Page 16 of What are the Chances

“I had money!” I practically yell, looking back and forth between Bern and Mason. “I could have paid!” For some reason, I had this deep, primal need to let Mason know I wasn’t a complete train wreck.

“Right,” Bern said. “Her wallet was stolen at the pub. Fecking gobshite sitting next to her. We didn’t even know until he was already gone.”

I watch Mason’s face take on an interesting look, his eyes narrowing. The color of his eyes intensifies beneath the small lantern hanging above the porch. As Bern continues explaining my predicament, Mason’s jaw ticks. At first, I think he’s pissed. But it doesn’t take me long to find the lingering softness to his eyes, almost as if hearing the whole story has brought on feelings of pity. When they search my face and drift down my body, they make me think he’s feeling something closer to worry, than anger.

His gaze warms some nearly frozen place inside of me—some place deep that hasn’t been thawed in a very long time. Some place reserved for mutual attraction, trust, and love, things I struggle to give to my boyfriend since he lost them over a year ago.

Mason blinks and seemingly breaks away from where his thoughts have taken him and reaches for something next to him, behind the door. He pulls a thin, white and blue bill from his wallet and hands it to Bern.

“For your gas and her beer. Thank you.” Mason thanks Bern once more, then pins me in place with another strange look. This look is hesitant, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly reaches forward and tugs on my hand, dragging me into the house.

Without a word, he shuts the door, and the quiet house swallows up all my questions—why Mason was still touching me, why his breathing had suddenly grown heavy.

His grip doesn’t loosen as he turns and slowly leads me through the house. I don’t know exactly what happened to the moody jerk I left earlier this morning, but this Mason doesn’t look at me like a bag of laundry. He looks at me like I belong here, with him. Things are slowly becoming sloshy in this frozen heart of mine.

His hand wrapped around mine, I follow him without a word, his silence unnerving. I fight the feelings brewing inside me, the ones that want to pick apart his brain, just to know what he’s thinking. I’m slowly learning Mason is the kind of man who keeps his thoughts bottled inside. Essentially, he’s a Rubik’s cube I have yet to solve.

Once we’re upstairs, he doesn’t stop at the room I had laid down in earlier. Instead, he heads up a smaller, narrower set of stairs leading to a short, closed blue door. Standing behind him, I watch as he reaches out with his free hand and grabs the doorknob. Quietly turning it, he swings it open.

Inside is a small room, angled with the shape of the roof. I crane my neck and see another small door to our right, propped open. I walk in a little and see behind that door is a toilet, sink, and the smallest shower I’ve seen in my life. In the middle of the bedroom is what looks like a full or small queen bed, covered with a dark green comforter, two large, puffy pillows propped against the metal headboard. A small window, allowing a decimal amount of light from the sunset, sits above the bed, and a medium sized dresser is situated near the far wall, my luggage piled next to it. Apparently, so was Mason’s.

“Why is both of our luggage in here?” Confused, I narrow my eyes and point at the suitcases.

Mason clears his throat and nervously grabs the back of his neck.

“The Airbnb folks are already checked into the other rooms. This is the only one available.” He shifts on his feet and fluffs the pillow closest to him on the bed. “I would take the couch downstairs,” he adds, reading my thoughts, “but we’re supposed to stay out of their way a bit while they stay here.” He shrugs his shoulder, showcasing the defined muscle under his shirt.

I swallow hard and look around. There isn’t even enough room to make a bed on the floor, the free space around the bed definitely too narrow.

I release a heavy, frustrated sigh. I don’t even know where to begin. Should I be more angry with the man who stole my wallet or with myself for allowing it to happen? To add to my irritation, I’m upset with my asinine attraction to Mason. I can’t seem to shake him, no matter what I try to do. Feeling defeated, I fall back on the bed, landing on the soft mattress.

“So, we’re both sleeping in this bed then?” I risk a slight peek at Mason’s handsome face.

He flushes red and slowly nods. “Looks like it.”

Sighing, I close my eyes. “Fantastic.”

Several seconds pass, the silence in the room swells, and taking another chance, I open my eyes and prop up on my elbows.

“What is it?” He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing. The only difference is now he has his hands firmly planted on his hips.

“Are we not going to talk about what just happened?” he asks. His cheeks flash with red as he points toward the small window of our room facing the front of the house.

“I’d rather not.” Annoyed with this conversation, I fall back onto the bed again, too tired for a lecture.

“Fucking try again,” he scoffs. “When I have to give a stranger twenty euros because your wallet was somehow stolen, you’re going to start talking.”

“You didn’t have to give him that much,” I argue. “I only owed him five.”

“Are you joking me?” he asks, his tone taking on a higher pitch like he couldn’t really believe what I just said to him. He’s getting a strange twitch in his eye, and it makes me think it might be time to go. I’ve been back with Mason all of five minutes and already need some space. His mood swings are giving me whiplash. One moment, he’s concerned and sweet, the next he’s angry and demanding answers.

“I’m going to go change for bed.” I snag my smaller suitcase and cart it through the small door to the bathroom, avoiding Mason’s glare. Once I shut the door to the bathroom, I take a few seconds to calm down. I want to cry over having my ID stolen while I’m abroad. I want to cry over the fact I somehow feel further from finding my family than I did while I was in L.A. I want to cry over the fact I just sassed Mason after he bailed me out, paying for my beer. And I want to shrivel up into a ball and just quit at life.

Instead, I push back the shower curtain and turn the chrome knob to the right, waiting for the water to warm. I unzip my suitcase and angle it just right, so I can reach everything inside. The size of the bathroom is going to take some getting used to. It can maybe fit three of me, standing up. Once I step into the shower, I feel my body relax under the warm water. Shockingly, no tears come, no anger, nothing but exhaustion. So, I wash my hair and my body, then promptly get out and dress. Eyeing my pajamas in the mirror, I take a deep breath. Mason’s voice rings through my mind, accusing me of flirting and not making it clear I was with someone. He’s annoying. He’s opinionated. And he has infuriatingly burrowed deep into my mind. That same voice prods at me to grab more clothes and cover up, but the bitch inside of me, the one who had the worst fucking day, says screw it.

I like sleeping in short sleep shorts and a tank top. I like sleeping without a bra, and I’m sure as hell not going to tiptoe around Mason’s feelings. He knows I’m with someone, he can respect that. Not that he even wants me, anyway. If last night was any indication at all, he definitely doesn’t want me. No, I was the big, fat laundry bag. And this laundry bag was going to bed comfortable. Precious Mason could deal.

I braid my hair, zip my suitcase, and head to the bedroom where I hope, and nearly pray, Mason will be fast asleep.

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