Page 24 of Coincidentally Kismet

“I disagree. If she didn’t still care, she wouldn’t be up there singing a breakup song at the top of her lungs. I think you have more of a chance than you think.” Smith squeezes his way into our conversation, rubbing his hand over my curly hair, undoubtedly messing it up.

“It doesn’t matter either way. I’ve told you both, she’s a no-fly zone. It’s not happening. Ever.” I don’t notice that someone new has taken over karaoke.

“Well, that’s one thing we agree on, Rambo. Not. Happening. Ever.” Cam walks past where we are standing, grabbing her purse from the table and giving what I presume is a goodbye hug to Butler.

On her way out, she walks back by us holding hands with Micah and laughing about something he said. “See ya around, Wright!” I shout after her.

“Maybe in your dreams, Rambo.”

CHAPTER 11

CAM

“RED BOWLING BALL RUTH” - THE WHITE STRIPES

Pulling up the arrivals ramp to the passenger pickup area at Tampa International, I idle waiting on the curb for my person. And that’s truly who Elliott is, he’s my person, the Cristina to my Meredith, my man in a storm. After the past couple of weeks, especially last Thursday, I can’t wait to talk it out with someone who gets it. Someone who will be on my side, not in my ear talking about fate and true love like Lo and Micah keep insisting on.

Elliott

Walking out now, door 7

I pull my car back into the drive thru lane, inching up toward where Elliott is waiting. When I see him standing on the curb, relief washes over me like a tidal wave. I roll down the window and squeal the biggest, warmest hello I can muster. Elliott grins, waving and heading toward the trunk to put his massive suitcase in the back. If I didn’t know he was quite the fashionista, I would think he was staying for a month.

He opens the passenger door and plops into the seat. “Finally! I didn’t think I was ever going to get off that plane. People are gross, I need to shower immediately.”

“Ugh, they really are the worst. How was the flight though?” I ask, slowly easing back into traffic to leave the airport.

“Ehh. It was okay. What do you have planned for me? I told you that debauchery better be included.”

“Oh gosh. I do have a few things planned. But I think I’ve had enough of that recently to last me a lifetime.” I’m not looking at him as I merge onto the interstate, but I can tell he wants a full debriefing.

“We are going to get into all of that. But I’m starving. Food first?” he asks, almost like he’s reading my mind.

“I thought you’d never ask. I’m taking you somewhere really good. I found this authentic Mexican taqueria a little while back with Daveed. It sits right on Bayshore Boulevard, with scenic views of the bay and the best birria tacos you’ll ever have anywhere,” I say, hitting my blinker and turning down MacDill Avenue—we’re almost there.

“Yum, so I can grill you about your love life over a margarita? Even better.” He smiles at me, that arrogant I’m-going-to-find-out-everything look plastered on his pretty face.

We pull into the small gravel parking lot, get out of the car, and head inside to request a small patio table. The taqueria is quaint, crisp, and clean inside, and the patio has an amazing view of the water, with red, purple, and green umbrellas shading the tables.

Our server brings over the taco menu, an ordering form, a pencil, and a couple of waters. “Do you want something else to drink?” he asks, getting his notepad out.

“We will take a pitcher of your signature margarita, thank you,” I order the standard, making sure we’ll be covered for the conversation we’re about to have.

“A pitcher. That bad, huh?” Elliott raises an eyebrow.

“No, it’s really only three margaritas, hardly enough to get drunk on when we are sharing and eating,” I say, unnecessarily justifying my need for tequila at a moment like this. Some things are just easier to talk about when you have Jose Cuervo on your side.

We scan the menu, opting to share six different tacos so we can try a variety. We also put down an order of chips, salsa, and queso dip for good measure. Our waiter, whose name I’ve learned is Marco, brings the margarita pitcher and two chilled glasses, snagging our order form on his retreat back to the kitchen.

“So, Will Davenport lives here...What were the odds of that?” Elliott slurps his margarita, shaking his head at the coincidence of it all.

“Yeah, yup. Sure does.” I shrug, following his lead, licking salt from the rim of my glass and slurping some ice-cold Jose, hoping it infuses courage into my veins.

“That’s it? That’s all the reaction I get after all this time?” He’s astonished, but there’s not much else to say. Other than a few moments of trading barbs, there isn’t anything going on between me and Will. Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true, but I’m working up to it.

“It’s just...Honestly, it’s so weird. Like a part of me could so easily just fall back in step with him. We bicker and banter like we always have. But then I also hate literally everything about him. I hate his stupid beautiful face, the way his hands are the right amount of rough and soft, the way he insists on being nice to me and doting on his sister. It’s disgusting and fake, and I know that there’s this whole other side of him, the side that just throws people away like they mean nothing. So yeah, it’s fine.” I down half my margarita, afraid to look my brother in the eye.

“That’s a whole lot to unpack. What are we doing after this?” Elliott shifts in his chair as Marco drops a platter of chips, salsa, and queso in front of us.

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