“Really, Mason?” Her eyes narrow, staring at me with a thousand daggers. “You want to talk about this now?” Tilting her head up to the open sky, she takes a deep breath and backs away from me. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now. You’re ruining a perfectly good day.”
“I know, I know.” I tug on the ends of my hair, already regretting bringing it up. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about us and where this might go when I realized you never told me how it went.”
Covering her face with her hands, her shoulders fall. Slowly, she removes them and stares at me with vacant eyes. My heart sinks, and I hold my breath anxious for what she might say.
“He didn’t answer his phone, so I left him a voicemail telling him it’s over. Does that make you feel better? I didn’t think there needed to be more said about it.”
Balling my hands into fists, I think about her words. She didn’t even speak to Kyle. Something about it feels wrong. For some reason, like a prickle underneath the surface of my skin, her explanation angers me.
“So, let me get this straight, you didn’t even talk to him?”
“No,” she says, confused by my reaction. “I haven’t spoken to him since I left. He won’t answer or return my calls as usual. And to be honest, I don’t really care whether he does or not. Why do you?” The anger is quickly growing between us.
“I care because it means you’re technically still with him, Charlotte.” I clench my teeth, the pressure intensifying with every passing second. “Tá mé chomh amadán.”
Charlotte takes a deep breath, obviously frustrated with my sudden use of Irish.
“English, please,” she grits out.
“I said, I‘m such a fool.” I roll my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m stupid for thinkin’ you were through with him.”
“Mason!” she yells. Her voice echoes off the stone walls, her eyes burning. “What are you talking about? I broke up with him. The words ‘We’re over’ literally fell from my mouth.”
“You failed to mention the part where you didn’t speak to him, Charlotte. How do you know he even heard the voicemail? He thinks you’re still his girlfriend and...” I scoff thinking about the incredible two nights I had with her, feeling her body against mine, he lips press against mine. “We fucking slept together, Charlotte.”
I know I’m angrier than logically necessary, but I can’t help it. It’s as if there’s something buried deep within me, wearing me down and tearing down the logical side of my thoughts. It’s as if the past ten years have come back to me, reminding me of a life I wanted to forget.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she storms toward me, stopping several yards in front of me, a single tear spilling from her eye.
“So, what you’re saying is because Kyle didn’t answer his phone and we didn’t have a full-on conversation, I’m still technically his girlfriend.” She raises her hands and motions quotations with her fingers around the word ‘technically’. “You’re saying,” she continues, “I cheated on Kyle with you! Even though I’m done after the years he treated me like shit and after the absence of him suffocated me to the point I felt so alone, he deserved more from me? He deserved to hear me explain to him why I was the one who was done?” She raises her finger and points directly at me. “It’s like I told you the other night, Mason. It’s not a relationship when neither person is even in it. He can’t force me to stay.”
My breaths are heavy and rapid, listening to her voice crack, her emotions taking her over. I didn’t mean to make her cry, and watching her now, in one of my favorite places after the day she’s had, I feel awful. My stomach turns, realizing I’ve fucked up. Charlotte isn’t even officially mine, and I’ve already given her a reason to cry.
“Char, I’m sorry,” I breathe out.
I wait several agonizing seconds, watching as she nods, wiping the tear from her cheek.
“Do you know what I want to know, Mason?” She doesn’t allow me the time to answer her before she continues. Her glassy hazel eyes stare straight at me, burying themselves deep in my soul. I hold my breath, waiting to hear the next words from her mouth. “I want to know why you always need to know more about me than I do you.”
Swallowing my nerves, I stare back at her, sending her a million apologies. She’s still upset, yet despite knowing this, I can’t bring myself to answer her. Sometimes, we avoid our pasts for so long, they become a distant memory. They become a part that no longer resembles the person you once were. My past is something I’ve wanted to avoid. Something so powerful, I decided to put it behind me a long time ago and never looked back—until now.
I take a deep breath and match my eyes with hers.
“What do you want to know?”
Charlotte
THE WARM STONE UNDER my fingertips centers me as I think of Mason’s question. What do I want to know? About a million tiny things that don’t really matter but make a difference to me.
I want to know why he sometimes looks like he’s in pain when he watches me, and why he secretly smiles when I try speaking like a native. I want to know why he really came here and what his life is like in L.A. I want to know about his family and his childhood and if he ever wants to get married or have kids. I want to be crazy and clingy and scrapbook receipts from meals we’ve eaten together. But really, none of it matters, and men won’t usually respond to all that nonsense, so I settle for my most consistent question.
“Why did you leave Ireland?”
I watch as his eyes widen in surprise and his right foot shifts back a foot or so as if he’s preparing himself for the conversation. He rubs absently at his face as though he had a beard to run his long fingers through although he doesn’t. It’s something I love about him, he’s always clean and smooth. Even watching him touch his face has me hot and bothered, leaving me wondering how sacrilegious it would be to have him take me against one of these ancient walls.
