If the Fates Allow

by Rainbow Rowell

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...