Page 48 of What are the Chances

Mason

IT’S FUNNY THE THINGS you remember. More importantly, it’s funny the things you forget. I don’t remember my first day of school. I don’t remember when I learned to tie my shoe. I don’t even remember when Sam and I had our first brotherly fight.

I do, however, remember the night I found my fiancé, Claire, in bed with another man. I remember it so clearly. I remember every detail as if it’s been engrained in my mind forever, much like the picture of Kyle and his secret girlfriend.

How is it so easy to forget the good memories, but the bad ones tend to stick around? Clinging to you like gum on the bottom of your shoe.

For years, I picked and pried at that grotesque wad of gum stuck on the bottom of my shoe, learning to live with it every day of my life. Sometimes, I’d be reminded of that wad of gum, hearing the sound it would make as it clung to the ground, like the memories in my head resurfacing. But then, with one good yank, I’d break it free and continue on with my life, hoping it would somehow disappear.

That’s what Claire had become—Claire and her affair.

“You have gum on your...” Charlotte’s voice drifts off as she drags her index finger down the page. Her finger stops as she looks up at me with a smile. “Brog.”

Smirking, I scoff and continue scraping the bottom of my converse shoe against a flat rock. I literally have a chunk of pink gum glued to the bottom of my shoe. To make my situation worse, I happened to step on the gum on the sidewalk on an unusually hot day. So, the gum is extra stringy, and for the past thirty minutes, I’ve sat with Charlotte under the tree in my mother’s garden, scraping away at the mess on the sole of my favorite shoe.

I stop scraping long enough to look up at Charlotte who still has her nose buried in her book. I notice how the corner of her mouth curls as she reads the words, and it never fades.

“What are ye grinnin’ about?”

“I just,” she says, unable to tear her eyes away from her book. “I just want to learn as much as I can.”

It’s been a perfect six days since Charlotte and I found Alma and had our day of questions. Every one of those days, we’ve driven the short distance to Alma’s for lunch. There are only three days left until Charlotte’s flight back to L.A. is scheduled to leave. I find myself, and perhaps even Charlotte, living in a state of sublime ignorance. I don’t want to face the reality of her leaving. She seems so perfectly happy here.

She mentioned possibly staying in Ireland, turning her vacation into one of permanent residence, but she hasn’t spoken of it since, and I haven’t asked, in fear of both answers. If she chooses to go back to the States, I’m not sure where we stand. Would I ever see her again? Would we try to make our relationship work in our everyday lives? Even though I know we live in the same city, and it’s possible for us to be together, I’m not sure how much Charlotte is willing to make it work. How different will we be?

If she chooses to stay in Ireland, I’ll undeniably never see her again. I have a life in Los Angeles. I fled the troubles of my homeland and my past, leaving it all behind, giving myself a life I could call all my own. It’s something I’m not sure I can so easily turn my back on.

My stomach turns, thinking of the unknown. Either way, whichever Charlotte decided, I don’t know where I stand. I know, regardless of the outcome, there are still a million unanswered questions. The only thing I do know is the way I’m feeling now with her beside me, under my ma’s tree.

My eyes dance across her still smiling face and take in the book resting in her lap. Instead of what I’ve come to learn were romance novels, she’s now switched to a book on learning Gaelic, one she found hidden buried among the seas of books on Alma’s shelves. I find it endearing and absolutely fucking sexy she wants to learn another language, especially one associated with me. She always practices the words on me, checking to make sure she’s pronouncing them right.

“You know, we actually don’t speak Gaelic on a regular basis, Charlotte.” I grunt in frustration, my fingers growing sore from the force I’m using against the gum. I look down at my shoe once again, dropping it between my outstretched legs with a sigh. “I give up.”

“I know,” she shrugs. “Alma said the same thing, but I want to learn everything I can.” She breaks her eyes away from her book. “I think you got most of it off.” Looking at my shoe briefly, she goes back to her book. “Glan.” She then looks back up to me, her expectant, hopeful eyes stare into mine. “Did I say that right?”

“Yes,” I laugh. “You said it right.” My chest warms and my pulse races. She’s so undeniably fucking sexy. “But I wouldn’t say it’s really clean, more like tolerable.” Picking up my shoe, I slide it back on my foot.

When she doesn’t respond and looks back down at her book, I think about the lingering gum still on my shoe. I begin to wonder if that shite gum is somehow a metaphor for my life and the memories still lingering in my head.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to tell Charlotte about the picture of Kyle. I could have told her the night we asked each other questions. I could have told her when I explained my history with Claire and my distrust of women.

Everything is willing me to tell her. I know it’s wrong, but every time the words sit on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out like water from a broken dam, something happens, stopping me from telling her the truth. I don’t consider my secret a lie. I consider it just that—a secret, an omission of the truth. Not that secrets are much better than lies, but considering it as such makes it a pill a bit easier to swallow.

As the days pass, it’s become increasingly more difficult to conceal the truth. When I wake up with her in my arms, I think of that picture. When the sun catches her chestnut hair and a subtle shade of deep red peeks through her silky strands, the words lodge in my throat, choking me. And when she stands outside of Alma’s house, her feet planted on the bright green grass, I stop, unwilling to ruin her happiness.

So, just like the remnants of gum still glued to the bottom of my shoe, I ignore them with each step I make, waiting for the next time I hear the sticky sound it makes, forcing me to remember it’s still there.

“Oh, there they are.” Turning toward the patio door, I see Danny walking through my ma’s garden. Walking alongside him, holding his hand, is Richard.

“Did you ever have any doubt, my darling?” Richard says. “If they aren’t out and about, they’re back here, sitting under this atrocious tree.”

“Aye,” Danny laughs. “Or up in that room, makin’ a ruckus and tossin’ about.”

“Ah, quit your snickerin’,” I chuckle.

Charlotte’s cheeks blush a pale red as she closes her book, smiling at the couple as they finally meet us under the tree.

“What are you two up to?”

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