This is okay. She’d taken every precaution. Reagan had been careful, anyway, for months—and then she’d practically sealed her little house off for two weeks so she could be here. She hadn’t even opened her mail.

She was as clean as she could be; she wasn’t going to hurt him.

“Hi, Grandpa,” she said. And then she dropped her bags and stepped forward to give him a hug. It took him a second to catch up. Reagan didn’t blame him; she hadn’t hugged anyone in months, and neither of them had ever been huggers anyway. Grandma was the hugger. Grandma was the one who made you go find your grandpa and give him a hug. Reagan and her grandfather had probably never hugged before except under orders.

Reagan was the wrong choice for this.

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.

No one called Reagan for comfort.

No one called Reagan to offer any.

No one ever said, “I’m lonely, could you come by?”—and no one ever came by.

Even before this bullshit.

Her grandpa felt more solid in her arms than he looked. He was a big guy once, and those bones were still there. “Thought maybe my hugging days were over,” he said.

Reagan laughed and pulled away. “Me, too. It smells good in here.”

“You thought I couldn’t make a turkey?”

“No, I believed in you.”

“I didn’t bother with the potatoes.”

“I brought potatoes,” she said. “I told you I would.”

“Well, all right . . .” He seemed awkward. Standing there in his own living room. Everything looked the same as it had when her grandma was alive. Either he kept the place pretty clean, or he’d cleaned up because Reagan was coming over.

“Well, all right,” she said. “Let’s get them started.”

Grandpa turned toward the kitchen. Then the doorbell rang, and he turned back. Reagan caught his arm. “Don’t answer that,” she scolded. “You don’t answer the door, do you?”

“Well, I look to see who it is. I get a lot of deliveries.”

“I’ll check. There’s no reason for you to be answering the door right now. Nobody needs you.”

She looked out the window. She didn’t see anyone. Who was making deliveries on Christmas Day? Fucking Amazon Prime.

Reagan opened the door. The Jell-O salad was sitting on the welcome mat.