Page 69 of What are the Chances

Picking up another sea shell, I brush my thumb along its surface. It’s pearly white colors shimmer against the bright sun rays beating down on me. The shell reminds me of Charlotte. I’ve never felt more whole than I did in those two weeks I spent with her.

But even knowing this, it doesn’t change the way things ended between us. As much as I hate to admit, Charlotte and I are over. We were over before it even had a chance to begin.

“You know,” I say, clearing my throat. “California hasn’t felt like home to me since I came back.”

“Really?” Sam asks. His voice takes on a higher pitch, and I know he’s expecting me to want to go back to Ireland. I know I’ll only disappoint him when I tell him I can’t.

“No, Sam, it hasn’t because Charlotte changed me. I don’t know what it is.” I stand up, brushing the sand from the back of my shorts. Bending over, picking up my shoes, I begin the trek back to my apartment. “But I think I need to figure it out. Maybe I should talk to her.” My heart races as soon as the words pass my lips and travel through my phone to Sam, still listening on the other end. I stop, my feet still touching the warm, coarse sand. “Or not.” I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut. “Shit, I don’t know.”

“Mason,” Sam says, interrupting my internal battle.

“No. She said she needed space away from me, and I need to respect that.” I take a deep breath, then exhale. “No, fuck it, I am. I’m going to talk to her.” I continue walking, forcing my feet to catch up with the ideas in my head. As soon as I pick up my speed, my legs tense, and my heart thrashes in my chest.

“What’s her address, Sam? Where does Charlotte live in L.A.?”

“What?” Sam asks.

I’m already out of breath, finding it increasingly more difficult to make it through the never-ending outstretch of sand. I’m praying my feet will meet the concrete sidewalk soon. I could will myself to slow down, but I can’t. Even if I believe Charlotte will never take me back, I need to know why I feel this way. I need to know why my chest feels hollow, why my stomach is constantly twisted into knots, and why I’m suddenly questioning every decision I’ve made up to this point. And I just need to know she’s okay. I need to know she isn’t alone.

“Charlotte never gave me her address in L.A., Sam. I’m headed to her place now, but I have no idea where she lives. Tell me where she lives.”

I’m relieved when my feet finally hit pavement. It’s not until I’m sliding on my Converse shoes, I realize Sam hasn’t told me Charlotte’s address.

“Come on, Sam. What’s wrong? If you don’t want me to talk to her, I don’t care. Despite what’s happened, I miss her. I need to know she’s okay, and I want to hear it for myself, not from you.”

“That’s not it, Mason.” He lets out an uncomfortable, heavy sigh. “Charlotte doesn’t live in L.A. anymore.”

“Wh-what?” I stutter. “What do you mean she doesn’t live here anymore?” My heart shatters, and the words catch in my throat, feeling the small, broken pieces of what’s left of my heart fall directly on top of the rock resting comfortably at the bottom of my stomach.

“She moved, Mason,” he explains slowly.

“Moved where?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“She came home, Mason. To Ireland.”

The familiar feeling of something lodged in my throat returns. It’s the same feeling you get when you haven’t completely chewed your way through a crisp, the sharp jagged edges of the flat, salty potato getting caught somewhere between the back of your tongue and your chest. I want to cough, I want to bend over and rid myself of this feeling. My palm starts to sweat, moisture building between my hand and the only thing keeping me tethered to my conversation with Sam.

“Mason? You still there?”

I clear my throat, dislodging the metaphorical chewed up crisp, and force myself to move across the sidewalk, following the same path I had taken to get to the beach. The streets are still crowded, and the sun is still hanging high in the sky. I must not have been gone as long as I thought.

“Yeah, Sam. I’m still here.” My voice is weak, and if I don’t hang up soon, he’ll notice the change in my tone and start asking questions. That’s the last thing I need from my overbearing, older brother.

“Hey, so about Charlotte moving here...” Sam starts.

Fire scorches my chest, and my body starts to ache.

“Listen, Sam,” I cut him off. “It’s okay. I need to go.”

“No, you fucker,” Sam shouts. “Don’t you dare hang—”

I don’t allow Sam to finish his sentence before I pull the phone away from my ear and slam my thumb down on the red button.

It’s as if Sam’s words have somehow made me feel even more alone if that’s even possible. I start to feel as if any hope I had of keeping Charlotte in my life, one way or another, is suddenly gone.

Once I make it to the steps leading to my apartment, I slip my phone back into the pocket of my shorts. Unlocking the front door, I slide my keys onto the end table, flopping onto my couch in one exhausted heap.

Slowly, as the ear piercing silence gnaws its way into my brain, I can’t help but feel angry. Angry Charlotte moved without telling me. Angry Sam didn’t tell me until now. And most of all, angry at myself for allowing this to happen.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I know it’s Sam, trying to call me back, but I can’t bring myself to answer. I can’t bring myself to listen to his words about how Charlotte has found her happiness and has moved on.

When I look around my living room, noting how I can’t even seem to bring myself to move even one single piece of furniture, I think about Charlotte. I think about how easy it was for her to move on without me. And I think about how quickly she decided to move to Ireland. Her ‘home’ as Sam called it.

As for me, I don’t even know where my home is anymore. California? Ireland? An invisible thread, remnants of a tether that used to once exist, starts to tug on what‘s left of my broken heart, feeling as if it’s pulling me in a direction I never expected, giving me a similar feeling to the one I had the day I met Charlotte. I may not realize how much I want her… but I do. And I may not realize how much I’ve needed her these past three weeks… but I do.

Hoping to brush off the conversation with Sam, I stand up and begin pushing my couch to the only other wall I know it can go, hoping against all hope, it will make me feel at home again.

But even before I’ve started, I know it won’t.

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