Conventionally Yours (True Colors)

by Annabeth Albert

  “I wish I’d known,” I said softly. “About it being hard for you. And I should have known. Should have seen the signs—”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. I worked damn hard to make sure that few people knew the whole story. Heck, you know more than the professors now. I just didn’t want to admit how badly I screwed up.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “So you keep saying. And that proves my point. You’re not difficult. You’re a good guy.”

  This time his words had the sort of warmth to them that I associated with sincerity. It could be tough to figure out truthfulness from body language, but there was a certain pitch he seemed to reach that had the ability to make my insides melt. And they worked like a caramel-coated truth serum.

  “I didn’t hate you. I couldn’t. I kind of wanted to, but I liked you too much to hate you. Later though, it was…easier to focus on the things that annoyed me.”

  “I can be annoying.” He laughed, then sobered. “You really liked me?”

  I nodded. I’d come too far to yank the words back, even though my heart was performing an entire marching-band half-time show against my rib cage. He didn’t say anything for a long time, but right when I was about to head back to the car in disgrace, he put his hand on mine. Our gazes met, and my stomach wobbled at the intensity I found waiting in his blue depths.

  “You were wearing a yellow button-down shirt when I saw you at the store the first time Professor Tuttle invited me to come play. You looked older than everyone else there. Important. Like…a hot TA or something.” It was the first time anyone had described me as a hot anything, but he didn’t give me a chance to enjoy the compliment because his mouth twisted as he continued. “Then you told me what I did wrong losing to Jasper.”

  “Sorry.” I really was the worst. The things I’d ruined simply by opening my mouth… I had to look away briefly, eyes stinging.

  “Don’t be. You were just…you.” His hand tightened, like it had last night, and I couldn’t have pulled away even if a million dollars had landed in front of us. Maybe not even if the money was accompanied by little green space aliens, because the look on Conrad’s face was like nothing I’d ever seen before, impossible to decipher. Soft. But warm too, like his words. Eyes more open, lips parted, breath audible.

  And then, still holding my hand, he leaned in. This time I knew it was coming, and I didn’t flinch away. No phones rang. No loud people walked by. No one was having a meltdown, and the sun was shining, so there were no late-night excuses. Conrad was going to kiss me, and I was going to let him.

  Wait. Let was the wrong word. I wanted this, had wanted it far, far longer than I was willing to admit, even to him. Even to myself for that matter. I wanted this, and I wasn’t going to let the moment slip away, not this time. Instead, I met him halfway, our lips colliding—a little artlessly at first, nothing lining up evenly, our noses bumping.

  But then he shifted, pulling me closer, and I forgot to worry about what lined up where. For the first time maybe ever, logistics were less important to me than feelings. The margins of our mouths and angles of our noses became fleeting concerns, replaced by sensation. The feel of his lips, soft and satiny. The slight rasp of his cheek. The tremble in his hand. The strength in his fingers. The hitch in my heartbeat at the slightest increase in the pressure of his mouth. The sigh in my soul, a knee-melting feeling of absolute, utter rightness.

  Right as I started to sink into that feeling, though, he pulled back, resting his forehead against mine for a second. Probably longer than the actual kiss, but my lips still tingled with awareness of where his had been.

  “We need to get back.” His voice was thick as he released my hand. I wished I could tell whether it was lust or regret that made his eyes dark.

  He was right, of course. We were in the middle of nowhere Colorado, right out in the open. It was a completely foolhardy place for kissing. But still I wanted more, and as we made our way back to the car, I couldn’t help but feel like I was leaving something important behind on that rock.

  * * *

  Actually kissing someone for the first time didn’t rearrange the planets or suddenly make magical unicorns appear on the path back to the car. No, I was still the same Alden with the same awkward not-sure-what-to-say dilemmas in my head, same worries about our schedule, same desire to win the tournament. Just…different too.

