So, instead of doing all those things, I go to the one place I know I’ll be able to breathe, driving the forty minutes it takes to get to the Cliffs. Thankfully, the rain has stopped. My car is still covered with a thin sheet of moisture, but I ignore it, knowing the Cliffs will help, the same way they always have before.
My chest warms, realizing I haven’t been out here since I moved back home. As I make the drive down the road leading to the parking lot and step out of my car, my foot hitting the green grass, I already feel relieved. It’s as if the air is different here. The grass feels different beneath my feet, giving me the strength to keep moving.
The breeze blows against my jacket, and I dig my hands deeper into my black pants, pushing against the wind. I walk down to the edge, down to the same place Charlotte and I spread Noodge’s ashes. The sun begins to set behind the ocean, and I think back to that day, my cheeks warming, and a pressure builds behind my eyes.
It’s an amazing feeling to feel the love I have for this place, yet my heart aches. Everything aches. My vision blurs slightly, water pooling near the bottom of my eyes. I refuse to blink, knowing if I do, I won’t be able to stop.
I hold my breath, keeping the emotion there, tied into a complex knot at the center of my chest when I see a flickering of black and red in the corner of my eye. I break my eyes away from the ocean long enough to turn my head in the direction of the flowing black and red colors.
There, standing farther down the path, near the edge, is a woman wearing a black dress covered in cherries, one I’ve seen before.
My breath catches in my throat and my heart stops. Then slowly, I feel the knot begin to unravel.
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, ther
e 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.
Mason doesn’t respond, just continues looking at the menu.
“I know it makes things… complicated… me living here and you living there.” I flush red as I stammer through my response. I hate putting myself out there like this. For all I know, he’s only visiting Sam and doesn’t plan on staying or having anything to do with me, but I still want to address the awkward elephant between our two continents.
“Do you think I should get soup? I didn’t plan on it, but with the rain and fire… I think I want it.” Mason’s eyes are glued to the glossy, maroon menu. I blink, unsure why he’d skip over such a big conversation piece and return my eyes to my own list.
“Soup sounds good,” I mutter, pulling my chilled glass of wine to my lips again.
“Soup it is.” He slaps his menu down on the table in jest and waves a finger for our waiter. Once we order, I wait Mason out. I want to know why he wanted to do this. My stomach is in knots, my heart is thumping hard, and my breathing is ragged. Thoughts of him wanting to be friends or moving on run through my mind, and I decidedly can’t handle it.
“Why did you want to have dinner with me, Mase?” I gently ask.
He leans forward and puts his hand under his chin as if this entire thing is a lighthearted affair and not something dangerously close to causing me a heart attack.
“I wanted to have dinner with you because I miss you, and this distance between us is fucking stupid. Now, tell me what it’s been like here? I heard you met my parents.”
Mason wiggles his eyebrows in jest and something plastic and inflatable opens inside my chest, filling me with hope and so many unfair emotions, it’s not even funny.
“I did meet them, they had me over for dinner. Apparently, someone spilled the beans you and I had been a thing, so your mother was a little chattier than she probably normally would have been. Or at least Sam said she wasn’t normally that nice and chatty with people.” I blush and tuck my hair behind my ear.
“She called me… my mother. She likes you, a lot. Told me to stop being an eejit.”
I laugh, tossing my head back and smile wide.
“She told me stories about you as a baby… there were pictures.”
“Feck me.” Mason leans back and groans through his hands as they cover his face.
“You were so cute with that red hair and that strong desire to dress like Tommy, the Green Power Ranger.”
“He was the only one I liked, plus he had Kimberly, and she was hot,” Mason jokes, while sipping his beer.
I’m laughing so hard, my stomach hurts.
“They told me to come back over once they returned from Italy.”
Mason nods slowly, playing with the salt shaker.
“You probably should… I’d like to properly introduce you this time.” His green eyes meet mine and pause.
I swallow and whisper, “As what?”
He doesn’t shift, doesn’t move a muscle. “As mine.”
Our meal comes, breaking the moment. Mason changes the subject and moves to less complicated waters while he eats. He tells me about his new job and some moron who thinks he’s the shit, making Mason’s life miserable. I laugh and listen, but my stomach churns uncomfortably as he talks about this new venture. I can only imagine he’s digging his roots deeper into the L.A. soil—far away from me.
I decide to move past the sadness that comes with the idea of him starting something new in California and decide instead to dissect his words “As mine.” It was like something off a crime show with the words on a billboard-sized monitor, some decryption software tearing at each letter to find clues. I’m a mental mess of confusion.
Mason pays the check and keeps talking about the difference in weather between California and Ireland and how he feels like his bones have weather whiplash because of it. We’re outside, two blocks from my house, but I’m not ready to let him go.
“So… uh… would it be okay if maybe I...” Mason stammers, tugging on his neck like he’s embarrassed. I wait, toying with my keys, hoping he’ll want to keep this going as much as I do.
“Could I come see your place?” Those golden flecks shift to mine.
For a moment, I’m lost and can’t believe I’ve missed how gorgeous his eyes have always been. Maybe, I just never looked deep enough to see them. They’re captivating. My mind says, “Think about this,” but my heart and some place low in my belly says, “Hell yes, let’s do this.” Two against one won out.
“Sure, it’s just a few blocks from here.”
We walk shoulder to shoulder, not holding hands, down the few blocks that stand between us and my apartment.
We scale the metal steps on the side of the bakery and come to a stop outside my bright blue door. There are hanging plants hung around the entry way to hide my door. Mrs. O’Hair, the bakery owner, thought it might give me some privacy. I just like how pretty it makes my space.
“Here we are,” I say, swinging my door open and taking a few steps into the small living area.
Mason looks around, not focusing too hard on anything in particular. I have a small loveseat, an accent chair, two bookshelves, a coffee table, and exactly two counter tops in the kitchen. It’s small and cramped, but it’s mine and smells like fresh bread.
“No television?” Mason asks, sauntering over to the bookshelves.
“It’s in my room… did you want to…?” I’m stammering now, feeling awkward. Mason turns his head quickly in my direction.
“Yes, let’s watch something.” He heads down my small hall and turns into my bedroom without waiting for me. I cross the room and quickly catch up with him.
“Here, let me just fix the bed a bit.” I lay my coat and purse down, kick off my boots, and take a few books and my laptop off the quilt.
Mason continues looking around, touching small photo frames of me graduating college and high school, one of me and my mom. Thankfully, he doesn’t grab my phone. If he did, he’d see the background is still of the two of us kissing.
My hands are working on their own like two warriors gone rogue, building a fortified wall of pillows to keep Mason from hurting me again.
“What are you doing?” Mason jokes.
I shrug, finalizing my creation. “Just so things go slow… you know, for the sake of our friendship.” My face is blazing. I have no idea what we’re doing, but this pillow wall isn’t coming down.
“Whatever you say, Char.” He plops down on his side with a large bounce, moving at least three of my accent pillows. I carefully tuck them back into place and crawl onto my side. Grabbing the remote, I start Netflix, praying my plan of protection will keep me from getting hurt.
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 reli
ef. 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.
What are the Chances Page 23
