on my program. "It's your basement."