“That’s a bit of a story, Char. Not one I’m sure we’re ready to have.” He reluctantly breathes out, then shifts his body again as if he isn’t sure whether to stand still or walk to where I am.
He wants to touch me—I know it, I can feel it—but he’s holding back. Like he’s expecting something to divide us, and he’s just preparing for the fallout. It makes my heart hurt and beat wildly in my chest.
Just like last night when he assumed I wanted to stay at Alma’s, how quick he was to give up. He isn’t convinced I want this. I narrow my eyes at him as frustration slowly builds in me like a pressure cooker.
“Just a few moments ago, you seemed perfectly fine with me opening up about my breakup with Kyle.” I open my hands wide to showcase the large room we’re standing in. “Why would it be fit for that conversation and not the one about why you left?”
Mason brings his hands to his hips and raises his face to the open sky, letting out a heavy sigh.
“Why don’t we start with something smaller? Not quite so devastating and raw. Maybe we can make it a game.” He tilts his head down, and I can see his green eyes sparkle with amusement. Dammit, maybe he is willing to answer all my strange, obsessive questions.
“What kind of game?” Folding my arms across my chest, I stare him down with my best “don’t test me” face.
He laughs, and it feels like someone just tugged on an invisible string that’s been unknowingly attached to my chest. I push it down, just like I pushed down those damn emotions that came with his nickname for me—Mianach
Something I plan to get tattooed at some point somewhere on my skin. I love that he calls me his. I’m just not totally sure I’m ready to admit he’s mine. Even though I want that, I can’t accept the danger accepting it poses to my heart.
“I was thinking we could make a day of it,” he explains. “I’ll ask you small things, and you ask me small things until we build up to our big questions. We each get one point for every question we answer, and if by the end of the night we have at least ten points, it guarantees a full-length ans
wer to the one big question we both have for each other.”
He stalks closer to me, his dark jeans hugging his thighs with every step. I tilt my head back as his boots go toe to toe with my sandals.
“Then at the end of the night,” he continues, “once we’ve confessed... maybe we can have a ride.”
His Irish accent wraps around me and stirs something deep in my lower belly. I let out a little laugh as his lips make contact with my neck. Wrapping my arms around him, I pull him closer.
“What kind of ride? Like on a horse?”
Mason’s shoulders start shifting underneath my fingers—he’s laughing.
Leaning back, I look at his face. “Why are you laughing at me?”
He’s nearly got tears coming out of his eyes. He presses his forefinger to his eyes as more laughter spills from him.
“Char, a ride means sex. I was insinuating we have sex after we talk.” He lets out another series of laughs before he clears his throat and takes my hand. I’m not even embarrassed anymore by my ignorance when it comes to Irish slang.
“Fine, we can play your game, but I have every intention of making my questions really difficult for you to answer, and you can’t lie,” I respond as he leads me back to the car.
“Deal,” he nods and smiles. “I won’t lie, but neither can you.”
He opens my door for me but pauses as I lean in to enter. Gripping my waist, he pulls me against his chest and kisses me. His lips are soft, but the kiss is demanding as if he’s saying he’s sorry for his earlier blunder.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. He’s an idiot sometimes, but I want him to be my idiot even if I’m too much of a chicken to actually admit it to myself. His hand grabs my ass, and I let out a little moan into his mouth. Pulling back just a little, I whisper in his ear.
“I might not be able to wait until tonight for that ride.”
“Don’t say things like that to me when we’re standing outside a church, Char,” he says, laughing into my neck.
I laugh too, looking back at the tall structure and rethink my ideas about letting loose somewhere that has a cemetery so close. Best not to tempt the good Lord.
Once we start driving away, I lean in to shift the air vents until they’re facing me.
“So, what question do you have for me?”
Mason grips the steering wheel and chuckles, giving me a sidelong look with a perfect smile. With his sunglasses perched on his nose, he literally looks like a movie star.
“It’s a surprise, part of the fun. You have no idea what I’m goin’ to ask, but you’ll have to answer.”
“Well, then.” I turn to look out the window and swallow my worry. “Let the games begin.”
***
“What’s your favorite color?” Mason’s legs are kicked up on the chair next to me, and he’s licking a huge, green ice cream cone with little black cookie crumbs all over it. He drove us to a little ice cream shop in Ennis that’s supposedly legendary. They don’t just give you ice cream, they give you an experience. My cone has pink, strawberry ice cream along with shortcake crumbs sprinkled all over it.
I smirk at Mason’s innocent question. My first one to him had been if he’d had any girlfriends growing up. He said yes, and I silently yelled at myself for being such an idiot. Now I was planning for a very specific, not yes or no question. I lick my lips which Mason watches, his eyes lit with excitement and smiles.
“My favorite color is green. Dark green to be exact.” His exact eye color to be more specific, but I’m not telling him that part. Mason chuckles, and I wonder if he’s caught on. I don’t really care what his favorite color is, I need more specifics about his life.
