Page 1 of What are the Chances

Charlotte

EVERY INCH OF ME is sweating—my palms, my forehead, my armpits—everything. It’s problematic because people are looking—the business guy in the suit, heading toward some snazzy, elitist lounge is definitely judging my pit stains. I resist the urge to look down and see if my boob sweat is showing—if it is, I’m going to die. I’ll fall over right here and just let it end.

I had no idea flying was going to be this stressful. Security was a nightmare. Just keeping up with everyone who was partially stripping while keeping up with their little plastic tubs on the conveyor belt had me in hives. Walking through the metal detector with my hands up had me hyperventilating, and when it started beeping, I almost started screaming I didn’t have a bomb.

I thought once I was through the five layers of hell, things would calm down, but I had no idea how much walking was going to be involved when I agreed to this trip. And how hot was it in here? Did they have the heat higher than it needed to be? I mean its California, heat is not necessary.

I’m just nervous. It could be the nerves around the fact I have never flown before or the irritation around the fact my boyfriend of two years was supposed to make this trip with me but had—conveniently—forgotten to schedule it with his job.

Well, fuck him, fuck his job, and fuck the group of teenage girls huddled around the damn magazine rack, blocking a huge chunk of walkway. My mood is slowly sliding down the proverbial slope as I gain more territory toward my specified departure zone.

Gate G? How many gates are in this place?

Frustration burns in my belly as I veer down yet another carpeted hall, packed to the brim with travelers and rolling suitcases. Finally, I roll my carry-on to a stop in front of a small area sequestered to the side with rows of blue chairs, all connected to each other and nearly full of people. Large tv monitors hang off to my right with various flights and times. I verify for the hundredth time this is my gate. My flight and the time are correct, so I plop onto an open chair, anxious for boarding to start.

I take a second to look around and try to relax, but my body reminds me how sweaty I am, and my dry throat is practically screaming for me to buy some water while I still have time. The other waiting passengers are checked out with headphones, laptops, or phones in front of their faces. I try to gauge how far away the soda machine is from my seat and determine it would be safe to leave my suitcase long enough to grab a drink. I secure my purse, leave my neck pillow, jacket, and small silver suitcase, and jog over to the vending machine. It takes all of one minute for me to buy my water, but when I turn around to head back to my seat, there’s someone there.

I stop and look around the waiting area, making sure I’m not seeing things. Maybe I made a mistake? I glance around the room once more.

Nope, there’s definitely a stranger sitting in the same seat I was in only moments ago. He’s shoved all my things off the chair, leaving them in a disheveled pile on the floor. I stomp back over to my now occupied seat and put my hands out in a ‘what the hell’ gesture.

“Hey,” I say to the red-headed jerk who I assume is the one who carelessly dumped my stuff all over the floor. Small earbuds are stuffed in his ears, and a phone is plugged into the outlet next to the seat. In his lap, resting between his hands is a metal box. On top of this, he’s successfully ignoring me.

My anger tips over the edge with his lack of regard for my presence, and I viciously wave my hands in front of his face.

“Hey, I was sitting here.” I point an angry finger toward my pile of belongings. “This is my stuff.”

He tips his head back and a set of gorgeous green eyes narrow. “No one was here when I sat down.” Looking back down at his phone, he ignores me, obviously refusing to engage with me any more than he deems necessary. I place my hands on my hips and stare at him. This is seriously not my day.

“I wasn’t here, but my stuff was,” I argue. “I stepped away for two seconds to get some water.” I realize I could have moved on, let this one slide, but I couldn’t and knew this was slowly growing into a fight. What’s that saying? Don’t poke the bear? Well, I sure as shit was poking the bear, and I didn’t care.

Seemingly annoyed, the guy yanks his headphones out with a huff and looks back up at me. “Well, I needed to charge my phone and holding spots near the outlets doesn’t exactly work in an airport, so I suggest you take your stuff and go elsewhere.” He sternly pins me with another firm stare. With the muscles of his arms flexed, he shoves his earbuds back in, clearly telling me he’s through with our conversation.

I plant both hands on my hips again and release a loud, exhausted sigh. We still have thirty minutes before our flight takes off, and there is no way this jerk is going to kick me out of one of the few seats that isn’t already being shared with someone else. Our departure time is growing closer by the minute. I wave my hands in his face again to grab his attention.

“Sorry, um, isn’t there a top outlet and a bottom?”

He blinks several times before he removes only one earbud this time, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. When he doesn’t respond, I continue with my offer.

“You’re only utilizing the top, so I’d like to sit where I was originally and use the bottom. You can sit next to me and use the top. Deal?”

Why I’m willing to sit next to this stranger rather than the other randos in the room is beyond me. It might have something to do with the sad look on his face, one that matches my own.

I would, however, like to go on record saying it has absolutely nothing to do with how freaking hot this guy is. He has feathery, dark red hair that’s shaved on the sides but left thick on the top—perfect finger running length and for grabbing during more intimate activities. Why did I just think about grabbing his hair during sex?

My eyes are curious as they take in more of his features. He has these pouty lips men just don’t normally have. I catch myself accidently watching those lips at least fifteen times during our exchange, and each time, I’m left with a mixture of guilt laced with excitement.

His green eyes are set under dark red eyebrows, framing his face perfectly as well as a perfectly straight nose and square jaw. He’s a damn fine specimen of humanity, and I want to do every woman everywhere a solid and take a picture. But because he might consider it stalkerish, I decide against it. Yes, I have a boyfriend, and yes, I am loyal to a fault—unfortunately. But a woman could look.

He releases a heavy resolved sigh and scoots over one spot, leaving his long, black charging cord plugged in. I carefully sit down, ensuring I don’t mess with his cord, then connect my own phone to the bottom outlet. After making myself comfortable, I notice he’s taken his earbuds out but keeps his gaze on his phone, still clutching the metal box on his lap.

I want to leave him alone—I should leave him alone—but at this point, we’ve gone far enough in our relationship, I feel comfortable to start up a conversation.

“What’s with the box?” I ask, letting curiosity get the better of me.

He gives me a brief look from the corner of his eye as a humming sound makes its way up his throat. I take a second to examine the box more carefully. It’s a solid metal box with an iron frame. It isn’t huge but definitely looks like it could maybe be big enough for a head.

“It’s not a head, is it?” I gasp and turn toward him. “I will freak the hell out right now if you tell me there’s a head in there.” My voice has risen a fraction, causing him to look around and swear under his breath.

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