Point of Honor

I drew the line at chess.

I'd learned gin rummy and cribbage, made a stab at pinochle, and suffered through several agonizing and unsuccessful sessions of my daddy trying to teach me bridge, but I drew the line at chess.

No, I said stubbornly, I'd rather have a tooth pulled.

It's not as hard as you think, he assured me, let me explain it.

I shook my head, bound and determined to ignore his disappointed look and hold the line. I'd have done most anything to please him but chess.....it made my blood run cold.

I don't have the mind for it, I said.

Of course you do, he countered, You're letting it intimidate you.

I sighed, shook off the accusation, said no again. More firmly.

He frowned, the corners of his mouth turning down almost severely, his eyes slightly sad. Then he shrugged, packed up the chess set impatiently and put it away without another word. He might've been just disappointed but it was hard not to think he wasn't also just a little bit angry.

I choked down the urge to apologize and returned to my crossword puzzle. He didn't exactly pretend I wasn't there for the rest of the afternoon but he didn't initiate anything with me either. I struggled – feeling guilty one minute and manipulated the next – but I didn't change my mind. It was silly and prideful, I suppose, but somehow it had become a point of honor.

Growing up is hard, love, otherwise everyone would do it – Kim Harrison