Page 11 of Coincidentally Kismet

We make our way through a few songs, laughing and talking over the music like we do this every day. The guys are bad at line dancing but Smith is by far the worst. My man has zero rhythm. During “Watermelon Crawl,” I tried to show him how to do the famous slide onto his belly...He’s going to have a bruised face tomorrow.

“We’re gonna head back to the table, get a couple drinks,” Smith shouts to Amy and me. We start following them, but then the classic barn-dance music begins to play.

“Will, please do this with me. It reminds me of nights at Chuck’s with mom.” The barn dance is a traditional partner dance where you form a circle and do a couple of stomps, kicks, and spins before switching partners. Our mom used to take us to Chuck’s Dancing Dive on Sundays for lessons. I hated it and Amy loved it.

“Fine, but only because I don’t get to see you enough, and you supposedly have a broken heart.” Grabbing her hand, I move us into position in the circle. “You’re buying my next drink though.” We shake on it and she laughs.

“Deal! Cheapest one I’ve ever made.” Throwing her head back, she giggles harder.

“What do you mean? Oh right, the drinks are free.” I wink and begin to stomp with the beat.

“Will, thanks for bringing me out. I know we need to talk, but maybe tomorrow? I’m having so much fun.” I twirl her for the first time, preparing to switch partners on the next one.

“Yeah, of course. I’m glad you’re here.” The final spin commences and off she goes to the man next to me. He looks harmless enough, a portly man with classic Wranglers and a flannel so tight on his beer belly he might pop a button.

“Hey, I’m Brittany.” My new partner smiles brightly, introducing herself. She’s cute in a girl-next-door kind of way. I could flirt with her, maybe I should, but that damn blonde is stuck in my mind.

“Will,” I say on a nod. We go through the motions without more conversation, my eyes trained on Amy to make sure she’s not about to be paired with anyone unsavory. Also so I don’t miss the chance to leave if she’s done strolling down memory lane.

After a few partner switches, I’m ready to be done. A break on the patio overlooking the crashing waves is calling my name. Shifting slightly to the right, I crane my neck toward my sister in an attempt to get her attention, and I don’t notice my next partner approaching.

A dainty hand slips gracefully into mine, sending electric sparks up my arm. Whipping my head toward the unsuspecting stranger as if I’ve been burned...I am beyond stunned. The parking lot blonde isn’t a stranger at all. It’s Cam. Sweat breaks out on my forehead and bile races up my throat with my nerves.

“W-wh-what are you doing here?” Her perfect pouty lips are painted cherry red, accentuating their bow shape. Words are difficult to form. How is this possible?

“I-I . . . How? This must be a joke,” she stammers.

“N-not a joke. Last time I checked anyway,” I retort.

“Of course I would move away to finally escape the memories, andyouwould be here. Been haunting me for years,for the love of Pete. Can’t I get a break? Why is this happening?” Cam rambles, I think to herself but maybe to me. I’m powerless to stop the smile that whispers across my lips. I’ve always thought it was adorable how she could go on and on to no one and everyone at the same time.

“I live here. The question is why are you here?” I ask, not as smoothly as I would have hoped. Not that I’m trying to be smooth. I am definitely not desperate to win anyone over, and I’m absolutely lying about it.

She scoffs. “No. I live here. You can’t! And do not grin at me, Rambo. Not even for a second.”

“Not grinning, promise.” I force my mouth to form the straightest line possible, but I can’t help it if my dimple insists on popping. Did she just call me Rambo? “I can’t not live here. This is where I work.”

“Well...ugh! Well...work somewhere else.” A small giggle bursts free. She’s always had an uncanny ability to laugh at herself when she says something immature or ridiculously outrageous.

“Sorry, no can do. Looks like maybe you’re following me, Wright.” If she’s going to call me an annoying nickname, I’m certainly going to call her one too. She hates her last name, and giving her shit is my favorite pastime. I shouldn’t do it but it’s too easy. Too familiar.

“I-I’m not following you! I’m over you. You know what, fine. Live here, be around, it’s fine. I’m totally unbothered.” She’s swinging our joined hands to prove how not bothered she is, but has she noticed she’s clutching onto me like her life depends on it?

Neither of us has let go, our fingers are still meshed together as if they were always meant to be. She couldn’t have not noticed. I’m not mad about it, I’ve dreamed of linking my fingersjust one more time with hers for years. But I realize I have to let go, nothing has changed.

I untangle myself from her, dropping her hand. Understanding smacks her in the face as she looks from her palm to my face and back again as if she has been burned. One more glance, a silky sheen to her striking green eyes, hits me before she’s turning to run. I can feel the absence, the loss in my soul. This is why I can’t go back. Less than a minute of touching her and my heart has shattered all over again. I didn’t break one heart that day five years ago, I broke two.

CHAPTER 6

CAM

“FAKE NAMES” – PRISCILLA BLOCK

The Uber turns bumpily into a gravel parking lot nestled into the very edge of St. Pete Beach as I get the first view of a large...barn? It seems out of place, not your typical beachy vibe, but I can tell from the people crowding out onto the sand that it’s open air. It’s nothing if not unique, I suppose. Lo reassured me the “vibes” are good and they have a sink-or-swim program where you pay a flat fee and drink all night. If for no other reason than I live for a bargain, I’m willing to give it a shot.

The line of people decked out in true “country” attire stretches all the way down the side of what looks to be your average red metal pole barn and wraps into the parking lot. The barn is a decent size, but I can’t fathom what the interior will be like. Maybe my country upbringing is swaying my judgment, but I’m fully expecting to smell a mixture of animals and manure with a side of hay as I walk onto a dirt floor. Actually, that wouldn’t be so bad, it would smell like coming home.

As we exit our ride, I start heading toward the end of the line, but Lo quickly grabs my arm. “Where are you going, Jessie? I know someone. We aren’t waiting in line,” she coos at me.

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