Page 30 of What are the Chances

Mason

“LISTEN TO ME, MASON. You need to calm down.”

“No, ye gobshite. It’s about feckin’ time you started listening to me.” I can already tell my accent has grown thicker the more I yell into my phone.

I’m sitting in my father’s car with the engine off. After dropping Charlotte back at my parents’ house, I couldn’t think about what it would have been like if I had followed her in. I told her we needed some space, some time to think this over. I just don’t think she expected me to mean the precise moment she stepped out of my father’s car, but I needed space and I needed time. Damn, how I needed it.

I’m still angry, feeling the ghost of Char’s lips on mine. We kissed. We actually fucking kissed. And it was amazing, brilliant even. It was the kind of kiss people write stories about. It was the kind of kiss written in the kind of books I’ve seen Charlotte completely get lost in. I’m lost in her.

I grit my teeth, pressing them together with all the strength I have. The pressure causes my temples to swell, and my hands shake as I hold my phone against my ear. Sam is still on the other line, his irritation with me increasing by the minute. Ask me if I care, but I’ll already tell you I don’t.

Sam sighs into the phone at my remark. He finally answered his phone after my third attempt. I knew he was with Emily, planning his wedding, but every thought of Kyle and the picture Sam had sent me the day before still hasn’t broken free from my mind. It’s like Sam purposely sent it to me, just to piss me off. It wouldn’t surprise me.

“Then get on with it,” he sighs.

“What is wrong with you?” I’m not sure why it’s the first thing I say, him opening the gate for me to say anything on my mind. For me to explain why I called him so many times in the first place. Even after the words have left my mouth, I don’t take them back, waiting for his answer.

“You’ll have to be a little more specific there, dear brother,” he quips.

I groan, feeling the frustration in my chest swell. “Why did you have to send me that fucking picture of Kyle? What good did it do?”

“I didn’t want Charlotte to check her Facebook or Instagram accounts and stumble upon it,” he explains. The way his voice is so casual and calm only grates my nerves even more like the sound of a fork scraping across a porcelain plate. How is he so calm about this? Isn’t he protective over Charlotte? How is he not angry about Kyle’s lack of respect for monogamy? Unless… Sam already knew. My eyes widen, realizing what’s going on. Sam isn’t protecting Charlotte, he’s protecting Kyle.

“You’re a fucking arse.”

“Huh? Why am I an arse?” He sounds completely stunned, and if it weren’t for the words I wanted to say to him right now, I would have hung up the moment this new found realization dawned on me.

“You knew. Charlotte told me he’s cheated before.” I grit my teeth again, feeling my headache grow. “If it were me, I would have beat his arse the second I found out. Actually, I wanted to after you sent me that picture.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Are you kidding me, Mason? Of course, I didn’t fecking know. What kind of person do you think I am? And what is wrong with you? I know you’re usually the moody, brooding type, but shit, you’re worse than usual today.”

I ignore my brother’s stab at my usual behavior, focusing on his comment. He didn’t know Kyle had cheated before, he didn’t know it until he saw the picture. My stomach settles, happy my brother isn’t a complete dick.

“I just don’t understand why you didn’t want me to tell Charlotte. Why are you protecting Kyle?”

“I’m not protecting Kyle. As far as I’m concerned, he can go to hell.” He pauses and releases a heavy sigh. “I didn’t want you telling Charlotte because I didn’t want her getting upset when I’m unable to be there to comfort her. She shouldn’t find out about something like that when she doesn’t have anyone around who truly cares for her.”

“Well,” I scoff. “I’m here. She has me.” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Actually, I realize I don’t regret the words—Charlotte does have me to lean on—but I regret speaking them to Sam. I didn’t plan telling him about how close I’ve become to Charlotte, and I definitely didn’t plan on telling him about our kiss. I still don’t, but I can already sense the change in our conversation.

In true Sam fashion, he doesn’t miss the opportunity to tell me he knows something’s up.

“Wait a minute,” he draws out. “I thought you hated her.”

I can picture it, the smug look on his face, finding humor in the events of my exciting life. Taking that as my sign, I decide to hang up.

“Oh, look at that. There’s an old lady trying to cross the street. I better go help her. Talk to you later. Bye!”

I slam my thumb against the red button on my screen and step out of my father’s car. It’s funny because when I had told Sam there was an old lady crossing the street, there wasn’t, but now as I make my way down the main street in the center of the marketplace, I find an old lady walking across the street, carrying two large paper bags full of groceries to her small car. What are the odds? My conscience feels better, knowing I didn’t completely lie to my brother.

After helping the woman, I walk down the main street, my tongue and my heart craving a pint of Guinness. Some people say there’s no problem that can’t be solved with a good cup of tea or a scone, but I beg to differ. There’s no problem that can’t be solved by a fresh pint of Guinness.

A moment later, I find myself walking through the doorway to a pub, “The Irish Lily.” I vaguely remember Sam talking about this pub in the past. He said he came the one time and never cared too much for the atmosphere, said it reminded him too much of old Ireland.

As soon as I step into the main dining area, I know exactly what Sam was referring to. I’m the youngest customer in the room, and apparently, the one with the least amount of facial hair. There are several crowds of older men standing near the back with long beards, long enough to rest on top of their enormous beer bellies.

With my desire for one glass of Guinness and a moment to mull over what to do about my sticky situation with Charlotte, I cross the room and slide onto a barstool.

I remove my black wool coat and drape it across the back of my seat. Resting my elbows against the old weathered bar top, I lean forward and find the bartender a few feet down from me. His back is turned, and he appears to be sorting through a stack of receipts.

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