I pause, taking the time to process Sam’s question. Swallowing, I listen to the waves crashing against the shore, the water still not quite touching my feet. I’m still out here alone. I haven’t removed my arm or taken the time to notice whether anyone was around me, but I already know. I’m alone.
“The thing is,” Sam adds. “You’re the man Charlotte needs. You fecking beat the shit out of Kyle for her. You defended her when she needed someone to stick up for her. I’m not saying what you did was the right answer. Fuck if I know what the right answers are. I find myself still amazed Emily wants to marry me. But your reasons were completely valid, and Charlotte knows them. She was just too hurt at that moment to fully see it. She just needed time. I know you love her, Mason.”
“Seriously,” I groan. “I don’t think you understand how hurt she was, Sam.” Replacing my sunglasses, I sit up and stretch my legs out.” You didn’t see the way she looked at me on that plane. It literally gutted me, tore me apart from the inside out.” I clench my jaw, allowing the pressure of this conversation to get to me.
“Charlotte loves you, Mase. She loves you.”
“Sam,” I shake my head, still not convinced. I want to believe him. “I’m not so sure anymore. She made her choice, and there’s nothing I can do.”
“I’ve known her a long time, Mase, a lot longer than you have. And let me tell you, she never got angry with Kyle the way she did with you. She never spoke to Kyle the way she spoke to you. And she never looked at Kyle the way she looks at you.”
Picking up another sea shell, I brush my thumb along its surface. It’s pearly white colors shimmer against the bright sun rays beating down on me. The shell reminds me of Charlotte. I’ve never felt more whole than I did in those two weeks I spent with her.
But even knowing this, it doesn’t change the way things ended between us. As much as I hate to admit, Charlotte and I are over. We were over before it even had a chance to begin.
“You know,” I say, clearing my throat. “California hasn’t felt like home to me since I came back.”
“Really?” Sam asks. His voice takes on a higher pitch, and I know he’s expecting me to want to go back to Ireland. I know I’ll only disappoint him when I tell him I can’t.
“No, Sam, it hasn’t because Charlotte changed me. I don’t know what it is.” I stand up, brushing the sand from the back of my shorts. Bending over, picking up my shoes, I begin the trek back to my apartment. “But I think I need to figure it out. Maybe I should talk to her.” My heart races as soon as the words pass my lips and travel through my phone to Sam, still listening on the other end. I stop, my feet still touching the warm, coarse sand. “Or not.” I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut. “Shit, I don’t know.”
“Mason,” Sam says, interrupting my internal battle.
“No. She said she needed space away from me, and I need to respect that.” I take a deep breath, then exhale. “No, fuck it, I am. I’m going to talk to her.” I continue walking, forcing my feet to catch up with the ideas in my head. As soon as I pick up my speed, my legs tense, and my heart thrashes in my chest.
“What’s her address, Sam? Where does Charlotte live in L.A.?”
“What?” Sam asks.
I’m already out of breath, finding it increasingly more difficult to make it through the never-ending outstretch of sand. I’m praying my feet will meet the concrete sidewalk soon. I could will myself to slow down, but I can’t. Even if I believe Charlotte will never take me back, I need to know why I feel this way. I need to know why my chest feels hollow, why my stomach is constantly twisted into knots, and why I’m suddenly questioning every decision I’ve made up to this point. And I just need to know she’s okay. I need to know she isn’t alone.
“Charlotte never gave me her address in L.A., Sam. I’m headed to her place now, but I have no idea where she lives. Tell me where she lives.”
I’m relieved when my feet finally hit pavement. It’s not until I’m sliding on my Converse shoes, I realize Sam hasn’t told me Charlotte’s address.
“Come on, Sam. What’s wrong? If you don’t want me to talk to her, I don’t care. Despite what’s happened, I miss her. I need to know she’s okay, and I want to hear it for myself, not from you.”
“That’s not it, Mason.” He lets out an uncomfortable, heavy sigh. “Charlotte doesn’t live in L.A. anymore.”
