Page 65 of What are the Chances

Charlotte

I HAVE A WINDOW seat this time around. I look out at the black tarmac and try to breathe through my nose. Tears have threatened to fall all morning, and all I want to do is put on a sleep mask and let them free. My stomach is in knots, and there is absolutely no chance I’ll have an appetite any time soon.

Passengers are walking past me, toward the back of the plane. I somehow snagged a seat closer to the front, and I’m glad because as soon as this bad boy lands, I want off and onto my connecting flight as quickly as possible. I’m pulling out my cell phone and earbuds as I hear someone mutter.

“Holy hell.”

I snap my gaze up at his voice, sure my head is playing tricks on me. Mason is standing in the aisle, staring at the seat next to me. It’s a row with three seats, and apparently, he has the one on the end—or just chose to take it instead of the one right next to me. Of course, he has my flight and the same seat arrangement. What are the effing chances?

I was so harsh with him yesterday, I have no idea what he thinks today. A small part of me wants him to cut the distance between us, push the armrest up, and pull me onto his lap, to have me on him the entire flight. And when we land, I want him to follow me home and help me pack. But the responsible ‘I’m choosing myself’ part of my brain wants him to find a different row, so I don’t have to look at his beautiful, bruised face for hours on end.

I don’t say anything as he adjusts his bag on the floor near his feet and continues to keep quiet while he gets his neck pillow out and snags his phone. My heart thunders in my chest as I watch him in my peripheral vision plug in his headphones, removing any chance for us to talk.

He’s done with me then. I was too harsh last night, and today, he won’t even try to talk to me, much less register my existence.

I guess I’m doing the exact same thing, but the hurt part of my brain is justifying why I’m doing it, telling me he has no right to give me the cold shoulder. He should support my decision to find myself and be cordial. Just like that, I put my earbuds in and press play on the first song on my playlist. I don’t hear the words as my heart continues to rattle in my chest. I watch the luggage carriers drive back and forth along the runway and just keep breathing.

“You’re in my seat, mate.”

I barely make out the British man hovering over Mason. I glance at Mason’s posture to see what he’ll do. If he’ll scoot over and sit near me or give this guy some excuse why he needs to be there. He doesn’t glance at me once. I’ve paused my song, so I can hear them. The guy keeps showing Mason his ticket, proving 10C is, in fact, his seat.

“Mind swapping with me? I’m already all adjusted here,” Mason finally asks, his tone harsh and raspy. The tall man next to him lets out a sigh and rubs his forehead, blocking passengers who need to get to their seats.

“Fucks sake, man, I picked my seat and wanted the aisle. So no, I won’t trade you. Move your arse over.” The man peers up at me for a second, then does a double take which makes my stomach churn. A slow smile works its way over his face, and I know he’s about to move in to sit next to me, so he can flirt for the next thirteen hours. I turn my head away from both men. I can’t watch Mason throw me to the horny wolf, just to avoid sitting near me.

I can feel the body heat from someone as they adjust in the chair next to me. I’m expecting British guy, but I smell cedar. Turning my head, curiosity wins out, and I see Mason buckling his lap belt and readjusting his pillow. I want to grab his hand and squeeze it. I want to kiss him and have him tell me we’re going to work through this, but the words I spat at him last night come back like a bitter aftertaste on my tongue.

I told Mason I was done, that I needed time. I drew a line and need to stay on my side of it. Ignoring Mason’s body heat and scent, I press play on my phone and hope for sleep.

***

It was at hour three I finally pull my earbuds out, my poor ears sore from having them invaded so long. Mason doesn’t have his in either, his head resting back against the seat with his eyes closed. I carefully wrap the cord of my earphones around my hand and place them back in my purse.

It’s hard to ignore the purple bruising around Mason’s eye and his swollen lip. With his eyes closed, I can study him without him knowing. Except as I watch him like a creeper, his eyes pop open. He holds my gaze, those green eyes blazing with something I can’t place. I clear my throat and look down, fidgeting with my lap belt.

“Something I can help you with, Char?” Mason softly rumbles next to me.

I shake my head, not ready to speak, not strong enough to give him any words—the words admitting I was wrong last night.

“Seems like you have something you want to say, so just say it,” he repeats in frustration.

I clear my throat and half turn toward him. “I was just looking at your bruise. It looks terrible.”

He eyes me but gives no indication of emotion. His firm jaw is set, and his eyes are glacial. I suddenly feel like I was the one who lied to him, then chose to fight his ex, over making up.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I whisper, hoping he’ll cut it out.

“What? Like you pulled the plug on us before we even had a chance? Is that how I’m looking at you?” Mason’s menacing tone sets me on edge.

“Seriously, Mason?” I roll my eyes, and he sits up, moving his body forward a few inches.

“Yeah, Charlotte, seriously.” He emphasizes the end of my name, showcasing the removal of my nickname. It hurts, but I push through it.

“I’m just trying to do the right thing here.” I shake my head in frustration.

“Charlotte, you didn’t even give us a chance,” Mason scoffs and glares at me. “You’re fucking ex walked in and ruined everything.” He leans more toward me with a death-like seriousness, “I know for a fact you were going to forgive me, that you were going to give us another shot before he showed up.”

“You could have easily walked around him and taken my hand, letting him fume and fuss without either of us there.” My voice has raised an octave, and British guy clears his throat, glancing our way.

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