  And heck if I knew what happened now. Conrad was no help, giving no clue as to how I was supposed to act, what it all meant, and most importantly, what would come next. He didn’t even look my direction as he tried to angle for the driver’s side.

  “I know Denver at least a little from family trips,” he argued, voice a little too bright and quick. “And I know you hate parking Black Jack.”

  “Fine. I’ll start looking for places to eat after the game-store stop.” I was proud of how steady my voice came out. I searched with my phone while he took us into Denver proper, heading for the Cherry Creek neighborhood. “It’s not quite as well-known as the pizza place you liked, but I found a deli with a ton of stars that supposedly has New York–style bagels and blintzes. Prices aren’t terrible for a big city.”

  “Sure. Your turn to pick.” His smile was indulgent, the sort Mimi would give me when taking us for onion bagels on a Sunday, and somehow it grated on me. I didn’t want to be coddled by him or for him to act fake nice to make up for whatever perceived lapse in judgment he blamed for the kiss. I’d much rather have Cheetos and gas-station nachos and the prospect of more kisses than him retreating like this.

  “I’m sorry if—”

  “Take the exit for Speer Boulevard,” the GPS bleated.

  “Let me focus on driving.” Conrad’s tone was more curt than usual, and I hated it.

  Finally after we’d found the store and sorted out parking in the small lot next to the red-painted brick building, he turned to me. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

  Nice as that sentiment was, it told me precisely nothing about how he was feeling, and I made a frustrated noise. “Do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”

  I sucked at pretending, but for him and the sake of getting back to that easy place we’d found together the past few days, I’d try.

  “No.” His expression was impossible to read—distant eyes but soft mouth and gentle hand as he patted my knee. “But right now, let’s get the store visit over with so we can get you those blintzes.”

  “Okay.” There really wasn’t much to do other than agree and collect our stuff—my deck bag, the laptop bag, and the box of books and swag. Easily the biggest game store we’d stopped at on the trip, the place occupied a one-story corner building with giant curved front widows displaying costumes and toys. The whole top floor was a kids’ paradise—aisles and aisles of toys, costumes, games, and books. The finished basement level was a more adult space with tabletop games, cards, and space for playing. It felt a bit like venturing to an underground club as the clerk waved us downstairs, where an older man in an expensive-looking gray suit waited for us.

  At least it wasn’t cosplay, but his officious attitude was still unsettling, a feeling that intensified as he introduced his equally slick adult sons, both of whom were larger than Conrad even. Their crisp white shirts and smarmy smiles seemed more suited to a used-car lot than a game store. They were each older than Conrad and me, probably late twenties. We did some video with the owner showing us around, but my anxiety kept rising.

  You’re being ridiculous, I lectured myself. This is not a bad seventies movie. No one is out to get you, and you’re not leaving here wearing cement shoes.

  My unease wasn’t helped when the suit-clad owner announced, “Bart is my best player. Regional champion at the Denver con this year.” The look of parental pride he bestowed upon his mammoth son would have been heartwarming if Bart hadn’t looked ready to sell me a lemon. There was something untrustworthy about h
is eyes—like this was a guy who would have no problem running an odometer back.

  “The competition was for shit.” Bart made a dismissive gesture.

  “He could go pro, but…we need him here.” The owner looked over Conrad and me the way my mom inspected roasts for Sunday dinner. “Who wants to play him for your little show?”

  I was about as reluctant to play Bart as I’d been with the cosplaying wizard, but I didn’t want to look like I had a complex. Or like I was afraid. Which I wasn’t. Okay. Maybe a little. I trusted my decks and myself as a player, but I didn’t trust Bart to play clean. However, I also wasn’t going to make Conrad bail me out of an uncomfortable situation again.

  “I will,” I said at the same time that Conrad said, “Alden’s our better player.”

  That should have made me preen, but instead, the praise settled like a mantle of heavy expectation on my shoulders. I couldn’t help but feel I’d be letting him down—as well as myself—if I lost. The owner drifted away to take care of something business-related, leaving Conrad and I alone with the sons in the back of the downstairs room.

