Page 22 of What are the Chances

Mason steps up and situates himself in the small seat beside the driver. This truck was surely designed for clowns. There was no way I was going to be sitting on his lap the entire way.

I eye the proximity to the driver and how little room there is for me in the cab. I begin to shake my head, ready for a convincing argument about calling an Uber or the many cab options when Mason reaches out and tugs on my hand.

“I don’t think this is a very good idea,” I say warily, still standing in the street. I’m not only thinking of how tight the ride will be but also about Kyle—and not in the way a typical girlfriend should when thinking about her boyfriend. All the ways I should be thinking about Kyle and how wrong it would be for me to sit on another man’s lap, I’m thinking how I wish Kyle wasn’t even an issue to begin with.

“Come on, it’ll be fine.” Mason rolls his eyes, tugging on my hand again. He pulls me, and I awkwardly land halfway on his lap. Placing his hands on my hips, he moves me so I’m sitting fully on his legs, against his chest. With just enough space between us and the door, he leans over and squeezes it shut.

Clasping my hands in my lap, over my purse, I hold my breath as the truck lurches forward, settling into gear. The driver is a solid man, looking to be in his late fifties, early sixties. The small frown buried underneath his thick grey mustache makes me feel uneasy. I hope we haven’t put him out of his way.

I curl myself further into Mason as much as I can, attempting to steady myself. His body is sturdy and warm, and I find myself comforted the closer I am. I try to listen to what the two of them are talking about, but they’re speaking in pure Irish dialect, and my ears are busy thrumming from my erratic heartbeat.

Suddenly, we’re in the country and quickly approaching a hill, one I was sure we were going to avoid. It looks like one of those hills that belongs in an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. I don’t have a chance to ask if we’re taking a different route because a second later, my stomach drops and nausea rises in my throat. The entire truck catches air as we nosedive down the incline.

The road isn’t paved, all dirt, covered in ruts and holes. The truck shakes as we head down the side of the mountain. I’m starting to lose it the further down we go. Squeezing my eyes shut, I feel the truck hit hole after hole, dip after dip. After another significant dip, I open my eyes, only to find myself spotting a sharp curve up ahead. Our driver’s still talking about local livestock or some shit like that, seemingly unfazed with our quite literal rocky situation, showing no signs of slowing down.

I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to scream at him to slow the fuck down. Mason shifts beneath me, his fingers gripping onto my hips. A second later, his hand grips my rib cage, holding me against his chest, attempting to keep me from watching the road. I go along with his urgency, slowly feeling my fear of not making it out of this truck alive begin to dwindle. I reward my nose, letting it go exactly where it wanted to earlier and shove it into Mason’s neck. I grip his shirt and start murmuring a prayer as the truck sways and shudders from the road.

His grip tightens around me, and I welcome it. If I could straddle the man, I would—only because I’m scared out of my mind and straddling him sounds like the safest idea.

Finally, the truck slows to a stop, saving me from actually straddling Mason’s lap. Carefully sitting up, I look at him with wide eyes. He’s watching me with rapt concern, and I want to run my finger along his jaw. His hand is still spread along my rib cage, and as I stare at his lips, his thumb presses into the flesh right below my breast.

“Everyone out. I have deliveries to make,” the driver declares, breaking our moment. Reaching for the door handle, I welcome the fresh air on my overheated face.

***

Mason is staring at his phone for the millionth time tonight. I try to ignore it, but every time there’s a break in conversation, even for a fraction of a second, I catch him looking down at his phone, a worried expression on his face. We decided to end our day with dinner and drinks at a local pub in the center of Ennis. With my thoughts being consumed by Mason’s sudden change in behavior toward me, I wasn’t feeling very hungry. Despite my lack of appetite, Mason ordered something called a spice bag and was encouraging me to dig into it while he sipped his Guinness.

“Is everything okay?” I finally ask, worried he’ll suddenly shift gears and tell me to mind my own business, returning to the Mason I first met.

He breaks away from his phone, and his brows crease in confusion.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“You keep checking your phone.” I gesture to the device still resting in his lap. “You weren’t doing that all day until we walked in here.”

“Sorry, no.” Mason seems surprised by my accusation. “It’s fine, I’ll put it away.” He shakes his head and slips the phone into his pocket, absently taking a sip of his beer.

“So, what did you think?” he asks, leaning closer to me across the small table, crossing his arms, resting them on the tabletop. We’re sitting at one of those bartop tables, buried deep in a dark corner of the room.

“What did I think about what?” I ask, taking a sip of my whiskey. I decided it was safe as long as I was with Mason. I argued for a while about him buying me food and drinks, but he just kept pushing me to order.

“The house we went to,” Mason clarifies, digging through the bag of spice grease.

I watch his movements, not sure why he thought that bag would entice me. It’s a greasy bag, filled with an assortment of meats and vegetables. I’ve never seen anything like it in the States.

“I didn’t care for the ride there, but speaking with Harold was pretty cool,” I shrug.

“Yeah that was a pretty ugly hill,” Mason smiles and digs his fingers deeper into the bag. “It’s why we couldn’t call a cabbie or an Uber. No one will go to that part of Killoo.”

I sip my drink, wishing I had taken Mason up on ordering food, the drink already hitting me. I blink and try to continue the conversation about the older man who sweetly told us he was not a Kelley but knew where the original Kelley’s had moved to. We’ve already routed out the trip for tomorrow to head where Harold had suggested.

I want to change the subject, feeling emboldened by the whiskey in my system.

“Do you have a girlfriend in L.A?” I ask, attempting to play off my question as if it hadn’t been one of the thoughts running through my mind all damn day.

Mason coughs, sputtering on his beer. “What?” He sits up in his seat, wiping the beer from his chin with a napkin.

My face flushes as I suddenly regret asking. Maybe I don’t want to know the answer after all.

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