Page 67 of What are the Chances

Mason

Three Weeks Later

THERE ARE ONLY SO many ways I can rearrange the furniture in my living room. I’ve deduced there are roughly three different combinations I could try to pull off. Two options consisted of my couch pressed up against the same wall it has been for the past few years I’ve lived in this apartment. But with each effort to change the space—move the TV stand here, the bookshelf there, the lamp over in that corner—I can’t help this feeling of uncertainty settling over the change. It feels wrong, foreign, and downright opposite of sparking any joy.

As I look around, my eyes settling on Noodge’s vacant cat bed, still sitting on the floor, I can’t help feeling the slightest twinge of emptiness pass over me. Something tells me this loneliness isn’t just from coming home to an empty apartment, one without Noodge. No, this one is telling me it has to do something with Charlotte and the way we left things on that plane.

It hurt to see her on the plane. Having her sit beside me, wearing those all too familiar black leggings, her hair woven into that irresistible, sexy as fuck side braid, I was reminded of the day I sat outside Alma’s house. Not the day Charlotte completely shut me out and left me standing in the pouring rain, but the day I sat on the giant rock in Alma’s front yard. I remember thinking how it felt like the universe was telling me something. How it felt as if the universe had set up all these tiny, seemingly insignificant circumstances into my life, the ones that introduced me to Charlotte. But how can all that be true, how can Carl fucking Jung’s theory be accurate when I’m standing in the middle of my living room, completely alone?

I’m resting my hands on my hips for the thousandth time, circling my living room for the thousandth time when I let out a frustrated sigh.

“Fuck this.” I say out loud, to absolutely no one. “I need to get out of here.” Swiping my keys from the countertop, I leave my apartment and step out into the warm California air.

The sun is hanging high, as always. And the sky is clear blue, as always. After all the years I’ve lived in Southern California, you would think I’d grown used to the practically perfect weather, nearly all the time, but it almost feels unnatural.

The sun beats against my pale skin, a thin film of moisture building on my forehead. I lower my sunglasses, resting them against the bridge of my nose. After locking the front door to my apartment, I make the short five-minute walk down to the beach.

As usual, floods of people line the boardwalks and sidewalks along the beach. Before I reach the sand, I stand on the sidewalk and remove my shoes. With my shoes dangling from my fingers, I step onto the sand with my bare feet and focus on the water. I sigh, feeling every granule of sand slide between my toes with each step I take. I weave in between the families and couples camped out for the day, their towels laid out underneath them and wander aimlessly for several minutes, listening to the water pulling in and out, the waves crashing onto the rocks underneath the boardwalks.

I continue walking until I notice fewer people surrounding me. Stopping, I turn around and look back to see where I came from. In the distance, I can still see the top of my apartment building and the palm tree lined streets. It’s funny how your sense of direction can waver so easily when walking along the ever-changing motion of the water’s edge.

I spin on my heel, feeling the coarse sand grate against my feet and look out at the water. Sitting down, I bend my legs, resting my arms on my knees.

My chest aches, unable to think of anything but Charlotte. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since that last day. It’s been three weeks since I last saw her on the plane when she ripped my heart out.

I hang my head low, between my arms, staring at the sand underneath me as my phone vibrates in my back pocket. Sliding my phone out, I swipe the green button, already knowing who it is.

“Hey, Sam,” I mumble.

“Wow, Mase. Try not to sound too excited to hear from me.”

Pressing the phone to my ear, I rest my elbow on my knee and drag my free hand across the sand, watching as it spreads and changes with every movement.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t even bother arguing with Sam about his sarcasm. I simply don’t have the energy to dish out our typical brotherly banter.

“Um,” Sam’s voice drifts off for a moment. I pick up a shell and begin digging a small hole into the sand. “Now, you know I’m not one to get all sentimental or emotional, but”—he inhales a breath before breathing it out—“are you doing okay?”

I’m already envisioning his face wincing, listening to his own voice ask me how I’m doing emotionally. Ever since I returned home to Los Angeles, my life has pretty much returned to normal.

The day after I landed, I returned to work, wanting to throw myself back in. Ignoring everyone’s reactions to my bruised face, I quietly walked in, briefcase in hand. I settled into my small office, wearing my favorite dark blue tie and the scars that the previous two weeks had left. But even as I sat in front of my computer, configuring the numbers on my firm’s largest account, I couldn’t help already feeling the slightest of differences. My life may have settled back into a routine of normalcy, but it was my sight that had changed. Life had lost all color and suddenly, faded to grey.

“Mase?”

I clear my throat and rapidly blink my eyes, hearing Sam’s voice fill my ear.

“Yeah, Sam, I’m still here.”

“No,” he laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. “I asked if you were okay.”

“Sam.” I narrow my eyes, studying the blue ocean in front of me. I’m not close enough to the water for it to touch me, but the smell still lingers in the air. I take a deep breath, feeling the scent of sea salt and ocean fill my chest. “Do you know why I moved to California?”

“Of course, I do. Because of what happened with Claire.”

I can sense the twinge of awkwardness in his voice, bringing up Claire. But Claire doesn’t bother me anymore. She isn’t the reason for the rock still resting in the pit of my stomach.

“Well, she used to be the major reason I left Ireland, but she wasn’t the only reason.”

He hesitates. “Mase...”

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