Conventionally Yours (True Colors)

by Annabeth Albert

  Chapter Thirty

  Alden

  I heard Conrad come in. Because of course I did. I’d heard him in the hall, too, and that’s when I’d stopped fooling around on my phone and dove under the covers like the coward I was. I didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to talk about tomorrow, the looming match between us, mere hours away, about all the ways things might change. I’d watched him play Bart, and he was nothing short of brilliant, making my chest ache with how good he was.

  “That’s how the game is meant to be played,” someone had said behind me, and it was true. Conrad was the epitome of everything that was awesome about Odyssey. Other than the rares he’d scored by opening packs the old-fashioned way, he didn’t have the high-dollar cards or the showy, complicated play style, but what he had was an understanding of the heart of the game. And he deserved to win.

  Far, far more than me. And that depressed me on so many levels. So, I’d given a tissue-paper thin excuse to get out of dinner, gone and wallowed in feelings I didn’t know what to do with.

  But now I was here, and he was over there, almost close enough to touch, and I wanted him so badly. Not his body. Him. He snuffled around, tossing and turning, clearly awake and not doing a terribly good job of hiding it. It was beyond illogical that we both were lying there miserable, not sleeping, screwing us both up for the next day. Forget who deserved to win when we played. Neither of us was going to play our best if we didn’t sleep. I waited for him to say my name again, to try for conversation, or for him to come to me.

  Nothing. The silence stretched and stretched until my skin itched with wanting something. Anything.

  But maybe he’d made the first move too much. Maybe I’d come to rely on that. With few exceptions, he was the first to text, first to kiss, first to suggest fooling around, first to try to calm me down. And now I’d shut him out, and he probably thought he was being noble, not bugging me. If anyone was going to end this inertia, it was going to have to be me.

  My heart beat faster as my hands gripped the comforter. I didn’t know if I could cope if he paid back my silent treatment with rejection, if he was done dealing with me. But I also knew I wasn’t sleeping until I’d tried.

  Throwing back the covers, I crept over to his bed. Still nothing, not a word. Legs unsteady, I climbed in behind him. Logic said that it would be harder for him to tell me to go to hell if I was right there versus calling his name from across the room.

  “Alden?” His surprised tone as he finally broke the silence wasn’t angry, and I exhaled hard. “You okay?”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “Me either.” Rolling, he gathered me close, arranging us so that I was his pillow, the way he seemed to prefer, draping himself over me. “Missed you.”

  “Missed you too.”

  “Good.” He stretched so that our faces were level. Then we were kissing, and maybe the answer to not wanting to talk was simply this. Not talking. Just doing. But as our lips met, my heart wrote volumes of words I’d never say. And as our bodies connected, movements urgent, hands needy and grasping, they too wrote a story. But for all the unsaid words exchanged, I couldn’t guarantee our story would be one with a happy ending.

  * * *

  It all came down to this. In so many ways, it felt like we’d been building to this moment the whole trip. Maybe ever since the professor had produced those tickets. I’d known somewhere deep inside that I’d have to battle Conrad at some point. And it didn’t matter how much I’d clung to the night, to him, to our time together—dawn still came.

  I had no appetite that morning, and Conrad seemed in a similar boat, turning down both oatmeal and coffee. As we dressed, we were silent by some unspoken agreement, a holdover from the previous night. That was fine by me. Words would be bad. Words could ruin everything.

  Instead, I checked my phone. Professor Tuttle wished us both good luck. But it was yet another message from my mom that had my stomach churning.

  Call me.

  I checked the clock. It was early here in the West, but back East, Mom and Mimi would undoubtedly be mid-Sunday brunch. Reluctantly, I hit Dial.

  She answered on the first ring, exactly as I’d expected. “Alden. So glad you called. It’s been days.”

  “I’ve texted,” I protested.

  “That’s something. But you’ve also been dodging my messages. I saw your department head the other day. He wanted to know if you’d be back. Said you still haven’t registered for fall classes. And I’m seeing other deadlines ticking away. If you’re switching programs, you’re running out of time.”

  “I’ll figure it out.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose, knowing that Conrad was likely hearing every word. Needing space, I moved to the bathroom. “This really isn’t the time.”

  “Not the time? Alden, when are you going to make up your mind?”

  “Soon.” My voice came out sharp, but I couldn’t regret my tone. “I’ve got kind of a big day here. I’m in the semifinal—”

  “I saw.”

  “You watched?” Despite my irritation with her, satisfaction still surged through me.

  “Part of it. Mimi had the live streaming on.” Her tone was just this side of dismissive. “And you’re very talented, but chasing this dream about a game… I’m just not sure this is healthy. Or realistic. Is there really a future in it for you, even if you win?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, drumming my fingers on the bathroom vanity. All my worries and reservations rushed to the front of my brain. “Not even sure I want to win.”

  “See—”

  “But that doesn’t mean I need one of your plans.” I might not know much, but I knew that whatever came next for me would be my own idea, my own direction. The time away had been good for me, firmed up my resolution to go my own way. And being around Conrad had helped, too, given me new confidence and perspective.

