Fated by S G Browne Page B

wondering if I’m going to get away with this.
    “Get away with what?” asks Sara.
    Apparently, I was wondering in my out-loud voice again.
    Sara and I are snuggling on her couch, watching No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain on the Travel Channel, and eating popcorn. This is not something I’ve ever done. Any of it. I’ve never snuggled, I’ve never watched the Travel Channel, and I hate popcorn. If Styrofoam had a flavor, it would taste like popcorn. But I’m sharing it with Sara and pretending to like it because I enjoy any activity that involves being with her.
    “Nothing,” I say. “It’s just work stuff.”
    “What kind of work stuff?” asks Sara, grabbing a handful of popcorn as Anthony Bourdain eats his way around Naples, Italy.
    That’s another one of the problems I’ve discovered about dating a mortal woman. She likes to talk about everything.
    Problems.
    Feelings.
    Sex.
    Typically, any mortal sex I’ve had has been a one-night stand. Even my trysts with other immortals can’t be described as relationships. And while Destiny and I have had an off-and-on thing for most of our existence, we haven’t exactly been exclusive.
    So deep, meaningful, let’s-get-to-know-each-other conversation has never been something I’ve practiced. Not to mention the fact that any significant conversation is going to involve revealing details about me, about who I am and what I do.
    Rule #3: Never reveal that you’re immortal.
    Naturally that means I have to lie. Which I’m beginning to discover bothers me more than I realized it would.
    “I made a mistake,” I say.
    “Everyone makes mistakes,” says Sara. “That’s just part of being human.”
    I almost laugh, until I realize she’s being serious.
    When you make a mistake at Round Table Pizza, you’re affecting somebody’s meal. When you make a mistake at the Gap, you’re affecting somebody’s wardrobe. When you make a mistake at Charles Schwab, you’re affecting somebody’s financial security. But when you make a mistake in my line of work, you kind of have to factor in how it will affect the fate of all mankind.
    To an extent, human beings are kind of like pizzas and relaxed-fit jeans and retirement accounts—some of them are of more consequence than others. Though to be fair, there are a lot more pizzas in the world than IRAs. Still, that doesn’t mean a pizza can’t have an impact on someone’s financial future.
    On the television, Anthony Bourdain is eating pizza.
    “So what did you do?” asks Sara.
    “I gave someone the wrong information,” I say.
    Sara is under the impression I’m a stockbroker, working in international commodities. Which isn’t entirely false. After all, I broker stock in human beings and I trade in the commodity of fate.
    “What kind of wrong information?” she asks.
    “The kind that could get me in trouble,” I say.
    The thing about Sara is that she has infinite patience.
    “Okay,” she says, putting down the popcorn. “This mistake you made. Is it going to kill anyone?”
    “No.”
    “Is it going to cause the end of the world?”
    I have to think about that one before I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
    “Is it going to get you fired?”
    Chances are that with everything else he has to contend with, Jerry isn’t going to notice the artificially adjusted fates of three inconsequential pizzas. It’s not as though they did anything remarkable or memorable or groundbreaking, like lay the foundation for Western philosophy or refuse to give up their seat on a bus or shoot a fifty-nine at the Masters. They made choices that thousands of humans make every day.
    “Probably not,” I say.
    “Then let it go,” says Sara, curling up next to me. “Whatever mistake you made, it’s probably not as big a deal as you think. And even if it ends up being a problem, you have everything you need inside of you to fix it.”
    Sara has one knee across my thigh, one hand across my chest, and her head against my