Page 3 of Coincidentally Kismet

I should’ve been listening more intently, but he just goes on and on. I mean, I grew up in a landlocked state. How should I know anything about fishing in the Intracoastal versus open ocean?Not that he would know where I grew up, I chastise myself.

“I asked if you think ocean fishing or backwater fishing is better, and which you would choose if you could.”

“Oh, right...I’m sorry. I guess I would say ocean because I could maybe see some dolphins,” I reply, putting all my effort into the answer. I’m trying here, give a girl a break.

He swiftly pulls his finger guns from their proverbial holsters, waving his pointers in my face as if to tell me I’m either onto something or completely hopeless when it comes to oceanic knowledge. The look on his face suggests the latter.

“Well actually, that’s where you’re wrong. You would be more likely to see sharks and dolphins in the Intracoastal Waterway. They frequent those for easy access to fish, kind of like it’s the fast food restaurant of the sea,” he rebukes, proceeding tomansplain the methodologies of porpoise and shark species as I go back to checking the clock.

He’s a typical guy. Attractive (obviously), seemingly well-adjusted, and yes, clearly a grade A expert on fishing—which is great, just not for me. It’s not that I have a vendetta against fishermen, there are likely a vast number of them who are perfectly suited for me. Just, not this one. He’s asked exactly zero questions about me. Zilch, nil, none. Maybe he’s nervous, but is it too much to ask for a little interest to be paid to your date?

I can’t do this. I may be a lot of things, but fake isn’t one of them. I thought I was ready to explore my options, and this guy was the best one, but at this point I’m looking forward more to waltzing out of here than to eating the basil pesto caprese sandwich I ordered. To be clear, very few things come between me and fresh mozzarella. I should’ve never come here, I realize. But since I did, an exit strategy is of the utmost importance.

“Listen, Andrew . . .” I say, cautiously interrupting him.

“It’s Andy, that’s what all the ladies call me,” he quickly corrects me, winking as the words drip off his tongue.Eww.

“Umm...okay. This isn’t working for me. I don’t want to waste your time, and I’m sorry but I’m gonna go,” I say, filtering all the determination and poise into my voice that I can muster while hoisting my purse on my shoulder and pointing with my thumb toward the door.

“Really? I thought I felt a real connection here.” He seems genuinely befuddled as he swishes his hand back and forth between us.

“Look, it’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not as ready as I thought I was. Thanks for lunch,” I reply, guiltily offering him a demure smile as I toss a few bills on the table to cover my meal. There is approximately zero chance of me sticking him with the bill. My incessant need to be liked, that all-too-familiar achy feelingin my chest, would never allow it. I intended on paying my way prior to even coming here, and I’m most certainly not going to be another “lady” he tacks onto his list of “all the ladies” to top it off.

“You know, just a friendly tip...if you aren’t ready, then you shouldn’t lead people on,” he snarls out, disdain markedly etched on his face. Oh, the gall I have to turn down the self-proclaimed lady killer—how dare I.

“Excuse me?” Every ounce of guilt I had seeps out of my body in one swoop, and I’m left simply astonished at the bold statement coming out of Mr. Dreamboat’s mouth.Why did he have to be so hot?

“You shouldn’t agree to a date if you aren’t looking for something. It’s fucked up to lead people on.” His lips quirk slightly up into a smirk as he says it.Oh, come on, Andy.

Plastering a pinched smile on my face, I spit back, “Thanks for the feedback. Here’s a tip for you. Maybe don’t only talk about yourself on dates.” I turn to leave but stop short. “Oh, and Andrew—don’t ask a woman to call you Andy just because all the other ladies do.”

It’s too much of a reply, I know, but really, can you blame me? I hustle off toward the door leaving him with his mouth agape and gulping air, looking eerily similar to one of the ten thousand fish he just described in excruciating detail. Somewhere in this world there is a beautiful, fish-obsessed individual for Andy, but it’s not me.

The dream is always the same and today’s no different. It’s what I like to call the “Cameron Wright special” because like me, it’s good on the surface but a complete mess underneath. Dim lighting, silky soft sheets, the scent of warm cedar filteringthrough the room. My senses are heightened; I can feel, taste, and smell everything all at once. His breath swirls warm and hot on my neck as he presses kisses into the tender spot of skin just below my ear. My whole body sings with awareness as he presses his hips forward, rubbing precariously close to the small aching bud between my legs. Softly, he growls in that mind-bending husky voice, “I’m leaving, Cam. It’s over.”

Gahhh! I startle awake from the dream—or should I say, nightmare—gulping for air. I’m covered in sweat with my arm placed perfectly between my thighs and my face jammed into my pillow. My whole body is an irritating mix of turned on and frustrated. Goddamn you, Will Davenport!

Fucking Will, the one who got away. The one I naively planned my life around as a dumbass eighteen-year-old. I’m totally over him, yet every time I get brave and go on a less-than-stellar date, I wake up like this. It’s maddening. And to make matters worse, the dreams are getting more vivid as time goes on. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I be like every other self-respecting woman in her twenties?

Collecting myself, I glance at my trusty clock radio perched at the edge of my nightstand. Shit! I have thirty minutes to pull myself together and get to the bar to meet my brother. I hadn’t planned on taking a long nap, and I certainly hadn’t accounted for what can only be described as a wet dream.

You are finally really losing it, Cam.

Bristling at myself, I throw on a pair of denim cutoffs and a black Rosie the Riveter T-shirt. After running a brush through my hair and grabbing my purse, I rush to my car. It’s not a long drive but I’ve been looking forward to seeing my brother, and as my mother would say, if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late.

My mother again—she’s always in my head like this. Reminding me constantly of all her “rules” and laying on some good old-fashioned guilt without ever having to say a word.It’s a good thing I remembered to gas up old Betty, my trusty green sedan. I can’t imagine the guilt Patricia would cast upon me if she knew it went below a quarter tank. Betty’s about five years past her prime, but I’m admittedly not the best at letting go of things—see the five-year-long crush on my high school boyfriend I’m definitely not still carrying around for reference.

I’m meeting my brother at the Crab Shack—a small seafood place known for all manner of delights, but for me it’s the worn and weathered atmosphere, the locals, and let’s be honest, the drinks that are most compelling.

Obviously, I need one right now.

Most people pass this place by thinking it’s too dingy or it’s a bad bout of stomach issues waiting to happen. For me, though, I like that it’s got character. Tiny scraps of history ripe for the picking, like the paunchy old man at the end of the bar with leathery skin and a scraggly silver beard, the crooked but well-used dartboard, or the bartender who looks just slightly worse off than I am. There’s a story here, a past I imagine that’s not much different than my own. One of longing, or of love that’s bore more pain than pure joy.

Having made it to the Crab Shack with nine minutes to spare, I plop down on a red faux-leather barstool that’s seen better days. It’s well-loved, and even shows signs of a few new tears forming, but it seems familiar and that provides me a slight bit of comfort. Almost as if this chair has helped people solve the world’s problems longer than I’ve been alive. I find myself wondering if this chair has any valuable insight for a mess like me.

This is where I’m at mentally, latching onto things as minuscule as a chair that’s had every butt in town plopped on to it at one time or another. I don’t have time to dwell on my clearly suboptimal mental status though. Elliott will be here anyminute, and I need to fix my face before enduring another one of my big brother’s lectures.

I’m excited to see him, it’s the first time any family has visited me since the big move. Not that this technically counts as a “visit” since he’s just in town for work and making time to meet me for a drink. I should be thankful that he even made any time, but it stings that my family, including Elliott, isn’t embracing this adventure more and encouraging my independence.

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