I’ve always wanted to play at the chess house, with its shaded arch of benches and stone tables in front of the redbrick building. I’ve suggested it to Ryan on a few warm Sunday afternoons, but he doesn’t have the patience for the game.

The February sky is clear and crisp. Turning west onto the path at Sixty-Fifth Street, I hear the chess players before I see them. For a gang of largely retired women, they swear like sailors and slap their timers like bongos. BD would fit right in.

“You gonna take my bishop before we die, Marjorie?” a player asks from one table.

“No way, Betty, I’m not falling for your Siberian trap,” her opponent says.

There must be a dozen players, ranging from sixty to eighty, rotating around four boards. My eyes and intuition scan the group, eliminating half of them. I know Noa Callaway, and she’s not the diminutive Russian lady with lipstick on her teeth. I’m trying to make eye contact with a platinum blond boomer with diamond-rimmed bifocals at the tip of a Roman nose, but she’s focused on advancing her queen and not looking up. Which, honestly, is so Noa Callaway of her.

I draw closer. If I can just catch her eye, then I’ll know. I can take five seconds to acclimate to the reality of her. Then I’ll be good. I can focus on not fucking up this meeting, on being professional instead of an adoring fan. But before she notices my approach, my gaze is disrupted by her opponent, who is looking right at me.

I freeze when I realize I know him. It’s Ross, from the launch party. Man of the Year. Edible confetti shower sharer. Thrower of lightning bolts through my body.

Look away. You have one job.

He smiles at me, a sly expression on his face. I see they’re in the endgame, and that Ross’s queenside pawn majority is rolling.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” My cheeks ignite. I’m not dressed for lightning storms today.

“Checkmate, bitch!” the woman says all of a sudden. If she isn’t Noa Callaway, I give up. But when she looks at me, the blankness in her gaze hits me hard.

I raise my book and say her name, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s calling to the other women in the group.

“I finally beat Ross!” She pumps her fists as women rise and swarm the table. Everyone needs proof. When they get it, Diamond Bifocals disappears in hugs.

“Want to play?” Ross says, gesturing for me to sit down.

“I’m sorry. I’m supposed to meet someone.”

His smile pulls me close, then drops me with how quickly it vanishes. I turn my gaze away, make myself available to Noa Callaway.

“Lanie,” Ross says.

“Excuse me,” I say, waving an apology as I back away. “It was nice to see you again.”