“Wh-what?” I stutter. “What do you mean she doesn’t live here anymore?” My heart shatters, and the words catch in my throat, feeling the small, broken pieces of what’s left of my heart fall directly on top of the rock resting comfortably at the bottom of my stomach.
“She moved, Mason,” he explains slowly.
“Moved where?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“She came home, Mason. To Ireland.”
The familiar feeling of something lodged in my throat returns. It’s the same feeling you get when you haven’t completely chewed your way through a crisp, the sharp jagged edges of the flat, salty potato getting caught somewhere between the back of your tongue and your chest. I want to cough, I want to bend over and rid myself of this feeling. My palm starts to sweat, moisture building between my hand and the only thing keeping me tethered to my conversation with Sam.
“Mason? You still there?”
I clear my throat, dislodging the metaphorical chewed up crisp, and force myself to move across the sidewalk, following the same path I had taken to get to the beach. The streets are still crowded, and the sun is still hanging high in the sky. I must not have been gone as long as I thought.
“Yeah, Sam. I’m still here.” My voice is weak, and if I don’t hang up soon, he’ll notice the change in my tone and start asking questions. That’s the last thing I need from my overbearing, older brother.
“Hey, so about Charlotte moving here...” Sam starts.
Fire scorches my chest, and my body starts to ache.
“Listen, Sam,” I cut him off. “It’s okay. I need to go.”
“No, you fucker,” Sam shouts. “Don’t you dare hang—”
I don’t allow Sam to finish his sentence before I pull the phone away from my ear and slam my thumb down on the red button.
It’s as if Sam’s words have somehow made me feel even more alone if that’s even possible. I start to feel as if any hope I had of keeping Charlotte in my life, one way or another, is suddenly gone.
Once I make it to the steps leading to my apartment, I slip my phone back into the pocket of my shorts. Unlocking the front door, I slide my keys onto the end table, flopping onto my couch in one exhausted heap.
Slowly, as the ear piercing silence gnaws its way into my brain, I can’t help but feel angry. Angry Charlotte moved without telling me. Angry Sam didn’t tell me until now. And most of all, angry at myself for allowing this to happen.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I know it’s Sam, trying to call me back, but I can’t bring myself to answer. I can’t bring myself to listen to his words about how Charlotte has found her happiness and has moved on.
When I look around my living room, noting how I can’t even seem to bring myself to move even one single piece of furniture, I think about Charlotte. I think about how easy it was for her to move on without me. And I think about how quickly she decided to move to Ireland. Her ‘home’ as Sam called it.
As for me, I don’t even know where my home is anymore. California? Ireland? An invisible thread, remnants of a tether that used to once exist, starts to tug on what‘s left of my broken heart, feeling as if it’s pulling me in a direction I never expected, giving me a similar feeling to the one I had the day I met Charlotte. I may not realize how much I want her… but I do. And I may not realize how much I’ve needed her these past three weeks… but I do.
Hoping to brush off the conversation with Sam, I stand up and begin pushing my couch to the only other wall I know it can go, hoping against all hope, it will make me feel at home again.
But even before I’ve started, I
know it won’t.
Charlotte
IT RAINS EVERY DAY. It’s been nothing but gray, cold drizzle every single day since my plane touched down in Ireland. To say I’m over it would be a passive-aggressive understatement. I am always fully equipped with rain gear, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to ward off the chill that comes with the frigid weather.
“You need a thicker sweater,” Alma suggests while opening the oven and placing a pie inside. A small blast of heat hits me from the oven, and I relish it like a starved street urchin. I pull the rather thick material away from my stomach and eye my great aunt wearily.
“I am wearing a sweater.”
“An even thicker sweater then.” She turns toward me and wipes her hands on the apron that hangs snugly around her generous hips. I rub my arms to try to warm my freezing cold body, but it’s like rubbing shards of ice down an ice sculpture. I look over toward the side counter at a small, flickering candle and question how angry Alma would really be if the kitchen caught on fire. She’d get a break from cooking, and the inferno would be deliciously warm.
