Page 72 of What are the Chances

Mason

“EMILY, THAT’S RIDICULOUS.”

“No, it isn’t, Sam. Haven’t you heard the saying before?”

“Yes, of course I have, mo stor.”

I hear Sam’s voice groaning from the back patio of my parents’ house. I drop my keys onto the front table and remove my coat before walking down the hallway. The patio door is opened wide, allowing the cool, misty air to blow through the whole house. The rain has settled just long enough to enjoy the fresh air. When I step out onto the covered portion of the patio, I find Sam and Emily sitting at the small round wooden table, a bouquet of pink roses sitting in the middle.

Sam and Emily look up as I slide out a chair and join them, Emily giving me a small smile before turning her attention back to Sam.

“Monday for wealth,” she says, “Tuesday for health, Wednesday the best day of all—”

“Thursday for losses,” Sam cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Friday for crosses,” he sighs, sitting back in his chair. His shoulders fall as he tips his head back, looking up to the large canopy keeping us dry.

Emily leans forward in her chair, waiting for Sam to finish the rhyme, clearly annoyed.

I trade glances between them, annoyed myself. I didn’t come here to deal with Sam and Emily’s relationship and wedding issues.

At least they’re in a relationship.

“And Saturday no luck at all.”

Suddenly, as if seeing me for the first time, they both turn their heads to me. Sam smirks as Emily holds her hand out to me, turning to look back at Sam.

“Thank you, Mason. Saturday. No luck at all.”

“I heard you, mo stor, but that saying is as old as dirt.” Sam waves his arm around, glancing around the garden behind Emily. “It’s as old as... I don’t know... Ireland.”

“It’s bad luck,” Emily points out.

“No one wants to go to a wedding on a Wednesday, Emily,” Sam retorts. “It just isn’t practical.”

“They’ll go whichever day we choose because it’s our wedding. They’re celebrating us.”

Sam rakes his fingers through his brown hair and blows out an exhausted sigh.

“Wait,” I say, confused. “I thought you already set the date.”

“We did,” Sam says. “But since Emily is English, and she’s marrying me,”—Sam points to his chest—“an Irish man, she decided to look up Irish wedding traditions.” He turns back to Emily, eyebrows raised. “And apparently, our marriage will be doomed for all eternity, and we will live a life of treachery and misfortune if we marry on a Saturday.”

“It’s bad luck,” Emily scoffs, crossing her legs and arms.

“It isn’t.” Sam looks at me. “Tell her, Mason. Tell her it isn’t bad luck to get married on a Saturday.”

The air catches in my throat. I attempt to brush off the lingering disappointment from the day, but I know I’m unconvincing when I say, “I don’t think I’m the best person to be giving out relationship advice, much less wedding advice.”

Sam scoffs, and Emily looks at me with pity. My soul crushes, having her look at me like that.

“Speaking of relationships,” Sam says. “How’d it go? Did you talk to Charlotte? Did you profess your undying love to her and make up?”

Sitting up, I dramatically look over my shoulder.

“Well...” I drag out the word as I glance over my other shoulder, then sit up even farther, pretending to scan the garden, looking for someone. I sit back in my seat with a huff. “Do you see Charlotte anywhere?”

“No,” Sam says, pouting. “But geez, no need to be such a jerk about it. It was just a question.”

“I’m sorry,” I groan, my eyes roaming across the yard. I spot my childhood tree, surrounded by pink roses. When I look at the tree now, all I see is Charlotte beneath it, a book sitting between her crossed legs, the sun shining against her chestnut hair. “I don’t understand what happened.”

---