If the Fates Allow: A Short Story(5)

“I’m two years younger than you.”

“Really? I thought you won the state wrestling thing when I was in college.”

“That was my brother, Brook.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. We were in band together—you and me.”

“I think I blocked that out. I hated band.”

“I could tell,” he said. “You were terrible.”

“I didn’t even play half the time. I just moved the clarinet around.” She reached in her pocket for cigarettes. She didn’t have any. She hadn’t had any for years. “Sorry I don’t really remember you.”

“That’s all right. We were all trying to stay in your blind spot anyhow.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you were mean as shit.”

“I was not.”

“Yes, you were—you called my friend ‘Mr. Toad.’”

Reagan cackled. “You were friends with Mr. Toad?”

“I was.”

“How’s he doing?”

“All right. He manages the nursing home.”

“Oof. What a time to work at a nursing home.”

“Yeah . . .”

They were quiet again.

“Your grandpa is careful,” Mason said, like he could hear her worrying. “Your parents come by, and they talk through the storm door.”

“That’s good,” Reagan said.

“I should have salted his driveway.”

“What?”

“I didn’t realize it had iced up, or that he was having company.”

“Oh God, don’t worry about that—that’s not your job.”

Mason shrugged. His hands were in his coat pockets. “Well . . .”

“He says you shovel the walk, so the mailman can get up to the porch.”

“Only if your dad hasn’t come by.”

“Well, that’s still nice of you. Thanks.”

“It’s nothing. I didn’t do it to impress you.”

Reagan made a face. “Why would you do it to impress me?”

“I . . .” Mason was probably making a face that she couldn’t see. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Anyway,” she grumbled, “I’m not that impressed.” Reagan should go inside. She should sit on her grandparents’ couch and scroll Instagram and silently judge everyone she knew for having big-ass family dinners. “So you work from home?” she asked. “I mean, remotely?”

“Yeah,” Mason said.

“What do you do?”

“I fact-check audio content for news websites.”

“That does not seem like a job a real person would have.”

He laughed into his mask. “My eight-year-old self would be mortified, but it’s interesting work.”

“What did your eight-year-old self want to be?”

“Professional rodeo cowboy. What about you?”

“Oh, my eight-year-old self would be thrilled with my life. She just wanted to get the hell out of Arnold.”

Mason laughed some more. He leaned against his deck railing. Reagan took half a step back from hers.

“You live in Lincoln,” he said, “right? What do you do?”

“Accounting. For the Department of Agriculture.”

“You like it?”

“It’s fine. I can do it from home. I’m lucky,” she said—because you had to say that, that you were lucky you could be careful. Even though most people around Reagan who could be careful weren’t.

“Yeah, me, too,” Mason said, nodding.

The conversation died again. He was looking down at the ground between their decks.

“I don’t feel lucky,” Reagan said out loud.

He looked up. “Yeah? Me, neither.”

She couldn’t really see him. It was dark, and he was wearing a fabric mask that sat high on his face, under his glasses. She hadn’t taken a good look at him before he put it on. He had longish hair, with a little bit of wave to it, but she couldn’t tell what color. He was taller than her, probably. Nondescript in his baggy jeans and heavy canvas coat. She wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup, even if it happened right this moment. He could be anybody.

“I am hiding,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m hiding out here. My brother and his family came over after dinner. To exchange gifts. And we were all supposed to stay outside. But it was cold. And . . .” He shook his head. “It felt ridiculous. To be out on the porch, standing six feet apart. So my mom said, ‘This is stupid, just come in,’ and they did.”

“And you came out here?”

“I did.”

“What did you tell your family?”

“I didn’t say anything. I just walked right through the house, out the back door.”

“Are they going to be mad at you?”

“Maybe. They won’t mention it, though.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t do that. We’re stoic, Germanic types—inscrutable plainsmen. Aren’t you?”

“No,” Reagan said. “My family is very scrutable. Our closest neighbors growing up were five miles away, and they could still hear my sister and me fighting.”