“How much thicker of a sweater could I possibly wear?” I ask, bringing my thoughts back to reality and my eyes back to her warm form. She’s sweating. How on earth is she sweating?!
“Trust me girl, you’ll learn quick here that you need layers,” Alma scoffs, pouring me a cup of hot tea. “Your Californian blood needs time to adjust.” Alma never looks at me while she prattles on about her theories about my very serious daily hypothermia situations.
“Fine… I’ll go throw on another sweater and walk around like an idiot,” I huff like a child and head toward my room. I’m living with Alma, just until I can find my own place—a place with at least three fireplaces, a wall heater on every wall, and a glass roof, so when the sun was out, it would let in every drop of warmth.
I’ve been living in Ireland for three weeks now, and it’s starting to feel a little more like home each day.
Except deep in my gut, something feels off.
I wanted this—to have family, to find myself, and figure out what I want for me. Yet after three weeks of independence, I’m not sure why I still feel like something is missing from my life. My heart tugs and demands me to realize it’s Mason who’s missing, but my prideful mind tells me it isn’t him, it’s just an adjustment period. I told him I needed space. I asked for it. But after three weeks, I thought maybe he’d call. I wanted to call him and nearly had, several times, but I can’t get the look on his face from that last day on the plane out of my head.
He hates me.
I hurt him so badly, he’s done, chalked me up as another woman who tore his heart out. Nausea rolls through me as I think of how badly I hurt him, how he’s finished with me and likely moved on.
I pull a white sweater free from the bottom of my suitcase and tug it over my head. It looks strange on top of my other sweater, bulky and awkward, completely hiding my shape and everything that makes me a woman. I roll my eyes and decide to curl up under my covers, abandoning the idea of functioning with the rest of the world today.
I watch the green landscape out my window being battered by the rain. My mind drifts to white-capped waves and glittering water. It drifts to California and engages in torturous activity, thinking of Mason—if he’s looking out his window too but seeing a different ocean and all that sunshine, if he’s moved on, if he’s started dating again.
He’s so handsome and perfect, there’s no way he’ll stay single for long. Just the idea of him dating someone else makes my stomach dip and fill with dread. I blink away tears as I think of him—the way he held me and the way his lips would always find my ear to whisper something encouraging or sexy.
I think of how his green eyes would light up when he laughed and how he’d run his hand through his perfect hair when he was trying to think or form a plan. I thought of all those muscles that laid under his clothes, those abs and…
“Did you find one?” Alma asks, leaning against my door frame. I jump and flush red, embarrassed where my thoughts were headed. Damn, I need a distraction. I’ve been thinking about Mason nonstop, and it’s depressing.
I’m tired, annoyed, and sexually frustrated. The need to get my mind off the man who doesn’t want me anymore is so strong, it has me grasping at extreme straws. The ones guarded by launch codes and locked suitcases. The ones I’m never supposed to open and use. I wince as I think of how I pushed Mason too far, and now, there’s no getting him back. Logically, I know this, but it still hurts to actually have to sit down and process it.
“I did, thanks. I think I’m going to go over to Sam’s for a bit,” I reply to Alma and stand, heading to my closet. Metaphorical briefcase with dangerous, extreme straws is hanging open, imaginary straws strewn all over my floor. It’s going to be awkward, but at the end of the day, Sam is still my friend, and he has to have someone here in Ireland who is single. Someone who will help get my mind off the man I’m still in love with.
***
“No, I’m not setting you up,” Sam scoffs and continues to cut large chunks of peppered beef. I watch his movements and turn to his fiancé, Emily, for help. She raises an eyebrow but shakes her head, telling me it’s hopeless.
“Just hear me out, Sam. I just need to get my mind off Mason. He’s likely dating it up in California, anyway. The more I think about how he’s probably dating, the more I feel like cutting my eyeball out with a rusty spoon.
