Page 2 of Coincidentally Kismet

An anvil slams into my chest. How can he feel “called” to risk his life? Am I not worth staying for, not worth being kept safe? It’s unfathomable to me that anyone is “called” to do anything. We make choices about what’s best for our lives, it isn’t fate or divine intervention telling us which path to choose.

“What does this mean? For us...I mean.” I shift slightly, afraid to make eye contact, to see what waits for me there.

“It means. . .” A sob rips from his throat, echoing in the small cab of his truck. “We’re done. I-I can’t do this with you anymore.”

My initial instinct is to go on the defensive. “No. No, no, no. We are not done. We are not done until we are old and gray in our beds dying together at ninety years old. I refuse.” My tear ducts protest, not allowing me to shed one more drop. A refusal from my heart to believe that this is ending.

“I-I don’t love you. It’s time you see that, time to move on.” The statement lacks conviction, but there’s determination in his eyes. They aren’t shining and bright anymore but rather dark, stormy pools that indicate this argument won’t end in my favor. Heat seeps through my body as my skin turns clammy. I am going to vomit.

I throw myself away from him, lunging toward the passenger door and desperately pulling at the handle to escape the shrinking space before I lose my lunch or my sanity. I make it down into the grass before I hurl all the contents from my stomach. Tears flow freely now, as if I needed to shed my insides before the rest of me could unravel. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I turn to see him staring out the window, stone-faced.

“I loved you! I planned my whole life around you, and you’re just throwing it away? Did I ever mean anything to you? Did you think of anyone but yourself when you planned to betray everything we’ve worked for, every plan we built? Actually, you know what—don’t answer that. Fuck you, Will Davenport. Don’t ever contact me again.” I shout every venomous thought I can at him. After all, I am the one who now has to start over; he has everything planned out.

Torn between wanting to fight, to scream, to claw my way into his heart and never let go, and at the same time wanting to run. I look at him one last time, tears flooding both our faces. I can’t believe this is happening, can’t process the betrayal. Because that’s what this is, a complete destruction of every time I’ve held him while he choked back sobs over his dadabandoning him, every time he reassured me that I was enough despite never measuring up to my parents’ standards. We found each other when we were broken, we healed together, and this...this is shredding me far more than I ever was ripped apart to begin with.

Knowing there’s no changing his mind, I run. Back toward my childhood home and away from the love of my life. Each crunch of gravel beneath my feet congruent with the shattering of my heart. I vow to myself to move on but to never forget.

CHAPTER 1

CAM

“THE ART OF STARTING OVER” - DEMI LOVATO

Five Years Later

“Elliott, why didn’t you tell me that when they call it the Sunshine State, it’s actually just a nice way of saying it’s the armpit of hell?” I ask, fanning my face so my makeup doesn’t melt completely off prior to my lunch date arriving, the one that is currently ten minutes late. I shift my cell from one ear to the other.

My brother lets out a throaty laugh, full of delight at my misery. “I think I did. Do you not remember me asking why the hell you would choose Florida for this grandiose rendezvous disguised as a career opportunity?”

“You act like I ever listen. It’s your job to make me when it counts this much,” I whine. Elliott is my big brother. Forcing me to obey his commands is in his job description, right next to noogies and throwing me under the bus to Patricia, otherwise known as our mother.

“Right, like I could ever command Madame Feminist Extraordinaire to do a thing. I gotta run into this meeting, andI shouldn’t have to tell you, but it’s not a good look to be on the phone when a date arrives. I’ll see you later at the Crab Shack, and I better not get food poisoning there.” He hangs up without giving me a second to reply to his quip.

As I wait for what is sure to be another dud of a date, condensation glides slowly down my glass, mesmerizing me and robbing me of my focus. Each drop represents the hellish Tampa heat, like the damp drops of sweat that roll down my back on a short jaunt to my car or into my apartment. I’m not lying when I say I missed the memo on exactly how hot it gets in Florida before I started this grand adventure. The beads run as if they’re being chased down the smooth blue glass and can’t escape fast enough. I’m envious of their swift and seemingly effortless movement. I’m desperate for an escape. Maybe it’s a side effect of the new life I’m building, or maybe it’s the decidedly self-absorbed man approaching. Either way, I’d like something—anything—to be as simple as running away was supposed to be.

This particular man, Andrew, is surprisingly gorgeous; his profile picture didn’t do him a bit of justice. Dark hair flops delicately over his forehead, perfectly tanned forearms peek out from the rolled-up sleeves of his tasteful seafoam-green button-down shirt. And don’t get me started on those brown eyes. Perfect chocolate drops that should have me melting, and yet—they aren’t at all.

Seriously, I can tell from the swagger of his approach that my lady parts are obligated to be shouting from the rooftops. Instead, I’m calculating how soon a person can leave a date without being considered rude. Dating is not my thing. Can’t we go back to the days of instantly falling in love over a shared affinity for the same apple at the grocery store? I want the kind of love that’s unconditional, someone who wholly accepts me for who I am, flaws and all. It’s just not that simple for me; clearly, nothing is. Case in point, the man of so many women’s dreamshas just sat down across from me, and I feel virtually nothing.Ugh! Why do I feel nothing?

“Cam, right? It’s great to meet you in person.” Andrew grabs my lukewarm glass of water and takes a long chug. It wasn’t icy cold like I prefer, but dude, get your own.

“Uh, yep. That’s me. Andrew, I assume?” I reply, my face flushing further from my general awkwardness.

“You got it, babe. I gotta say, I’m relieved. You at least look like your profile picture. So many catfishers these days...Don’t women know men aren’t going to fall for them on the internet and then just overlook their flaws when they see them in person?” Arrogance radiates off of him in waves. I should’ve seen it coming with the far too many bro pics and shirtless photos on his profile. But this, this is another level. As someone who struggles with her body image, I’m annoyed.

“Well, maybe they aren’t intentionally misleading you. Maybe there were other photos or signs, and doesn’t it matter more what’s on the inside of a person than the outside?” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, not in a way that indicates guilt, more like I struck a nerve. Good. If he’s looking for someone who won’t call him on his bullshit, it’s not me.

In deference to changing the subject, I say, “Anywho...tell me what you like to do for fun.”

“Okay, yeah. Fun. Well, I fish. Let me tell you about my latest catch . . .” He launches into a story, and I zone out.

Glancing at the clock hanging haphazardly on the back wall of Antonio’s, I can’t help but notice the irony in the cozy, calming atmosphere blended with the war waging in my stomach. It’s perfect here. Italian cold cuts a plenty, prim red-and-white checkered tablecloths, carefully curated family photos that honor tradition, love, and life. A warm breeze floats in(finally)from the open-air patio that sits perched against the white sand beach. I am a few good gusts away from resembling a human asopposed to the glazed donut I could currently be confused for.Please bring on the salty air, I plead internally.

The only thing out of place in the entire restaurant is my date. Andrew changed the subject slightly at some point while I’ve been mid-daydream, and he’s now droning on about how to select the right bait for backwater fishing. Fishing is clearly a hobby of his, and not at all one of mine.

“Which do you think would be better, if given the choice?” he asks, bringing me begrudgingly back into the conversation. I’m not typically this unengaged on a date, but he lost me at “catfishing.”

“Umm, sorry, can you ask me that again? I thought I recognized someone back there...” I say, pointing lamely at the back of the restaurant, where only an elderly couple and a waiter are occupying the space.Smooth, Cam.

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