If the Fates Allow: A Short Story(11)

“Yeah,” Reagan agreed. “Hopefully. If we all die, the only people left will be these shitheads.” She waved her spoon around. Indicating half the county and both her brothers.

“That’s a little harsh,” he said.

I’m a little harsh, she thought.

Mason was smiling up at her. “I always thought you had red hair. In high school.”

“I did,” she said. “I stopped dyeing it last year. I didn’t want to do it myself, and then I just got used to this color.”

“That’s your natural hair color?”

She nodded.

“It’s great,” he said, still smiling that chipmunky smile. “It’s exactly the color of wildflower honey.”

“Dirty blonde?”

He shook his head, but he looked more amused than anything. “Harsh . . .”

“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.

She’d gotten a lot pickier about who she let get this close. She’d gotten kind of fixated on repercussions.

But Reagan had kissed Mason before, and nothing bad had happened. It was a purely good moment in the middle of a very bad time. She hadn’t forgotten it. She hadn’t stopped wondering what might have happened if she could have kept her shit together.

Mason was leaning over her. He had one hand on the railing and one under her chin. She liked the way he kissed—gentle, but with purpose. She put her arms around him, to hold him steady.

They kissed for a long time. Until Mason pulled away to look at her.

“What,” Reagan whispered.

“I was making sure you weren’t crying.”

She poked his ribs. “Shut up.”

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“I’m just cold.”

“It is December.” He was standing up, taking off his jacket.

“I’m not going to wear your jacket,” she said. “I’m not a fifteen-year-old cheerleader.”

“You were a fifteen-year-old cheerleader,” he said, holding out the jacket.

She took it. “How do you remember that? I got kicked out after one semester.”

He shrugged. “Put on the jacket, so I can kiss you again without feeling guilty.”

Reagan did. It was quilted inside, and still warm from him.

Mason sat down beside her on the top step. She had to scoot over to make room. He leaned behind her to take another bite of Jell-O salad.

She craned her head to look over her shoulder. “You can take that with you,” she said. “You don’t have to finish it right now.”

Mason smiled with all of his teeth. He slid his arm around her waist. “I’ll get the dish back to you.”

Reagan looked down the steps, out into the yard, past the fence. “Yeah,” she said. “All right.”