Page 18 of Coincidentally Kismet

“I-I’m okay. I think.” Shrugging, I shift to sit up again and take the mug.

“Want to talk about it?” Lo levels me with a look while plopping down on my blush-rose down comforter, sloshing hot coffee over the edge of my mug. I can’t even be mad—caffeine is the only thing saving my ass this morning.

“Ughhh...fine. I was just thinking that if I had to see him again, I wish I was in a better place, physically and career wise. I absolutely am not ever getting naked in front of that man, or really any man, until I lose these fifteen pounds.” I admit my feelings to her cautiously, knowing she will reprimand me the minute the words leave my lips.

“You went from ‘I hate him’ to ‘naked’ real quick, my friend. But you’re joking, right? Cam, so you have a dump truck and more than a handful up top—you have a banging body, any man would be honored to see it clothed or otherwise.” Lo’s face is a mix of pinched annoyance and shock that I would think of myself so negatively.

“Okay, thanks, hype girl,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But I’m being honest with myself, and I know I don’t look like I used to. I’ve been binging too much, making unhealthy choices, and now I’m paying the price. It’s karma really.” I’m attempting to mask my vulnerability, but I know it comes off a bit rude.

“Nope, we’re not doing this. You’re getting your ass up out of this bed, we’re going to Sal’s, and then shopping. Put on your pj’s, grab a change of clothes, and let’s roll,” Lo says this with such confidence, I’m forced to drop the argument that’s begging to burst off my tongue.

Thirty minutes later, we’re walking into Sal’s just before the lunch rush. It’s our little tradition: grab the world’s best deli sandwiches and potato salad to soak up any remnants of last night’s overindulging, and eat on the beach. We always wear matching pajamas—well, ever since the one time I picked up Lo from the side of the road on a walk of shame, and a pajama set of pants adorned with pink flamingos and a turquoise tank top my mother sent me was the only non-club attire in my car. It was hilarious and Patricia was delighted when we called to ask for another.

Lo and I order quickly at the counter, grabbing our to-go bag and heading toward the beach. I don’t spot him immediately, but there’s an uncanny shift in the air and my stomach knows before my eyes do. I glance around, sure enough, there’s Will at a picnic table, toes buried in the sand, with Amy and enough food to feed ten people sitting in front of him. I shouldn’t approach, but on second thought, why should I have to pretend he doesn’t exist?Somehow we have managed to not run into each other in the year I’ve been living here, but it seems that my luck has run out.

“Geez, Rambo. Eating for two?” I ask, infusing my face with judgment despite the fact that I notice I’ve ordered the exact same lunch, minus the cake.

“Hey, Wright, forget to get dressed this morning?” he quips, a smirk blossoming on that smug, incredibly chiseled face. It irritates me beyond belief that he’s calling me by my last name. He knows how much I hate it after the relentless jokes spewed in high school about how Cameron always has to do the “Wright” thing. Sue me for being a rule follower.

“Actually, this is our tradition. We go out, drink our faces off, and go eat Sal’s on the beach in our jammies the next morning.” Lo scoffs, she doesn’t take kindly to anyone commenting on our attire. She’s feisty at times, but this...this could actually work in my favor if I want her to be annoyed by him.

“I think that sounds so fun,” Amy coos.

“It’s interesting, I’ll give ya that,” Will says. I want to smack the smirk right off his stupid face.

“We aren’t seeking your approval, Rambo. We just noticed your massive quantity of food, and I couldn’t stop myself from commenting.” I cross my arms and spin on the back of my heel, starting to walk away. I definitely don’t think about putting an extra shimmy into my steps.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, Wright. I’m flattered that you wanted to talk to me,” I hear him call out after us. Ugh...he’s the worst.

We find a spot about a five-minute walk down the beach, fanning out our beach towels just a few feet in front of a large swath of sea oats where the white sand is fluffy and undisturbed. Lo hasn’t commented yet on why I walked over to Will, but I know it’s coming.

“Sooo...were we looking for a fight this morning? What was the point of riling him up?” Lo asks around a bite of her Reuben sandwich.

“Honestly”—I huff out a long breath, taking a swig of my Diet Coke—“I just couldn’t stop myself. There’s something about giving him a hard time that feels too good to pass up.”

“It felt like the feeling was mutual. You know...it’s kind of poetic that you two are reuniting after all this time. Maybe it’s fate.” She fiddles with her hair, putting it up into a messy bun then taking it down again, refusing to make eye contact.