“I have to get back out there before I wilt away and decide to die a lonely spinster, still in unrequited love. It’s a part of my venture to find myself. I need to spend time with some losers to know I don’t actually need to be in a relationship.” I have my hands pulled together, begging my friend to hook me up with someone.
Sam pulls his lips into a thin line, firming his jaw. He doesn’t exactly look happy. I’m half tempted to give up and let it go, but I’m also desperate and grasping at extreme, dangerous straws. Part of starting over here in Ireland is not clinging to a hopeless relationship that doesn’t have a happy ending.
I haven’t heard from Mason a single time since the plane where he told me he’d leave me alone. Where he finalized things between us.
“Please, Sam. If there was any hope at all with Mason, you know I wouldn’t—”
“There’s hope,” Sam cuts me off, curt and demanding.
I shut my mouth and watch as he moves around his parents’ kitchen. I had met his mother and father a few times now, but they were traveling again, so Emily and Sam are holding everything down. The bitter taste of meeting them as Sam’s friend and not Mason’s girlfriend is still stuck to the roof of my mouth like crunchy peanut butter.
“How do you know there’s hope?” I whisper to Sam’s back.
“There just is, you have to trust me. Hang on a little longer. I talked to him a few days ago. Just give him time,” Sam practically begs, turning his body toward me, his eyes pleading with me to listen and not push this any further. He lets out a heavy sigh and turns toward me fully, his hands on his hips. “Look, Charlotte, this is all my fault.”
I swat him away and move toward the fridge.
“Sam, you’ve already apologized like a million times.” He had, and it hurt at first. It took him a week of saying sorry about the text mishap to finally get me to agree to have a heart-to-heart talk with him. During that heart to heart, he was vulnerable and even cried a little bit.
“But now you’re askin’ to be set up on outings and what not, and I feel like I ruined whatever you guys could have had,” Sam says with exasperation. I feel his irritation in my bones, just like the damn weather here.
“Sam, you didn’t. I promise. I just needed time to find myself.” I shrug my shoulders, trying to shrug away the heaviness of how much I miss Mason.
“And have you then?” Sam nods toward me, his hands still in place on his hips. Emily clears her throat, likely sensing the emotion in the room.
“Found myself? I think so…” I lift my shoulder, not sure how
to respond to his accusatory question.
“Then maybe you should call him and tell him that,” Sam says in a firm voice. I swallow the thick, disgusting taste of humility and realize he’s right.
***
I’m sitting on a park bench, wet from the rain and drizzle of sea spray. I’ve been coming to the cliffs frequently since moving here. They remind me of Mason. I bring my phone out and kick my leg that’s thrown over the other. I stare at the screen, not caring spray and drizzle is likely ruining it.
Mason’s contact info has been pulled up for the last twenty minutes, and all I’ve done is stare at his picture. Sam’s words rush back through my head, and all I want to do is curl up into a ball of blankets and cry. He’s right. I need to call Mason and at least tell him I’m done needing space. But the tone of his voice and determined look in his eye that day on the plane repeat through my mind.
He’s done now. My mind screams it at me, but still, I owe it to him and to me to make this call.
I press down on the green button, let it dial, and place the phone to my ear. It rings and rings and rings… I’m about to hang up when his voicemail picks up. Panicked and terrified, I hang up. I can’t leave my feelings in his mailbox, not after he reprimanded me for doing so with Kyle. I clutch the phone in my hand, closing my eyes tight. My number will be on his phone if he hasn’t deleted it, that is. If he wants to talk to me, he will.
***
“Why on earth would I let ya work here, girl?” Bern narrows his eyes at me and waits for me to respond. I sit taller and lean in, forcing him to scoot back an inch or two.
“I’m quick on my feet, can keep up with demands, waited tables for two years while I was in college, learn fast, and I can handle myself,” I state resolutely. What on earth made me walk into the Irish Lily and ask for a job as a waitress, I have no freaking clue. But I did, and here I am, interviewing with Bern.
What are the Chances Page 21