22-REAGAN
I sat, swallowed in the quiet of my TV-absent house. Miles had been bothering me about our mom’s Halloween party. I knew it was his, but Miles wasn’t the kind to brag about throwing a party at his mother’s house. So it was her Halloween party.
Miles: Will you bake something? Cake pops? Cupcakes? Anything?
Reagan: I can. Just tell me what exactly.
Miles: Cake pops. Maybe cookies.
Reagan: Alright. Anything else?
Miles: Vincent. Mom’s dying to meet him.
Reagan: Are you using Mom again?
Miles: ……No.
I spot Tate on my front porch camera and jump up, ready to confront him. The door swung open before he had a chance to knock. “What the fuck, Tate! What do you want from me?” I stood in the doorway, arms crossed, giving him the sign that he was unwelcome.
“Just came to check on you. But wow—what a welcome.”
“You pissed on my plant!” I gestured to the poor thing.
He scowled, “I didn’t do that.” He admitted being so drunk that he forgot his detour on his way home with his friends.
I tightened my arms over my chest as a shield. “Yes, you did! I have it on video.”
“It looks fine to me.”
“Because Vin—” I paused rubbing my brow, “Because it got rinsed out.”
Tate’s expression flattened. “Yeah, I came to check on you after your weird date. Who the fuck was that? How did you two even meet? And why are you even dating?”
“It is really none of your business.”
“I didn’t know emo cowboy was your type.”
“Tate, what do you want? How can I make you go away?”
He stepped into my space. “I told you, I don’t want a divorce—I want you.”
My feet stayed cemented on the threshold plate. “I tried for three years to tell and show you what I want. I fucking begged you!”
“Let’s try now. I’m listening.”
I pulled back as he tried to touch my arm. “No, Tate. You’ll change for however long it takes for me to trust you and then return to your old ways.”
“God, it’s like you have no faith in us. Where’s the Reagan I married?”
“You’re looking at her. After breaking down over and over again, I don’t look the same. Sign the papers and kindly fuck off.”
He stares at me, puzzled, and I grip the edge of the door and slam it between us. The deadbolt thunked hard against the frame. I fumble picking up my phone to call Miles. He wasn’t going to believe what happened.
I stop when I see a message.
Masked Midnight Daddy: The jig is up, the world knows I was Fang. Hope this doesn’t change anything for you.
Tate’s diesel engine fades down the street, and the anger drains from me. I can't help but smirk at Vincent’s contact photo. In the middle of the entryway, I quickly thumb out a response.
Reagan: How long until they realize you caught me and we’re both famous?
I find Miles’ contact and call him.
“What’s up, Egg? Are you going to make those cake pops or not?”
After putting my call on speakerphone, I drop to the couch and shuffle through the end table drawer until I feel the texture of a nail file. I pull it out and begin sawing at each nail edge. “I told you, yes. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“What do you need?”
“Tate showed up two minutes ago.”
“Ew. Why?” The disgust was heavy in his voice.
“He’s trying to make it work between us.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him no. I was done.”
“Good, good. Then what?”
“Then I slam the door in his face. But I also got a text from Vincent saying everyone knows he was Fang.”
“Like everyone, everyone?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Yikes. So what now?”
I checked the roundness of my nail with my thumb. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Good. Because I’m sure girls are going to hunt him down. You know how good women are with the internet.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
The sound of his seltzer opening cracked through the line. “You’re going to bring him next Friday, right?”
“I can ask him. But I am not quite sure what we would even dress up as or if we would dress up at all.”
“Dress up as Fang and his hostage.”
“I’m not dressing up as our personas from how we met.” The file hit the side table with a quiet thud.
“If you need help thinking of anything, I am sure I could throw some ideas together for you.”
“Okay, well, you’re not inviting anybody who will tell Tate I’m there, right?”
“Egg, I think I hate Tate more than you do.” He scoffed.
“Remember when I punched him in the back of the head in drama class my sophomore year, for no reason at all? That was before you noticed his spotless boots and shiny truck. Anyway, I digress. What if you dress up as a horse and he’s a farrier? ”
“I’m not dressing up as a horse on Halloween. Usually it’s the woman who gets to dress sexy.”
“I don’t want to see that, and I don’t like waiting for you to ask him. I should have snuck his phone number when I took his picture from you.”
“I’m not giving you his number. I’ll let you know as soon as I ask him.”
“Ask him now. Texting works while on a call.”
“Oh my god, Miles. Fine.” I tap the messages icon and select Masked Midnight Daddy at the top.
“He hasn’t responded to my last text, just to warn you.”
“Let’s three-way call him.”
“Miles, no. I draw the line there.” I focus on my message to Vincent instead of my brother’s off-the-wall ideas.
Reagan: Are you free next Friday? My brother is throwing a Halloween party and would like you to join as my guest.
“There, I text him.”
My phone vibrated against my leg.
Masked Midnight Daddy: I’ve actually been dying to wear this costume and need a partner for it. I will be there.
“He said yes.”
“Perfect, bye.” Without another word, Miles ended the call.
Reagan: What is this costume I’m agreeing to?
Masked Midnight Daddy: You’ll see.