Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 32

The chess club room smells like dust and old paper, the kind of place no one wanders into by accident. I stand in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.

“You coming in, or are you just here to judge?” a voice asks.

I look up. A girl with dark hair pulled into a low, messy ponytail sits at one of the boards, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. Her eyes are sharp but not unkind.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve never… been here.”

“None of us have,” she replies. “That’s kind of the point.”

I step inside. The room is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like everyone agreed not to compete for attention. A few people glance up, then back to their boards. No whispers. No stares.

“I’m Zoey,” I offer.

“Ellen,” she says. “You play?”

“Not really.”

She shrugs. “Neither do most people. Sit.”

I take the chair across from her, feeling my shoulders loosen despite myself. She sets up the pieces slowly, deliberately.

“You don’t look like a chess club person,” she says.

“What does a chess club person look like?”

She tilts her head. “Less tired. More invisible.”

I laugh quietly. “I’m working on invisible.”

She slides a pawn forward. “Good luck. People only notice when you change.”

The game is slow and mostly silent. She explains moves without condescension, like she assumes I’m capable even when I mess up.

“You overthink,” she says at one point.

“I do that with everything.”

“Figures.”

When the session ends, I don’t feel drained. I feel… steady.

Afterward, I wander into the book club meeting down the hall. The room is brighter, louder, filled with overlapping opinions.

“And I just think the narrator is unreliable,” someone says.

“That’s the whole point,” Amber’s voice cuts in smoothly.

I freeze before she sees me.

“Well,” Amber continues, “some people need everything spelled out.”

Her eyes flick to me. I smile reflexively.

“Zoey,” she says sweetly. “Didn’t know you were joining.”

“I didn’t know you still read,” I reply before thinking.

A few people snicker. Amber’s smile tightens.

“We’re discussing structure today,” she says. “You might find it… challenging.”

“I like challenges,” I answer.

She looks me over. “I’m sure.”

I sit anyway, keep my comments brief, careful. Amber interrupts me twice. I let it go both times. When the meeting ends, my head throbs from restraint.

Outside, I find Ellen sitting on the steps, reading.

“Book club?” she asks without looking up.

“Yeah.”

She closes her book. “You survived?”

“Barely.”

“Let me guess,” she says. “Someone made you feel like you didn’t belong.”

I snort. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only because you’re still here.”

We walk together toward the exit.

“You friends with Chase?” she asks casually.

I hesitate. “We’re dating.”

“Oh.” She nods. “Does he know you’re here?”

“Yes.”

She stops walking and looks at me. “Does he like it?”

I open my mouth, then close it. “He thinks it’s… try-hard.”

Ellen snorts. “Of course he does.”

“He didn’t mean it badly,” I add quickly.

She raises a brow. “Didn’t he?”

At home that evening, I mention the clubs to Chase while he scrolls on his phone.

“Chess?” he repeats. “Seriously?”

“And book club.”

He laughs. “Wow. You’re really leaning into the academic thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just… you don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not proving,” I reply. “I like it.”

“Sure you do,” he says lightly. “Just don’t turn into one of those people.”

“What people?”

“You know,” he shrugs. “The ones who make school their whole personality.”

I feel that familiar tightness in my chest. “It’s my last year.”

“And?” he asks. “You’re already ahead of everyone.”

I look at him. “That doesn’t mean I stop.”

He sighs. “You’re exhausting sometimes.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

Later, in bed, I stare at the ceiling and think about the chessboard, the way the pieces only move when you choose to move them. About Ellen’s blunt honesty. About Amber’s smile.

I think about how quiet it felt to sit somewhere no one expected anything from me.

My phone buzzes. A message from Ellen. You were bad at chess. Come again tomorrow.

I smile despite myself and type back, Deal.

Across the room, Chase sleeps with his back to me.

I wonder when I started feeling more awake outside this bed than in it. I lie there longer than I mean to, listening to Chase’s breathing even out, the room settling into that heavy nighttime quiet that makes thoughts louder. The glow from my phone fades when the screen locks, and I place it face down on the nightstand like it might accuse me of something if I keep looking.

In the dark, my body feels too present. Too outlined. I pull the blanket higher, then lower it again, restless.

“You okay?” Chase mutters, half-asleep.

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” His voice is muffled, already drifting.

“Nothing important.”

He hums, rolls onto his stomach. The space between us feels wider than the mattress should allow. I stare at the ceiling and think about Ellen’s voice, the way she spoke without dressing her words up, like honesty didn’t have to be sharp to be real.

The next day, I find her in the cafeteria, sitting alone at the corner table with a book open beside her tray. She looks up when I hover.

“You’re late,” she says.

“I didn’t know we had a schedule.”

“We do now,” she replies. “Sit.”

I drop into the seat across from her. Around us, the room buzzes—laughter, clattering trays, Miles’ voice carrying from somewhere too close for comfort.

“You look tired,” Ellen says bluntly.

“So do you.”

“I always do,” she shrugs. “Difference is, I don’t pretend otherwise.”

I poke at my food, appetite shrinking. “Does it ever get easier?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“What?”

“Feeling like you don’t fit where you’re supposed to.”

She considers me for a moment. “I think it gets quieter. You stop asking permission.”

That sits with me all afternoon.