Page 26 of Coincidentally Kismet

“Cut him some slack. You loved him once, in case you forgot. He’s not a bad person. He got dealt a bad hand, and you know he thought he was doing the right thing at the time.” Amy points her finger at me, challenging me to tell her she’s wrong.

“You know what, you’re right, Amy. I did love him. But that’s old news. Everyone needs to chill and stop acting like this is some bullshit love story.” I take another large gulp, trying not to groan as the sugar-filled drink hits my stomach. “Will and I aren’t meant to be. It’s fine. We’ve moved on and so should everyone else.”

“Hidey ho, Winslow! I’m back. Oh, this looks like a deliciously bad decision.” Elliott wraps his arm around me, reaching for a straw and sucking. Is it gross that we are all sharing this drink? Probably. Do I care? Not in the slightest.

We grab our balls and proceed to bowl, the competition and the puns getting stiffer as we go. Will and I avoid each other for the first two rounds, like two caged lions circling and staring but never engaging. I’m pissed that he would talk to El and not to me. Not that I want to talk to him, but if anyone deserves an explanation or a clearing of the air, it’s me. Right?

“What did he say out there?” I ask when Elliott comes to sit by me in between turns.

“Don’t worry about it. Just wanted to clear the air. It’s fine.” He grins at me and shifts in his seat like he knows something I don’t. I hate being the one left out of a secret.

“It is not fine. Don’t you think I deserve to know?” I protest.

“You don’t need to know. He didn’t say anything that would change the way you or I feel about things. I think he just was afraid I was going to kick his ass.” Elliott flexes, showing off an impressive bicep.

“I’m not sure you could take him in a fight, El. But good to know you’d try.” I can’t help but size up Will while I’m talking about him. He’s dressed in a navy Air Force T-shirt and light jeans, and his hair is a little messy. The shirt is snug against his broad chest and strong arms, which definitely does not make my stomach flip when thinking about what he could do with those muscles. When he laughs with his friends, his eyes are such a bright shade of blue against his suntanned skin. If I didn’t hate him, which I absolutely do, I would want to drag my fingers through those messy curls.

“You’re staring, Wright. Like something you see?”Shit.He caught me gawking and now he’s going to be even more insufferable.

“Not a chance, Rambo. Keep dreaming,” I quip back, turning to grab my ball and take my final turn of the round.

When I picked this ball, I had two criteria in mind: one, it needed to be light enough to throw, and two, it had to be pretty. I didn’t account for how small the finger holes would be; it’s probably a child’s ball. I’ve managed to play with it up until this point, but the more I drink, the more my fingers swell, which makes holding on to the ball a challenge. If I was thinner, this wouldn’t be an issue, but I have the slightest bit of sugar, and my fingers become less dainty and more precooked breakfast sausages.

Walking carefully up to the line, I balance my ball with my left hand as I jam my pointer and middle fingers in a little further for good measure. I wiggle them back and forth, just to make sure I don’t lose feeling, and secure my grip. Glancing over my shoulder at the group, I wink at the lot of them. If I get a strike, which I fully intend to do, I will win the game. Have I mentioned how much I like winning?

I refocus on the task at hand, lining my feet and ball up with the center arrow, pulling the ball back with all my might, andlunging forward to release it. Except, it doesn’t release—it takes me with it. Suddenly I’m barreling down the lane like a bull in a china shop, like a potato shooting out of a launcher, like one of those pumpkins soaring through the air during the annual Punkin Chunkin’ competition. I can feel the wind beneath me, as if I’m flying for the first time, before I crash with a thud and slippery-slide through grease to what I hope is my eventual death.

I close my eyes, willing myself to disappear through the hole at the end of this long lane.Please, for the love of Pete, let me go through that mystery tunnel and never return.I hear a myriad of shrieks, laughter, and one “holy shit that was awesome” coming from the peanut gallery. Not that I thought I was going to be sleeping with anyone in our group, but I hold a brief funeral in mind for my barren vagina anyway. Someone definitely got that on video. I’m probably going viral and doomed to a life of abstinence forever more.

Pounding footsteps approach down the lane followed by the now familiar sliding-swishing sound that I’m positive my body just made. I’m hit on my back with something heavy and hard. Wait, not something. Someone.

“Hey, fancy meeting you here.” Will grins, turning on his side and propping his head up on his hand like we both didn’t just slide down a bowling lane and aren’t covered in grease.

“What the fuck are you doing, Rambo?” I glare at him. He’s the last person I needed to be down a lane—no, up an alley with.

“I could ask you the same thing, you know. I came to rescue you, Wright. Take the win.” He smiles at me with a lopsided look, showing all those infuriatingly gorgeous white teeth.

“I didn’t need rescuing, and how did that slide work out for you?” I shift, trying to pry my fingers out of the ball they are still stuck in. Nope, not coming out. I am now one with the ball.

“Here, let me.” Will shifts to a sitting position, inching closer to my hand slowly, so he doesn’t slide any further than necessary, I presume. He swipes his hand down the greasy lane and gently grabs my fingers to run the oily substance along where they are stuck. As he circles each one, I feel the chill bumps erupting down my arm, that tingling sensation low in my belly. Gently, he tugs each finger and my thumb free, helping me sit up and steadying me.

“All better, Wright.” The words come out gravelly like he’s just as affected by touching me as I am.

“Th-thanks for, um...for, um, rescuing me, I mean,” I say, breathlessly, before righting myself and attempting to scoot to the nonoily lane divider. I crawl up and work my way to standing before turning to face our group with my head hung. Talk about a walk of shame. Stepping off onto solid ground is the best thing—I’m closer to finding the nearest exit and never returning.

“Well, that’s one way to win the game, kid.” Elliott wraps an arm around me, careful to avoid the brown streak of grease that’s surely ruined my favorite pink “Ask Me About My Blow Job” T-shirt that has a cute little hair dryer on it. “Ready to get outta here?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” I wink, thanking him with my eyes for a solid escape plan.

We quickly say goodbye to the group, settle our tab, and hustle to the car before bursting into laughter over my ridiculously clumsy bad luck. Only me, I swear it, this shit only happens to me.

CHAPTER 12

WILL

“I CAN’T EXPLAIN” - THE WHO

Last night was interesting, almost like an out-of-body experience. In the military, they train us to have a “bulletproof mind,” which essentially means nothing, no situation or person or action, can rattle you. It sounds good in theory, and I’ve been through so much of the training that I like to pretend that it’s true for me. And honestly, in most situations it is. I’m calm under pressure and don’t let things affect me. My mind is locked carefully behind an impenetrable steel vault, and there isn’t anything that can enter it if I don’t want it to. That stupid ache in my chest, though, apparently didn’t get the memo.

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