Page 78 of What are the Chances

Mason

I HAVE NO IDEA what we’re watching.

After flopping down on Charlotte’s bed, feeling her sidle up beside the pillow wall she built between us, I haven’t been able to pay much attention to anything else besides her.

Everything about her distracts me as if my body is fine tuned to hers, trained to pick up on the slightest details, erasing the absence of her for the past however many weeks it’s been since I’ve seen her.

She’s lying on top of the bed, two large pillows propped up against her headboard, her back pressed against them. I’m lying the same way, our shoulders only inches apart. I pretend to keep my eyes focused on the TV, but I haven’t been able to stop staring at her in my peripheral vision.

I think back to only a couple of hours ago and how I sat on my parents’ back patio, complaining to Sam and Emily about how I felt like I would never have another shot at being with Charlotte.

And here I am. Here she is.

She’s more beautiful than the last time I saw her. How is that even possible? Even though I feel like my heart is beating a mile a minute and my skin flashes with heat at the thought of her, I release an internal sigh of relief. I’m relieved, I know she’s real. She’s here, lying beside me, a wall of pillows built to divide us. I’m not sure how I’m here at this moment. Was it Carl Jung and his theory coming back to remind me this was meant to be all along? Or was it some kind of wild coincidence? How was it the simplest of decisions, the one where I ended up at the cliffs, led me directly to Charlotte? Whatever it was, I don’t care anymore. Screw wondering about the alignment of the stars, universe, and all that bullshit. None of it really matters anymore. I only want Charlotte.

I stare at the TV, keeping up the pretense I’m immersed in whatever show Charlotte chose. My mind wanders in and out, thinking about all the possibilities of the life we can have. Charlotte lives in Ireland. I live in Ireland. No more uncertainty. No more fleeting moments filled by a two-week vacation from the reality of our mundane lives. Our lives are no longer mundane. Charlotte took control. I took control. And now I’m here, in her bed, watching Netflix.

At first, I suggested a romantic comedy if only for the sake of watching her eyes roll and her nose scrunch, knowing she probably wouldn’t be up for it. She was obviously using every device she could to keep her distance from me, starting with building her infamous pillow wall. In my mind, I agreed. The safest route would be to take this slow. We needed time, time to learn to trust one another again. But really, even in the deepest recesses of my brain, I don’t care about taking things slow. I had given her the space she desired, agreeing to act as friends—keyword being act.

After turning down my suggestion for something along the lines of Sleepless in Seattle, Charlotte instead clicked on some zombie show I’ve never seen. Of course, she chose something the complete opposite of kissing, falling love, and resembled anything resulting in an ending where the lovestruck man sweeps the heartsick woman off her feet.

I break my attention away from Charlotte long enough to watch a man running down an abandoned street, a rabid, undead zombie not far behind. The man climbs on top of a school bus, relieved to have finally found a spot long enough to take a breath. Charlotte’s body stiffens as the zombie continues to jump, clawing and grasping for a way to reach the now isolated, still alive man.

Again, not able to keep my focus on the show long enough to fully understand the poor man’s life or death situation, my eyes like a moth drawn to a flame, flit back over to Charlotte.

Her hands are draped between her legs, her fingers clutching the small remote. The black fabric of her cherry printed dress stops mid-thigh. My eyes travel down her legs, my stomach dipping when I see she has them crossed at the ankle.

That’s when I see it—her hands flexing against the black plastic before she smooths the palm of her right hand along her thigh.

She’s nervous.

I’m nervous too.

My heart still pounds within the walls of my chest, but I push through it, determined to break down Charlotte’s walls. Maybe she just needs a little nudge.

I clear my throat and look down at the pillows. I get lost in thought before I hear Charlotte clearing her throat. My head slowly moves, my eyes meeting hers. She’s staring directly at me. I grin like an idiot.

“Hi,” I whisper.

Blue and white lights dance across her face like the shadow of a flickering candle. She doesn’t respond. Instead, she squints her eyes, narrowing them ever so slightly before turning her attention back to the TV, her hands still wrapped around the remote and her legs crossed at the ankle.

I wait a few minutes, chewing on the inside of my cheek, then look back up at the TV. The man is running from the zombie once again. Poor guy.

Running my palms down my thighs, I inhale a deep breath. I know Charlotte said she wanted to take things slow, but I feel this silence is some form of bittersweet torture. She’s the itch I need to scratch. She’s the large red button that has a million arrows pointing to it, signs nailed to every inch of the surrounding wall, the words, “Do not push!” on every one.

I want to scratch the itch, and I sure as hell want to push that giant red button. Then I remember, I never promised her I wouldn’t touch her, only agreed to take things slow.

By my guess, I assume we’re over halfway through the episode. Yeah, I think we’ve taken it slow enough.

Inching my leg across the bed, I tap my knee against the farthest pillow, the one dividing our legs. I watch with a grin as it falls over my leg. Using my knee, I lift my leg and shove the pillow off the bed. It rolls off the side and falls to the floor with a quiet thud.

“What are you doing, Mase?”

Startled at her voice, I whip my head back to Charlotte.

“Nothing,” I shrug.

Her gorgeous face is filled with amusement, yet I can sense a small bit of hesitance behind her eyes. She caught me. My hand rests above that giant red “Do not push!” button, ready to press at any moment.

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