  “Be reasonable. You know we only want what is best for you.”

  “And so do I,” I said firmly. “Listen, I really do need to go.”

  “We’re not done,” Mom warned.

  “Fine.” Great. One more thing to dread later. But as I ended the call, my thoughts shifted back to the match with Conrad. I still had no clue what I wanted to happen. Winning just didn’t seem as vital as it had even a few days earlier. I meant what I’d told Mom—I’d figure something out. What mattered more was figuring out how to keep Conrad.

  But he greeted me with stony silence as I emerged from the bathroom and didn’t bother with small talk on the short walk to the convention center. Crap. How much had he heard of my conversation with Mom?

  I wanted to ask, but also was loath to start an argument moments before we had to battle.

  The way the tournament was structured, the two semifinals would be played back-to-back, then a break before the finals, all three matches streamed with professional commentators. Without looking over at Conrad, I accepted the noise-canceling headphones. I still lacked a clear plan, the sort of strategy I was known for. I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do, all the thoughts that I’d been wrestling with still ricocheting around my brain.

  We rolled dice to see who went first. Him. Good. My opening hand was good—not great, but not poor either. I’d won my quarterfinal match with a worse deal. The universe certainly wasn’t making it easy for me to know what to do. His first few plays were no help either—pretty standard stuff for him, the sort of setup I’d expect. So I mirrored him, neither aggressive nor passive, focused on creating a typical board state for me.

  We each give it our best shot. His voice rang in my head as we came to the turn where I really needed to set up an attack. I surveyed the board. He had good cards out. Not his best, but I simply couldn’t tell whether he was holding back or not. However, I’d promised. He knew me well enough to know if I skipped this attack step purposefully. So, I attacked, and he countered wi
th a devious defense. Great card. Either he’d been holding back or he’d only recently drawn the card, but whichever the case, he’d revealed himself as willing to battle in earnest.

  Him playing well actually relaxed me in a weird way, made it easier for me to play my best stuff each turn. I was first to strike at his life total, but he quickly evened things up, and back and forth we went. I went from reluctant opponent to wanting to impress him with my play. If I was going down, I was going down swinging, the way he always did. Maybe later we’d dissect the game, and he’d be as proud of my moves as I was of his.

  Then the worst happened. I drew a card that could win me the game. The sort of massive creature that Conrad never had an answer for. Hell. Forget analyzing the game later. He’d know as soon as he saw the stream if I didn’t play it. Promise me we’ll deal. I had to believe. Had to trust.

  But he deserves to win. He needs it. I held the card, inner war making my palms sweat. Conrad had been wrong. This was nothing like a slot machine. I didn’t want to win, had so much I wanted more than the win. I’d been searching for validation this whole time, direction, but I’d found far more purpose than I’d ever thought possible.

  So I did the only thing that made any sense.

  I played the card.

  My eyes squished shut, brain roaring like a jet engine, and when I opened them again, he was frowning, his mouth a thin, hard line. He’d forgive me. He had to. He—

  Oh. Fuck.

  He’d been right all along. There were times that only that word would do. Still glowering at me, Conrad slapped down his Transforming Scroll Scribe.

  If I had been playing to lose, I’d just played right into his hands. I, the guy who knew every opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, who knew all the decks, all the moves, all the rules, had totally forgotten he owned that card. I’d used all available scrolls to cast the ogre, so I had nothing left to counter his card and no answer when he paid the required scrolls to transform it. Next turn, he’d win for sure.

  He passed to me, his face an unreadable mask. This was it. My last stand. I looked down at the board, looked at the card I’d drawn to start my turn. He was either going to hate me or love me, no middle ground.

  “Unblockable Quest.” I moved to attack, knowing I’d just rendered his card and board state worthless for the turn.

  He blinked, then blinked again. His sturdy fingers, the ones I loved so much, came to his collection of scrolls. Crap. He’d left one unused. And I hadn’t picked up on it. Still, what could he do with a single scroll? Nothing good was that cheap.

  “Library Fire.”

  It was an old card, an instant board wipe that almost no one played because it resulted in him sacrificing his own board in order to burn mine away, and I waited to see if the judge would allow it. The judge nodded. It was a reckless, brilliant play.

  Both my giant ogre and his Transforming Scroll Scribe went in the trash heap. I could no longer attack to win, but he’d just sacrificed his best card. How did he plan to rebuild? Did he plan to rebuild? As the turn passed to him, I waited.

  He put out two Frog Archers. Little soldiers. Little, cheap soldiers with lethal arrows. The judge looked at me, waiting to see if I was going to counter before he attacked with them. I studied my cards, not believing what I was seeing. I had no answer. None.

  He’d won.

  “Good game.” I stuck out my hand. I tried not to grin, but I was simply so stupidly proud of him. But weirdly, he didn’t smile back. In fact, he kept right on scowling as we packed up. I couldn’t say anything with the cameras still rolling, so I tried to hurry. He beat me to it, though, throwing his stuff in his bag instead of worrying about what went in each slot like me, stomping off while I was still zipping up.

  “Conrad!” I rushed after him, catching up to him by the judges’ tables. “What’s wrong?”