“It is not fate. It’s a curse. Do you know how long I spent wondering what happened to him? If he was okay, why he did what he did, all of those things you aren’t supposed to think about when you get dumped. It’s actually kind of cruel that he’s suddenly here and messing with my head again,” I say, defending myself. I’m actually a little mad that she would even suggest this is someRomeo and Juliet, star-crossed-lovers bullshit.

“Look, you might not like it, or at least not want to admit it. But there was something special there between you two, or else you wouldn’t have hung on for so long. The reality is, we had fun with that group of guys last night. I mean Smith...come to momma. If you are living in the same town, odds are you might run into each other again, and your going to need to figure out how you are going to deal with it. Do you go on hating him, be friends, or maybe something more?” She’s wiggling her eyebrows at me, clearly not grasping the magnitude of all my pain.

“Hate, I choose hate. But because I’m the world’s best friend, I won’t stop you from pursuing your man. Just please don’t force me to be around Will any more than is necessary. I can only keep from losing my shit for so long.” Do I think she is being a little selfish, putting her needs before mine? Yeah, I do. But I love her,and I would feel bad about coming in between someone else’s happily ever after. I’ll just have to find a way to power through it if things work out between Lo and Smith.

After finishing our food and changing in the public beach bathroom, Lo and I shopped all day long. That girl gives new meaning to the phrase “shop ’til you drop.” I think I modeled no less than seventy-five outfits, and I truly did come away with some remarkably smokin’ choices. Most of them are not practical for daily use, but if I’m going to be getting back out there, then I need to freshen up my look. And that’s the plan, I will be getting back out there despite my ex being back in my life.

My inner feminist is most excited about the lingerie I picked out. Something about wearing a little lace under your clothes gives you an extra sense of confidence. My mother always said your bra and panties must match because you never know when you might end up in the emergency room needing your clothes cut off, and there would be nothing more embarrassing than an orange bra and green panties underneath. Not that I’m delusional enough to believe your run-of-the-mill first responder would be truly comparing my skivvies to the next patient’s, but I do love romance novels and crazier things have happened.

I suppose Patricia would be pleased to know that tonight I’m going out with a matching plum lace set, the bra practically playing peekaboo with my nipples, and I feel luscious in a good way wearing it. Smith invited Lo to a party at his apartment. Because of her rules and general ability to throw an immature temper tantrum when denied something, I’m going with her. For safety’s sake, so she claims.

I opt to wear a flowy black sundress that hits just above my knees. It has thin spaghetti straps and the lace bra peeks out just a bit. Hey, there’s absolutely nothing in the rule book about not dressing cute if your ex is potentially going to be somewhere. In fact, I think the saying is, “dressed to kill.” I finish adding a quick bend to my hair so it’s in those perfect tousled waves again, then I throw on some gold hoops and a smidge of my perfect lipstick shade, Saucy Mauve.

When I finish dolling myself up, I find Lo waiting not so patiently by the front door. How this woman gets dressed so quickly remains a mystery to me. She side-eyes me, her annoyance at my extended primping obvious. Shrugging off her attitude, I grab her hand, leading us out of the apartment and into our Uber. I’m not at all sure what to expect at Smith’s. I know based on the address it’s an apartment, but how does a single military man decorate? Should I expect total frat house vibes, or is Smith more sophisticated with actual furniture and décor?

The ride doesn’t take long and Lo gives me a pep talk, citing things like my vivacious curves, killer lips, and hair that makes grown men weep. She’s laying it on thick, and I don’t believe most of what she says, but I appreciate the effort she’s making to boost my confidence. Especially after she was annoyed with me for taking so long to get ready.

I can hear the music bumping as we approach the apartment; nerves turn my stomach. I suck in deep breaths and roll my shoulders back as Lo knocks on the door. Smith opens it, greeting her with a, “Hey, baby girl, so glad you could make it.” She quickly responds with, “We wouldn’t have missed it.” To be clear, I absolutely would have missed it if she hadn’t demanded my attendance.

We step inside and are greeted by a myriad of top ten terrorist posters littered with bullet holes adorning the walls, acheap red futon that’s seen better days, a TV on a cardboard box playing “Gin and Juice” by none other than Snoop Dogg himself, and a huge beer pong table. Honestly, I don’t know what’s worse: this place or a frat house. Either way, it’s cliché as hell and reminds me exactly why I was avoiding the Rambos of the world.

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