Page 70 of What are the Chances

Charlotte

IT RAINS EVERY DAY. It’s been nothing but gray, cold drizzle every single day since my plane touched down in Ireland. To say I’m over it would be a passive-aggressive understatement. I am always fully equipped with rain gear, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to ward off the chill that comes with the frigid weather.

“You need a thicker sweater,” Alma suggests while opening the oven and placing a pie inside. A small blast of heat hits me from the oven, and I relish it like a starved street urchin. I pull the rather thick material away from my stomach and eye my great aunt wearily.

“I am wearing a sweater.”

“An even thicker sweater then.” She turns toward me and wipes her hands on the apron that hangs snugly around her generous hips. I rub my arms to try to warm my freezing cold body, but it’s like rubbing shards of ice down an ice sculpture. I look over toward the side counter at a small, flickering candle and question how angry Alma would really be if the kitchen caught on fire. She’d get a break from cooking, and the inferno would be deliciously warm.

“How much thicker of a sweater could I possibly wear?” I ask, bringing my thoughts back to reality and my eyes back to her warm form. She’s sweating. How on earth is she sweating?!

“Trust me girl, you’ll learn quick here that you need layers,” Alma scoffs, pouring me a cup of hot tea. “Your Californian blood needs time to adjust.” Alma never looks at me while she prattles on about her theories about my very serious daily hypothermia situations.

“Fine… I’ll go throw on another sweater and walk around like an idiot,” I huff like a child and head toward my room. I’m living with Alma, just until I can find my own place—a place with at least three fireplaces, a wall heater on every wall, and a glass roof, so when the sun was out, it would let in every drop of warmth.

I’ve been living in Ireland for three weeks now, and it’s starting to feel a little more like home each day.

Except deep in my gut, something feels off.

I wanted this—to have family, to find myself, and figure out what I want for me. Yet after three weeks of independence, I’m not sure why I still feel like something is missing from my life. My heart tugs and demands me to realize it’s Mason who’s missing, but my prideful mind tells me it isn’t him, it’s just an adjustment period. I told him I needed space. I asked for it. But after three weeks, I thought maybe he’d call. I wanted to call him and nearly had, several times, but I can’t get the look on his face from that last day on the plane out of my head.

He hates me.

I hurt him so badly, he’s done, chalked me up as another woman who tore his heart out. Nausea rolls through me as I think of how badly I hurt him, how he’s finished with me and likely moved on.

I pull a white sweater free from the bottom of my suitcase and tug it over my head. It looks strange on top of my other sweater, bulky and awkward, completely hiding my shape and everything that makes me a woman. I roll my eyes and decide to curl up under my covers, abandoning the idea of functioning with the rest of the world today.

I watch the green landscape out my window being battered by the rain. My mind drifts to white-capped waves and glittering water. It drifts to California and engages in torturous activity, thinking of Mason—if he’s looking out his window too but seeing a different ocean and all that sunshine, if he’s moved on, if he’s started dating again.

He’s so handsome and perfect, there’s no way he’ll stay single for long. Just the idea of him dating someone else makes my stomach dip and fill with dread. I blink away tears as I think of him—the way he held me and the way his lips would always find my ear to whisper something encouraging or sexy.

I think of how his green eyes would light up when he laughed and how he’d run his hand through his perfect hair when he was trying to think or form a plan. I thought of all those muscles that laid under his clothes, those abs and…

“Did you find one?” Alma asks, leaning against my door frame. I jump and flush red, embarrassed where my thoughts were headed. Damn, I need a distraction. I’ve been thinking about Mason nonstop, and it’s depressing.

I’m tired, annoyed, and sexually frustrated. The need to get my mind off the man who doesn’t want me anymore is so strong, it has me grasping at extreme straws. The ones guarded by launch codes and locked suitcases. The ones I’m never supposed to open and use. I wince as I think of how I pushed Mason too far, and now, there’s no getting him back. Logically, I know this, but it still hurts to actually have to sit down and process it.

“I did, thanks. I think I’m going to go over to Sam’s for a bit,” I reply to Alma and stand, heading to my closet. Metaphorical briefcase with dangerous, extreme straws is hanging open, imaginary straws strewn all over my floor. It’s going to be awkward, but at the end of the day, Sam is still my friend, and he has to have someone here in Ireland who is single. Someone who will help get my mind off the man I’m still in love with.

***

“No, I’m not setting you up,” Sam scoffs and continues to cut large chunks of peppered beef. I watch his movements and turn to his fiancé, Emily, for help. She raises an eyebrow but shakes her head, telling me it’s hopeless.

“Just hear me out, Sam. I just need to get my mind off Mason. He’s likely dating it up in California, anyway. The more I think about how he’s probably dating, the more I feel like cutting my eyeball out with a rusty spoon.

“I have to get back out there before I wilt away and decide to die a lonely spinster, still in unrequited love. It’s a part of my venture to find myself. I need to spend time with some losers to know I don’t actually need to be in a relationship.” I have my hands pulled together, begging my friend to hook me up with someone.

Sam pulls his lips into a thin line, firming his jaw. He doesn’t exactly look happy. I’m half tempted to give up and let it go, but I’m also desperate and grasping at extreme, dangerous straws. Part of starting over here in Ireland is not clinging to a hopeless relationship that doesn’t have a happy ending.

I haven’t heard from Mason a single time since the plane where he told me he’d leave me alone. Where he finalized things between us.

“Please, Sam. If there was any hope at all with Mason, you know I wouldn’t—”

“There’s hope,” Sam cuts me off, curt and demanding.

I shut my mouth and watch as he moves around his parents’ kitchen. I had met his mother and father a few times now, but they were traveling again, so Emily and Sam are holding everything down. The bitter taste of meeting them as Sam’s friend and not Mason’s girlfriend is still stuck to the roof of my mouth like crunchy peanut butter.

“How do you know there’s hope?” I whisper to Sam’s back.

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