  We sat down at a long folding table to play, Conrad filming, me trying to tune him out to focus on my game. I wanted to put headphones on, the way some pro players did to further get in their zone, but Bart was already being rude enough for both of us, turned around, talking to his brother about a “seriously smoking” woman while shuffling, completely ignoring me. His play mat featured one of Odyssey’s most expensive cards—an underworld chariot so powerful and rare that it was on several ban lists. Bart also had the highly annoying habit of snapping his cards. Terrible for card value and awful for my concentration too.

  He got out to an early lead, attacking my life total with the sort of methodical precision one might expect from a player who scowled as though he was busy thinking of ways to dismember me for real and lose the body. His underworld-themed deck was full of reapers and dark spirits—creatures that fed off other things’ demise. Including scrolls. His first card out was a scroll eater, and I had to work to control my inner flinch. I didn’t like to play cards that attacked the other player’s collection of scrolls as there was something unsportsmanlike to me about robbing the other player of the ability to put anything out. But Bart had no such issues, making me fall further behind because I couldn’t play the cards in my hand.

  If you’re falling behind, play smaller cards more strategically. I flashed back to my conversation that morning with the kid. I’d been thinking about Conrad at the time and how he always seemed to eke value out of every single play, playing cards that didn’t cost that many scrolls in deceptively skillful ways. Interacting with the kid had felt good. Fun. I liked being the expert, and I’d liked watching his eyes light up when he’d understood what I was trying to show him. Conrad was right—I was good at teaching people the game. I still wasn’t sure what that meant for my future, and certainly didn’t have time for that sort of soul-searching midgame.

  Channeling that conversation and returning to basics, using each turn to its fullest, I came back with a couple of good plays and at least got enough of a board state to defend myself. But I still felt behind, a frantic sort of flutter in the small of my back. I didn’t like not knowing how I was going to win. I usually could see the endgame from the first few plays, knew exactly how I’d go in for the kill. But not here.

  However, then Conrad, whom I’d done a pretty good job ignoring, coughed. My back tensed further. Was he about to have another asthma attack? Did he have enough air?

  Air. Attack by air. I didn’t think Conrad was trying to feed me tips. He was a lot of things, but a cheat wasn’t one of them. However, that didn’t stop my surge of gratitude.

  “You okay?” I asked him in a low voice as he came by with the camera.

  “Totally.” He patted his front pocket where he’d stashed his inhaler after his earlier scare, and I relaxed enough to actually carry through my attack on Bart. Finally, I had a strategy, and with a set strategy, I could win. Bart might be good at the underhanded tactics, but I was the expert at carrying out a complicated plan.

  Which I did, escaping with the narrowest of victories. It wasn’t quite the waxing I’d hoped for, but a win was a win.

  “Way to go.” The approval in Conrad’s eyes was almost better than the victory itself.

  “Rematch.” Bart’s voice was coldly calculating. Great. A sore loser. “I don’t know how you did it, but your boyfriend over there was feeding you tips.”

  “He wasn’t.” My mind flashed back to that cough, and I wasn’t as decisive as I could have been. “And he’s not.”

  “Whatever.” Bart had the same tone as every homophobic bully I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. The kind of guy full of inappropriate locker-room humor along with an almost toxic level of competitiveness. “Play me again. This time both of you, so he can’t be over here seeing my hand.”

  “We really need to be going.” Conrad sounded more regretful than I would have. “Sorry, man. Rematch some other time? Too bad you’re not going to Vegas.”

  “Who says I’m not? Flying out tomorrow night. I’ll stomp both of you there too. But you’re going to play me again right now.”

  “No, we’re not.” Conrad was firmer this time, and I nodded to back him up.

  “You are if you want your cards back.” The brother, whose name I hadn’t caught, spoke up, dangling my deck box bag off one of his meaty fingers. All my decks were in there—my casual play ones along with my tournament-legal ones, and no way could I afford to replace them on short notice, not after the car repair and using my emergency card to help Jasper.

