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.) Reagan was the person you called when you wanted someone to talk you into leaving your husband. Or when you needed someone to call the bank to straighten out your overdraft fees. Her niece called Reagan when she needed help getting birth control. And Reagan’s mom called when she wanted someone to go to the Ford dealership with her dad, so they didn’t end up paying too much for a truck.

So they talked about the things that had brought them together today: Their worry. Their caution. Their firm belief that most people were idiots. 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. “Your grandmother would want us to say grace,” he said, after they’d piled up their plates. “Hmm.” Reagan was noncommittal. She’d already taken a bite of turkey. “But if she wanted me to keep saying grace,” he went on, “she should have outlived me.” The turkey caught in Reagan’s throat. She looked up at him, to see if he was being bitter or morose—but he just looked matter-of-fact. He was buttering his roll. Reagan finished swallowing. “She really should have.” He set the roll on his plate. “I kept telling her . . . that if she wanted me to get into heaven, she’d have to deliver me herself.” Reagan laughed. There were tears in her eyes. “That woman had no follow-through.” Her grandpa looked up at her. His eyes were shining, too. “Exactly.” “Do you think Grandma would have been as careful as you? Through all this?” “Heck no, I would have had to nail our windows closed.”

Mason was holding her arm. He was standing right next to her. She’d put herself this close to him, and she wasn’t even wearing a mask—where was her mask? He was so close, she could see his chest moving. He reached up, slowly, with his free hand, and tugged his mask back into place over his nose. Reagan watched him through the fog of her own breath. Then she reached up, with her own free hand, to touch his cloth-covered cheek. He didn’t move away. She pulled his mask down. Slowly. Deliberately. Under his soft chin. Mason watched her face. He wasn’t smiling, but she could still see his two front teeth. Reagan made a fist in the suede collar of his coat and pulled herself closer to him. His head dipped forward, more fiercely than she was expecting, to kiss her. She closed her eyes and just let it happen for a few seconds—he was kissing her. He was in her space. Past her perimeter. This was the second person to touch her today. The second person in ten months. (If Reagan had known in February what was coming, she would have thrown her body into more arms.) (She didn’t need people the way other people needed people, but she still needed . . . something.) Mason squeezed her arm. She felt herself waking up. She pulled hard on his collar and kissed him hungrily—he tasted green. God. God damn it. He wrapped his arm around her waist and held her even closer. They were both wearing thick coats. Reagan was still wearing her ankle boots. Her feet were drenched. That deer was probably l...

She could see Mason staring right at her. Reagan froze. He was smiling at her. His gentle little chipmunk smile. He slowly raised a hand and moved his fingers to wave. Reagan nodded, but she wasn’t sure he’d see it, so she raised her hand, too, then quickly put it back under the table.

Reagan picked up the glass lasagna pan of Jell-O salad that she’d brought. It was still half-full. She grabbed two wet spoons out of the dish drainer and headed out the back door. “Be right back.” He was standing on his deck, leaning on the railing, looking out into the field. She’d known she’d find him out here . . . No, that wasn’t quite true. She’d just hoped that she would. Mason turned when he heard her door open. He smiled a little. “Hey.” “Hey,” Reagan said. “Who’re you hiding from this time?”

“Mason,” Reagan said, more serious. Her eyebrows were low, and she’d squared her shoulders. “Last year. I’m sorry that I—” “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to—” “No, I want to—” “Reagan.” His voice was gentle. His whole posture was gentle. “It was just a moment in the woods, right?” “What?” “You know, the Sondheim musical?” “What the fuck are you talking about?” Mason huffed out a laugh. “I don’t know. Just—you don’t have to—” “I’m sorry I ran away,” she said. “I’m sorry I cried.” She licked her lips. “I’m sorry I reacted like kissing you was a bad thing. It wasn’t.” Mason had stopped arguing with her. He’d stopped smiling. “It was not a bad thing,” Reagan said as clearly as she could. “Kissing you.” “It wasn’t,” he said. She shook her head no. “No,” he said, “I’m agreeing. It very much wasn’t. Also. From my perspective.” “Okay,” she said. “Well, good.” “All right,” Mason said, nodding. Reagan nodded. He scratched his head with the hand that wasn’t holding a spoon and grinned at her. “This Jell-O salad has served its purpose, don’t you think?” He held up the pan. Reagan looked down at it. She took it from him and set it behind her. As soon as it was out of the way, Mason was pushing up, over her lap, to kiss her. He’d turned so that he was kneeling on one stair, with his other leg stretched behind him. She hadn’t kissed anyone else in the last year. It was an extraordinary dry spell, for Reagan—she was a curmudgeon, but she’d never been a monk. The pandemic had changed her....