If the Fates Allow

by Rainbow Rowell

If you could only spend Christmas with one person, no one in her family would pick her. (No one in the world would pick her.)

No one called Reagan for comfort. No one called Reagan to offer any. No one ever said, “I’m lonely, could you come by?”—and no one ever came by. Even before this bullshit.

That was a nice discovery, that her grandpa seemed to dislike people as much as she did. Had he always been that way? Or was he just getting crotchety in old age and loneliness? Reagan had always been that way, and it was only getting worse.

She couldn’t really think of anything to say after that. And her grandpa didn’t seem to want to talk more, either. And there was no one to make them be sociable.

(Reagan didn’t let many people into her life—but once she’d gone to the effort, she didn’t like to let go of them.)

What had this pandemic done to her? She’d never been much of a talker, but she’d always been able to find words when she wanted them. Now her head and mouth felt empty. She felt like she carried emptiness around with her, a six-foot radius of it.

She didn’t need people the way other people needed people, but she still needed . . . something.)

“Sometimes I think you don’t want to get back to normal, Reagan. Sometimes I think you like it better this way.” Sometimes Reagan agreed with her.