  My earlier lecture to myself to relax seemed absurd now, panic returning in a rush. This might not be some cheesy Mafia movie, but in a way it was worse—every school bully I’d faced, all grown up and drunk on power, and me still unsure how to win against their underhanded tactics.

  “Yeah. Play us, and you can have your shit back.” Bart smiled, but it was a hard, calculated thing that left my blood cold and my stomach churning. I had no clue what we were supposed to do now, how to get out of this without losing my cards—or worse.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Conrad

  Was Alden panicking? I didn’t know because I wouldn’t let myself glance over at him to see. I was pretty sure he was, and if he was seriously distressed, it was going to make it that much harder to take care of these jokers.

  “You want us to play you?” I stared them both down. “Fine. But teams.”

  Playing in teams of two was a less common format than playing a four-person game, but I had an idea in mind that would require Alden’s cooperation.

  “You already colluded to cheat out that win,” the guy holding Alden’s deck bag scoffed.

  “If we do teams, at least they can’t use hand signals or what-the-fuck-ever they had going on last time. Come on, Danny, you know. That deck never loses.”

  “Maybe Alden’s that good,” I said coolly.

  “The hell he is.” Bart’s face went red. “Fine. Teams. Then we can stomp you both at the same time. No way are you getting a second win off me.”

  “Conrad.” Alden’s voice was an urgent whisper as he tugged me into the corner. “This is criminal. We should call the police. Or go find the owner. Something. They can’t get away with this.”

  “We don’t have time for the police. And their dad would be no help either. You know how bullies work.”

  “Yeah.” The haziness in Alden’s wide eyes said he probably had even more experience with this than me, which I hated.

  “They’ll make it out to be a whole big misunderstanding or, worse, get us in trouble. Gamer Grandpa doesn’t need bad publicity like us getting arrested. We’ll just play them for our stuff. Faster. Easier.”

  “We don’t exactly make a great team.”

  “Hey now.” I was legit wounded at
that. I thought we’d been making a pretty great team traveling together, except maybe the part where I couldn’t seem to keep my lips to myself.

  “I mean in the game.”

  “No time like the present to try.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. You beat him fair and square. You know that. Just got to do it again.”

  He looked utterly miserable at that prospect, mouth drooping as he lowered his voice further. “You coughed.”

  “I what?” My face wrinkled as I tried to figure that one out.

  “Coughed. You coughed. Then I went in by air.”

  “You think I was sending you signals?” I matched his barest hint of a whisper. “Dude. No. It was a cough. You won. Fairly. Just play your game, and don’t let him in your head.”

  “Fine.” He marched back over to the table as if he were being led to the gallows. And not letting Bart and Danny in our heads was easier said than done. I’d played slick underworld decks like his before, and I had just the deck to counter it—a mining deck that would let me get value out of the stuff he destroyed. All I needed was Alden to trust me, and from the stiff way he held himself, I could tell that was going to be an uphill battle.

  “Listen.” I leaned in so I could whisper in his ear, not caring one bit what these homophobic goons thought of it. “You need to go big, every time, and let me bat cleanup.”

  “Go big or go home is hardly a strategy—”

  “Trust me, Alden. Just once. Please.” His usual complex strategy of needing the perfect board state wasn’t likely to win here, but if he played enough big stuff that then got destroyed, my little landfill miners, a pair of vulture gnomes, could net us the game. Whenever Alden played teams before on the show, he’d always insisted on going second. A lot of players thought that was the stronger position in a team, and I could tell it was chafing him to have to concede that role to me. If we weren’t among idiots, I’d offer more kissing to sweeten the deal. Not that it would be a hardship, but I wasn’t above trying to bribe him into trying things my way. Assuming, that was, that he’d even find the prospect of another lip-lock a compelling reason to agree.