If the Fates Allow

by Rainbow Rowell

“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....