Page 12 of Coincidentally Kismet

“Umm, Jessie? Are we doing that thing where we use fake names again?” I ask.

“Please don’t tell me you forgot the rules,Jessie,” she says, with an emphasis on my name for the night.

“Nope, I’m good. And who are you going to be tonight? Steph, Val, Angelica?” I quip, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I think I feel like a Steph tonight, it’s the most down-to-earth and, honey, I’m hoping to rope me a big bull to ride,” she whispers while wiggling her eyebrows.

“Dolly would be so proud,” I say with a grin and a chuckle.

I can’t with Lo—she always has a plan and she never fails to execute. Her idea of coming up with fake names came on suddenly, about two weeks after I moved in with her. We had gone out downtown to one of the dance clubs, and Lo accidentally gave her name and number to someone less than ideal, to put it mildly. Of course, she had deemed him perfectly acceptable with her beer goggles on. It took her the better part of a month, and a couple very awkward grocery run-ins, to ditch Mr. Clingy. From that point forward, she decided we needed rules.

Rule #1: Never reveal your real name until at least the third date/hookup.

I had inquired about how the gentlemen might feel when finding out we had blatantly lied about our identities, but Lo just brushed me off saying that if they were “the one,” they would understand the importance of safety. Gentlemen aren’t the cause for needing the rule in the first place.

Rule #2: Never accept a drink from anyone unless we saw the bartender pour it, and the person hands it directly to us.

Hands down, this is the most sensible rule of all three since there are a veritable number of creeps and assholes looking to drug you at any minute. If you don’t believe me—give it time.

Rule #3: Never leave the other person behind. If you want to go home with someone, then you both go.

I actually understand this rule and yet still despise it. It’s about safety, which I champion wholeheartedly. But based on the number of times I’ve had to hangout on strange couches waiting for Lo to finish banging some dude, it’s not my favorite rule.

“Hello, earth to Jessie. Are you ready to go in, or are we going to stand here all night while you space the fuck out?” Lo asks, waving her hand in front of my face.

“Shit sorry, I was just reminding myself of the rules, Lo—Steph,” I quickly self-correct.

Taking a deep breath, I follow her to the well-built doorman and watch as she charms him into letting us skip the line. I don’t know how she does it, she swears it’s all about the slight arm touch and eye contact but I’m one-hundred-percent confident if I tried it, I would end up at the back of the line or even worse, barred entrance completely.

We pay our fifteen dollars, get secured with purple wristbands that let the bartenders know we’re free to drink as much bottom-shelf liquor as we can, and head toward the bar.

The interior is a lot nicer than I anticipated. There’s a large bar to the left with pool tables and darts lined carefully in front of it and roll-up doors opening to a sprawling patio overlooking the ocean. To the right is a huge dance floor with a rail on three sides for people wanting to sit and watch and for dancers to have a place to put their drinks. Small bar tables skirt the walls around the dance floor, and there’s a DJ booth at the very far end.

It’s dark and I can’t imagine it looks this nice with the lights on, but it feels decently clean and people appear to be having a great time. “Steph” and I get drinks, “Steph” opting for vodka and cranberry while I go with the standard whiskey and gingerale. My mom was always a Seven and Seven drinker—you could say drinking whiskey is in my blood.

We make our way to the rail and take in the dance floor. It’s chockful of girls who couldn’t be a day older than twenty-one, all in their shortest shorts trying miserably to do the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. If this was a competition for line dancing, it would be like taking candy from a baby.

I down my drink pretty quickly, and “Steph” says we should do a Jell-O syringe before heading out to dance. I’m not exactly sure what’s in said syringe, but it’s bright neon green and tastes like I’m going to hate myself in the morning.

The first couple chords of “Watermelon Crawl” drift out of the speakers, my cue to race onto the dance floor, pushing past a swath of military men-children on my way. I could do this dance in my sleep—even the move where you do a running slide down the floor on your belly and “crawl” provocatively. This is my dance and there’s no way I’m missing it. Lo hollers that she’ll be right there waiting for me when it’s over. I grin at her, baring all my teeth. I hate to admit it, but she was right—I needed this.

Several songs pass in the blink of an eye, leaving me on top of the world and shamefully out of breath. Beginning my trek to the rail, I notice “Steph” has company. She’s surrounded on all sides by the exact group of dudes I nearly ran over earlier. I’m sweaty, drops rolling down my back embarrassingly, but I feel exhilarated from shaking my booty on the dance floor.

As I make my way over, barn dance music drums out of the speakers.Maybe I’ll take one more little spin, I think. I can’t pass up a barn dance after years of doing it at family weddings, school dances, and too many Sundays at Chuck’s. I spin around grabbing the hand of a very burly man named Earl for my partner. His name may not actually be Earl, but he looks like it is.

Partner after partner, I kick, stomp, and twirl my way around the floor. Spotting the next man up, I can’t see his face. He’s turned away, maybe looking for someone? But his body, chiseled arms that are threatening to rip his too tight T-shirt, thighs so thick they make mine look small in comparison...This is my type of man—the kind I would feel small standing next to.

I slide my fingers into his, heat zapping up my body and turning to warm liquid low in my belly. He turns his head and—you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Of all the men in the world, why does it have to be this one. Will and I exchange a few words, mostly arguing over who has the better claim to live here. I don’t notice I’m clutching his hand until he lets go. The loss of that callused, rough skin against my palm gives me pause and pisses me off in equal measure. I run.

“Hey, St-e-ph, we need to leave,” I demand, trying but failing to catch my breath when I finally reach our table.

“Oh hey, Jessie. I was just telling these handsome men that you’re the best line dancer I’ve ever seen and—wait did you say leave?” I grab at her hand but I’d swear her butt is super glued to the stool she’s sitting on. She doesn’t budge an inch.

I quickly brush my hair out of my face and try casually to dab sweat from my upper lip with the back of my hand. “Yes, I said we need to leave...let’s go,” I say, stomping my foot and pointing to the door just in case she hasn’t gotten the message.

“Whoa. Where’s the fire? Did someone do something? We do not let people get away with treating women improperly,” A tall, dark, and handsome guy says, interjecting with his hero complex.

“No. No one did anything b-but we just need to go.” I cross my arms, contemplating leaving my friend behind. It’s not something I would normally do (see rule #3), but my heart is pounding out of my chest and I can feel the tears starting to bubble up along with the knot in my throat.

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