Page 4 of Stroke of Fate

My fist tightens around the handle of my gym bag, fully prepared to swing it into the back of his legs, but my hand stills when something brown catches my eye.

“The fuck is that?” I ask, frowning.

“You order something?” Mack muses, glancing between me and the large box outside my front door.

“No.” I definitely would have remembered if I had. “Did you order something?”

Although we don’t live together, Mack crashes on my couch whenever he wants, so the question isn’t too far-fetched.It’s become an unspoken thing between us since we became friends freshman year.

One afternoon, after a particularly rough training session and a few too many beers, we realized we had more in common than just swimming: deadbeat dads who couldn’t be bothered to stick around long enough to see their sons grow up.

Nothing quite like that to seal a friendship.

“Nope,” he says in response to my question. “But let’s see what’s inside.”

“You sure? Maybe we shouldn’t—” My words are cut off when Mack hauls the box into his arms. “What are you doing?”

“Taking it inside, obviously. Now hurry up and open the door,” Mack quips. “We’ll tape it back up afterward. No harm, no foul,” he adds when I don’t move toward the door.

“Fine, whatever,” I mutter, not in the mood to argue with him.

And he does have a point. Itisharmless on our part. It’s not like we’re planning to steal anything. Besides, if it were something valuable, the owner should’ve made sure it was sent to the right address.

I’ll tell whoever comes looking for it that we did them a favor by bringing it inside and out of harm’s way. Hell, they’ll probably thank us.

After dropping our bags on the floor, Mack sets the box on the kitchen counter and makes a beeline for one of the drawers while I inspect the outside.

There’s no address or apartment number anywhere, not even a company logo to hint where it’s from. All I find is a name scribbled haphazardly on one side in black Sharpie:Bear Miller.

“Do you know a Bear Miller?” I ask over the sound of Mack rummaging through one of the kitchen drawers.

“No, can’t say I’ve heard that name before,” he says without looking up.

A minute later, Mack straightens and turns. I cast a wary glance at the object in his hand.

“Are you sure we should do this?” I don’t exactly feel great about digging through someone’s belongings.

“Relax, Levi. As long as it’s not a bomb or anything, it’ll be fine,” he says, flicking the pocketknife open before joining me at the counter.

I watch as the blade glides easily through the clear tape. I don’t know what I expected to find, but this definitely isn’t it.

“Well, shit, that was anti-climactic,” Mack murmurs.

My brows furrow. “What the hell is all of this?”

The box is crammed with stuff—random stuff from the looks of it.

I grab the first thing my eyes land on. It’s one of those ceramic mugs, the type you can get at those artsy places where they let you paint the stuff yourself. This one is pale pink, dotted with tiny flowers it’s all feminine and fragile-feeling.

Carefully, I set it back down. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mack fiddling with a Polaroid camera.

We keep picking through the contents, taking out one thing after another. In the back of my mind, I know we shouldn’t be doing this, but curiosity keeps my hands moving.

Each item gives me a tiny glimpse into this person’s world—Bear’s world. I’m intrigued, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’ve stumbled upon some hidden treasure; it’s just generic girl stuff.

I pull out an oversized sweatshirt with “California” printed across the front. Then, a portable speaker joins the growing pile on the counter. I grab a candle with the words “My best friend gave me this” printed on the label. The scent is exactly what I expected. Flowery and sweet.

“That’s all of it,” Mack says absentmindedly, the sound of his phone vibrating through the quiet apartment already pulling his attention away.

---