Page 2 of What are the Chances

“Fuck. No, it’s not a fecking head,” he scolds in a thick Irish accent. “And will you keep your voice down?”

I sit back and gesture toward the mystery box, still not completely put at ease. “Then explain, weirdo, because I can’t get on the plane if there’s a head in that box.”

He looks around again. “It’s not a head.” Furrowing his gorgeous, dark red eyebrows, he stares at me for a moment as though wondering if I’m crazy.

“Will you stop?” He swallows and looks back down at his precious box. “It’s…” he trails off, so I lean in closer to hear him better. “It’s my cat. Okay?”

I sit back in my chair and give him a confused stare.

“What?!” My ‘t’ comes out rather harsh, but I can’t believe what I just heard. “I’m sorry. Did I hear you correctly? Your cat is in that box?” I’m still not believing what I’m hearing. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone casually carrying their cat’s remains around, much less taking them on an airplane.

He releases a sigh and turns toward me, bringing our bodies close.

“It’s a long story, but yes, it’s my cat, Noodge. I’m taking him back home to spread his ashes.”

I make an extra effort not to laugh or scoff. With the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he’s serious as if traveling with your cat’s ashes is completely normal.

I swallow my retort and calmly ask, “Noodge? Your cat’s name was Noodge?”

He watches me carefully and slowly nods. I swallow another retort and search my pale hands, hoping my mouth won’t form the damn words burning in my throat.

With a cough I ask, “What kind of name is Noodge?” Unable to contain myself, I burst out laughing. I feel so damn terrible for it, but this had to be a joke. Thankfully, he doesn’t shove me off the chair. Instead, he simply sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Yes, get it out now. Noodge, the cat, is dead, and I hope his freaky cat ghost corpse haunts you in your dreams for laughing at his name.”

His comment immediately sobers me. I’m superstitious and totally don’t doubt a dead cat could haunt me.

The overhead announcer comes on the speaker system, calling our flight information and telling us we’ll begin boarding shortly. I unplug my charger as my mystery chair mate leans over me to unplug his.

Holy shit, his smell.

Was this some universal test of faithfulness? I’m tempted to look around for hidden cameras—it isn’t possible for this stranger to smell like my childhood, but fuck, he does. Cedar. He smells like a cedar tree or more specifically, like the cedar jewelry box I had as a little girl. My throat swells as memories assault me from his scent, and I awkwardly stand. I quietly watch as he shoves his charger into his black backpack. After he zips it closed, he slides it onto his back and picks up the box carrying Noodge’s remains.

The woman at the airline counter holds the phone to her mouth, speaking loudly over the intercom, announcing the start of business class boarding. I scan my ticket, not sure it means me or not. A few people push past me while the rest of us form a line. My seat mate is already near the front of the line, probably eager to get away from me, praying we aren’t destined to sit next to one another. Fine. I guess I understand. I had made fun of his dead cat. I don’t totally blame him.

After my ticket is scanned, a nervous ball of sickness rests at the bottom of my stomach. I walk down the questionable tunnel leading to the airplane. A flight attendant stands at the open cabin door with a smile I’m assuming is meant to be comforting. She gives me an enthusiastic, “Hello,” then holds her hand out, indicating the direction I’m supposed to head as if there were any other possible way to go. Once I step onto the plane and into the aisle, I begin searching for my seat. I’m terrified of possibly sitting in the wrong one. My mind is a jumbled bundle of nerves, and I don’t necessarily trust myself when it comes to the rules of travel. I would be mortified if I sat down, got comfortable, then some bossy woman with fake nails told me to get lost. So, I triple, quadruple check 15D is, in fact, my seat, placing me closest to the aisle.

Although I’ve eyed my seat number from where I’m standing, I still have a considerable distance to walk before I make it there. The line down the main aisle is a tricky game I’m quickly learning. Walk too fast and you slam into the person in front of you. Don’t move quick enough and the person behind you trips right into your suitcase. I feel like I’m in a pinball machine, and me and every other passenger are the pinballs. Once the line begins moving again, and the passengers start filing into their designated seats, I grunt with more frustration as my suitcase hits every seat along the way. I feel like I’ve already uttered a million apologies. Finally, when I’ve reached my row, I bend down to pick up my small, silver suitcase.

I begin lifting the suitcase, trying to remember what I stuffed inside of it to make it so damn heavy. I don’t remember packing anything that felt like it might be carrying about fifty cement bricks. When I lift the suitcase over my head, I rest the edge of it in the overhead bin, ready to slide it in. But someone’s suitcase is already taking up the space. It’s crooked, and I grunt, sounding like a body builder lifting weights in the gym.

“Come on!” I grit out as I shove my suitcase forward, slamming it into the one taking up all the space. I’m starting to panic, sweat filling every pore of my body. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, not so patiently waiting for me to give up and move out of the way.

I’m about to drop my suitcase and toss it down the aisle of the plane when two large hands reach out, pushing my suitcase aside.

“Jesus fecking Christ,” the stranger grits out, grabbing onto the suitcase already loaded into the overhead bin and moving it to the side. Recognizing the voice, I turn my head to see who’s behind me. My stomach dips when my eyes meet the green ones staring straight back at me. I get lost in his emerald eyes for a moment. It’s my stranger from earlier.

Well, not my stranger.

Nonetheless, still a stranger. The one so obsessed with his cat, he’s bringing him all the way to Ireland, just to throw him a memorial service.

I narrow my eyes at my stranger... dammit, the stranger and remember how we first met.

“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath.

Once he’s finished arranging the suitcases, I huff out a frustrated sigh and heavily slide down into my seat. This flight was already experiencing turbulence, and we hadn’t even left the ground yet.

My heart is thrashing inside my chest, and my skin warms with embarrassment. I want to disappear. I wish I could find some hole to crawl into, hiding from all the eyes I still feel watching me—especially the green ones belonging to the man who has somehow managed to stir something inside me. I’m starting to wonder if I would be able to fit under the seat in front of me, the one designated for my purse. I fight back the urge to crawl and hide, noticing how the line hasn’t moved an inch since I sat down. The pinballs have jammed up. When I look up to see why the people aren’t moving, those same two intense sexy as hell green eyes are staring directly at me.

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