“What’s your place like in L.A?” I try to seem vague, hoping he won’t say something like “nice” or “big.” He sets his feet down, flat on the floor and leans forward.
“It’s an apartment, two bedrooms, one bathroom. Carpeted, except for the kitchen. It sits on the edge of Huntington Beach.”
I sit back and stare at him. Holy shit. He must have money if he’s on the beach, more specifically, Huntington beach. Come to think of it, he’s never batted an eye at laying down money for our food and dates. I kind of hate he has money. I don’t know why, but Kyle is rich too and a total jackass. He must sense my weird mood shift because he leans forward to lick my ice cream cone.
“It’s a strange set up I have with my boss,” he explains as if reading my thoughts. “He needed a renter, and I needed a place. He charges me five hundred a month and allowed Noodge to stay there. It was supposed to be until I found a place, but I never actually started looking.”
I let out a small breath of relief and lean in to kiss him. I love how willing he is to give me more answers than he needs to, according to our little game. It’s his turn.
“What’s your favorite animal?”
I laugh and shake my head. He was asking the easiest questions, and for some reason, their lack of depth was unnerving.
“I like cats, actually. I was bitten by a dog as a kid and have hated them ever since. I’ve always wanted a cat, but Kyle was allergic, and the other places I lived had a no pet policy.”
Mason gives me a half smile and tucks a few loose strands of hair behind my ear.
“What kind of cat would you want if you could have one?”
I look into his eyes and try to ignore what’s happening in my gut right now. No need to feel swoony over talk of cats. I clear my throat and attack my ice cream cone.
“I don’t know, something with really soft fur and pretty blue eyes. Not white though, not black, and not one of those Siamese cats either.”
“You’re very specific about what you don’t want,” Mason laughs, his whole body moving with the movement.
I reach behind me to grab a small napkin and wipe my lips clear of the crumbs.
“I may have pinned a few photos on Pinterest of different breeds, but I have no idea how I’d go about finding a breeder or anything like that.”
Mason leans over me to snag a few napkins too and wipes his fingers, his cone nearly gone now.
“Well, you’ll have to show me sometime.”
“Have you ever considered getting another pet?” I carefully ask him, knowing this topic is still very raw. I slightly hate I answered cat, maybe I should have said horse or hamster.
His lip lifts in the corner, but his eyes stay on his dwindling cone. “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”
He stands and walks over to the garbage can and tosses his napkin. Stretching, he eyes the older windows of the shop. A few tourists walk past, but otherwise, the street is empty.
“You ready for our next adventure?” he asks, holding his hand out with a smirk in place. I stand and take his warm hand, feeling the butterflies lingering from the first time he took my hand.
“Okay, but you don’t get any points for that question,” I joke as I push the glass door open with my arm.
He laughs as he pulls my hips closer to his side and kisses the top of my head. The sun is starting to set with a deep blue hue across the sky and pink clouds streaking diagonally along the skyline. It’s beautiful and distinctly more perfect than anything I’ve ever felt in California.
“What’s your favorite movie?” Mason asks, still holding my hip as we make our way down the sidewalk. I smile, happy he cares about little facts like that about me.
“You can’t laugh.” I look down at our feet as we walk toward the end of the street. My toes are hot pink and make me feel young. I think about the chances of me stopping into a drug store and finding a darker shade, something that might make me seem a tad more cultured.
“I won’t laugh, just tell me,” Mason says against my temple.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I stop in the middle of street and look him square in the eye, trying not to push back the little bits of hair that have fallen across his face.
“Pretty Woman.” My answer comes out bashfully, and I hate how my face flames up.
“Yes, that one,” I laugh, releasing him and walking ahead of him. “What’s yours?”
Mason’s long strides match my own, and he’s already caught up to me. We finally reach his dad’s car. With a small laugh, he opens my door and gives me a knowing grin.
“The Boondock Saints.”
I let out a laugh as Mason walks around the car and climbs in. Once he situates himself, he gives me a confused look.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re referring to the movie about the two Irish brothers, right?” I say through a small crack in my voice. I love laughing with Mason, love how free and easy it feels.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” he agrees in an accusatory tone while he navigates a large traffic circle.
“You know they’re not both actually from Ireland, right?”
With narrowed eyes, he puts his blinker on and gives me a quick glance. “What do you mean?” His brows have come so close together, it almost looks painful.
“Norman Reedus isn’t Irish,” I explain, hoping not to crush the moment, but secretly waiting like a little devil to revel in the knowledge he didn’t know this little piece of trivia.
“You’re codding me.” Mason’s accent erupts in a full belly laugh. I have no idea what ‘codding’ means, but I have a feeling he doesn’t believe me.
“It’s true! Norman Reedus is from Florida.” It doesn’t really matter, but I love that it’s got Mason so up in arms, shaking his head back and forth and grumbling in what I can only assume is some form of Irish.
What are the Chances Page 14