  “Not here,” he growled, steering me away from the tournament space altogether, not stopping until we were down a small side hallway, one that housed shuttered meeting rooms.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked again. “You won!”

  “I know.” His eyes, always so free and friendly, spit sparks, his mouth as lethal-looking as those frog arrows. “You threw the game.”

  “What?” I had to take a literal step back. In all my calculations about the right course of action, I’d never considered him not believing that I’d played fair, him doubting me that much. And it hurt. “I did not. You won. Fair and square.”

  He shook his head. “You knew I had the Transforming Scroll Scribe. And you had an answer to the Frog Archers. I just know it.”

  “No! You can look at the stream later. I had no answer. You were just that good.”

  Making a scoffing noise, he paced away from me. Back down the hall, I could hear the crowd around the monitors murmuring as the second semifinal started. “You always win. Always. I’ve never seen you lose with that deck.”

  “Well, congrats. You did it. And not simply because you had the scroll scribe. You played brilliantly. You deserved to win.”

  Turning on his heel, he stared me down for what felt like an eternity. I tried not to squirm, not sure what else I could say.

  “I heard you. On the phone with your mom. You said you weren’t sure you wanted to win. Which was stupid, but I still tried to hope that you wouldn’t throw the match. Except you did.” He had the sort of “gotcha” tone of a prosecutor cross-examining a witness.

  “I meant what I said to her—I wasn’t sure that I wanted to win. But I still tried to beat you. Tried to play my best game.” I willed him to understand, but he simply shook his head.

  “Why? Why not just throw it? If you didn’t want to win, I mean?”

  “Because I wanted to make you proud,” I whispered, watching as his eyes went wide and some of the tension left his body. He didn’t say anything, so I continued, “I promised you I wouldn’t throw the match. I don’t know how to make you believe me, but I didn’t. And I had a plan. A strategy. If I won, I’d take care of you.”

  “You’d take care of me?” He looked so utterly horrified that I regretted the words instantly. “What? Like out of pity? Poor Conrad, folks disowned him, can’t keep a job, but at least he’s cute and good in bed.”

  My skin stung like I’d been slapped. “I don’t pity you. And this is not just about…the physical.”

  “What is it then?”

  That same feeling from that morning returned, the dread of knowing that the wrong word could ruin everything. But I also knew all the way down to my neurons that I owed him my truth. And maybe I didn’t have the right words, the pretty words, but at least I had that.

  “Love. I’m falling in love with you, Con. And I wanted you to win. Which you did. And I figured you’d be happy about that, not doubting my every move.”

  “You don’t love me. You can’t.”

  “Because you don’t think I’m capable of it?” Now it was my turn to be horrified. This. This was why I’d given up on the chance of finding something like what we had. I’d worried that what I had to offer might not be enough, and apparently, it wasn’t. Bile rose in my throat. “Because of who I am?”

  “No, because of who I am.” He studied hopelessly scuffed and worn sneakers. “I’m not worth it, Alden.”

  Through my own hurt, I looked at him, really looked at him. I’d worried once that maybe I wasn’t getting the real Conrad, but in his eyes I saw the sensitive, caring guy I’d come to know. And I also saw for the first time what he hadn’t let me see before, how behind all his swagger and cockiness was this deep insecurity, a lack of faith in himself. And that same lack of faith was keeping him from believing in me, believing in us.

  “You are.” I grabbed his hand. Squeezed. He didn’t squeeze back. “Why won’t you believe me?” Frustrated, I dropped his limp hand. “You told me we’d deal, no matter what. You told me to play my b
est game.”

  “That was before it actually happened. I thought you’d win. Figured you’d win, see what a loser I really am, and be done with me. I said all those things hoping you might let me stick around some after you won.”

  “Well, too bad. That’s not what happened. I’m not done with you. I told you. I think I lo—”

  “Don’t.” He held up a hand, voice a pained whisper. “I wish I could believe you.”

  “Conrad—” I reached for him, but he sidestepped me.

  “Don’t. Just don’t. I need… Hell, I don’t know what I need. To think.”

  “You have to play in that final.” It hadn’t escaped my notice that he hadn’t said he loved me back, but my more pressing concern was making sure he didn’t throw away his chance out of fear. It didn’t matter what he thought about me. What mattered to me was that he win—that he prove to himself that it had been him all along doing the winning. Not the card he’d scored. Not my tips. Him. I needed him to reach his goals, even if that meant losing him for good.

  But before I could tell him any of that, he did the worst thing he could.

  He walked away.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Conrad

  Even as I raced away from the tournament part of the convention center, I didn’t know why I was freaking out. In fact, if anyone were to ask me which of the two of us was more likely to panic following the semifinal, I would have put all the money on Alden. I’d figured he’d win, freak out, I’d reassure him, then fall apart myself privately and never need to let him know what a mess I really was. I hadn’t thrown the game both because I’d promised him I wouldn’t, but also—and more importantly—I hadn’t thought I’d need to. He’d answer my every move. It had been almost fun, putting out stuff, seeing how he’d defeat it. He always did. Always just that one card ahead of me.