Page 109 of Gap Control

He smiled.

From deeper in the apartment came the unmistakable sound of Peggy calling out, “If you mock the keychain, you get decaf.”

Mason blinked. “She’s psychic.”

“Only when it’s inconvenient.”

She appeared a second later, barefoot in wide-leg pants and a rust-colored sweater that made her look like the main character in a very highbrow drama. Her hair was twisted up, and she wore a rust-red lipstick that dared you to say the wrong thing.

“Hey, little brother.” She pulled me into a one-armed bro hug. “You didn’t warn me he was tall and handsome.”

I rolled my eyes as she turned her attention to Mason.

She offered her hand. “Hello, and welcome to the test.”

He shook it without flinching. “Thanks for having me.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She turned toward the kitchen. “There’s soup on, and the guest room heater works if you jiggle it.”

Mason followed me through the open-plan living room. The space was so Peggy—minimalist, yes, but not sterile. Books lined the walls, some stacked sideways. I spotted one of mine in the middle of a row—a dog-eared copy ofThe Queer History of American TheatreI’d left behind in college.

On the coffee table: a shallow bowl of smooth stones, a half-burned candle labeledIntentions, and a tiny Polaroid stuck under the corner of a coaster.

Me. At twenty. Laughing so hard my eyes were closed and my mouth was wide open, head thrown back like I didn’t know the world could ever be cruel.

I hadn’t seen that photo in years.

“Peg,” I called softly. “You kept this?”

She answered from the kitchen. “Yes, I did. It was the night you tried to make your own birthday cake and nearly set the oven on fire. Best laugh I’ve ever seen you have.”

Mason’s hand brushed mine.

“You still laugh like that,” he whispered.

“Thanks for coming,” I said.

“Try and stop me.”

Peggy’s idea of a casual dinner was a homemade butternut squash soup, rosemary focaccia still warm from the oven, and a salad that had pomegranate seeds and shaved fennel, a recipe she might have cribbed from a Pinterest board.

Mason didn’t say much during the meal, but I watched him take a second helping of everything, and that was all the commentary I needed.

She asked questions like she was only curious—not like she was vetting someone to date her baby brother. I knew better. I’d seen her do it to two of my exes and one of my old roommates. It was all about cadence: letting silence fall in the right places to see who’d rush to fill it.

Mason never rushed.

When she asked, “So what does a Forge winger do on his day off besides get dragged to Boston?” he shrugged.

His answer came a few seconds later. “Try to figure out what else I’d be good at, in case the skates stop fitting.”

Peggy nodded like that was the right answer.

After dinner, she pulled out a battered deck of cards and set us up for a game of Knock. I hadn’t played it since high school, but Mason said he'd heard of it and caught on fast. Too fast.

By the third round, he was demolishing both of us.

“Are you sure you haven’t played this before?” I narrowed my eyes as he laid down another perfect hand.

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