Page 75 of What are the Chances

Charlotte

THE OCEAN HAD BEEN spraying me with mist and freezing cold rain for nearly an hour. My limbs frozen, my hair soaked, and my feet sore, I finally turn away from the angry, white-capped waves and head toward my car.

After seeing Mason in the bar, a bone deep sorrow caused my tears to unleash, but the rage that accompanied it couldn’t be tempered by sitting still or going home. I had this need to move and be a part of something that would reach into my soul and whisper for it to heal. I’m tired of missing Mason. I’m exhausted from crying over him, and yet here I am, standing where we first kissed. Where my heart first woke up and realized who it wanted.

The pain slicing through me revolves solely around the idea I want Mason. I want him so badly, I can’t breathe. Shame colors my cheeks as I think back to that day on the bench near the pathway when I’d stupidly called him. Stupidly thought he would care that I was ready for this… for us. I know who I am now, who I want to be at least, and it has nothing to do with anyone but me. I moved, I live on my own, I know I hate chocolate ice cream, especially with peanut butter. I know I love mint ice cream but only if it’s green. I know I miss Mason. I ache for him. But the fact he lives in California will forever be the end of us. I can’t do long distance, so even if that blonde didn’t grab his arm and even if it didn’t look like he was here only to date tourists, he’d still be lost to me. That alone hurt worse than the idea of him just visiting with some temporary woman. We could work through that. I know we could. We were more than that, but the gap between our two worlds? That was something we couldn’t bridge. Seeing him was just a big fat reminder we were really over. Finished. Done. He gave me the space I demanded. The space to heal. But now, it had been too long. He had moved on without me.

With my eyes pinned to the ground, I trudge back up the hill, my rain boots pressing into the soft, rain-soaked ground, the dirt now formed into thick mud, squeezing between each thin blade of grass.

With all my emotions and the anger in my thoughts wandering, I don’t realize someone is coming toward me. As soon as I catch sight of the dark denim and brown work boots, I stop. My poor, fragile heart is beating rapidly as my eyes skate up to the owner of the apparel. Mason’s standing above me, just a few feet to my left, his chest rising and falling nearly as fast as mine, but he hasn’t been climbing a hill like me.

“You’re here,” he mutters in that Irish accent that is a little too watered down for my liking. I continue up the slope as I nod my agreement that, yes, I am in fact here. I walk around him, too proud to hug him and beg for him to fix us.

“I came looking for you,” Mason says, turning and trying to keep up with my strides. I stop abruptly, sending him a foot ahead of me.

“I saw you,” I reply taciturnly. “And I called you.” I narrow my gaze on his furrowed brows and cross my arms at his small step forward. His eyes focus on my posture, and he slows, holding his hands up.

“I know. That’s why I’m here… and for the record, I was there waiting for you, Char.”

“Funny....”—I blink back a few tears—“from what I saw, you were celebrating with that tall blonde.” I sound petty and insecure, but he’s in Ireland and had been drinking with someone else.

“You saw a tourist hit on me and try to make small talk. I obliged because I didn’t want to be a prick.” Mason lowers his hands just a fraction, but they’re closer now, nearly caging me in.

“I should probably get back,” I reply tartly. I have no comeback or response about the woman in the bar, elation and excitement taking up too much room in my chest.

“Charlotte,” he coaxes, ducking his head just a fraction. Something warm moves through my belly at his nearness. I want him so badly, it aches everywhere.

“I should go, Mason,” I whisper, watching my red rain boots stand out in the dark green grass.

“Let me take you to dinner.” Mason gently tugs on my chin and lifts my gaze. His green eyes frantically roam over my face as though he is trying to memorize it as fast he can as if he’ll lose it any second. His warm fingers move from my chin and fit along my jawline, making that warmth turn molten.

“We shouldn’t,” I try to argue but already know I’ll give in.

“Come on,” he jokes, moving his fingers to play with a strand of hair. “Has enough time passed where it’s considered acceptable for me to take you to dinner? As friends. That’s it.” He smiles that all too familiar smile, the one that causes my stomach to flutter and my knees to go weak. “I’ll buy you a big bag of grease. It’ll be perfect.” He tugs on the end of my hair that rests near my breasts. They literally perk up at his closeness and harden. My whole body is attuned to him.

I blink away the rain and a few warm tears. I want to fall into his arms, have him carry me away, and kiss me stupid, but I live here, and he doesn’t. This is my life now, and allowing him any room to come back in would just end in pain. I’m about to say no when he steps closer and whispers into the space between us.

“Just let me take you to dinner… that’s all I’m asking.”

I look down, trying so hard to stand firm, but he tries again, and I’m done.

“Char… please. It’s just dinner.”

I shudder a pathetic, “Okay” before I can refuse again. Pride is a tyrant, determined to keep me isolated and alone.

Mason smiles and takes a step back, then another. I walk next to him, my arms still crossed over my chest, then follow him in my tiny hatchback to the other side of the city.

***

Mason has those little flecks of gold in his eyes I love, highlighted by the candlelight and low hanging lights. The restaurant he took us to is intimate, cozy, and smells like heaven. A roaring fire crackles in a huge stone hearth against the wall, and a man sits on a small stool in the corner, playing a guitar softly. I want to put this entire moment into a quilt and wrap it around my shoulders on the cold, lonely nights in Ireland that are surely ahead of me.

“So, how long have you been here?” Mason casually asks while he sips his Guinness.

I sip my wine and clear my throat. “A little over a month now. I packed my things and shipped them off as soon as I landed in L.A.”

“Well, that was fast, wasn’t it?” Mason eyes the menu fiercely.

“I guess so, but after realizing I had family here, there was nothing for me in L.A.” I watch his expression. I don’t want it to seem like I am talking about him, but he hasn’t called or sought me out since our angry departure all those weeks ago.

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