Page 63 of Coincidentally Kismet

“That’s me, thank you,” I say, taking the bouquet and turning back to the kitchen, closing the door with my foot.

What can I say, the man knows I love peonies. I set the flowers gently in a vase that I filled with water and reach for the card.

Cam—

These flowers are beautiful but not anywhere near as gorgeous as you. I can’t stop thinking about our “JSOTB.”

—Will

Shut the front door! He sent me sex flowers! Flowers come with all kinds of meanings. Sometimes they’re “I’m Sorry” flowers, “Thinking of You” flowers, or “I Fucked Up, Give Me Another Chance” flowers. These are “We Had Hot Steamy Jeep Sex on the Beach” flowers.

Grabbing my phone, I shoot off a text.

Cam

Rambo! Did you just spend a small fortune on flowers just to thank me for having sex with you?

Will

I mean it was mind-blowing, if I recall. Worth every penny!

Cam

It was life altering! TY for the flowers Can u meet for lunch?

Will

Sorry, can’t today . . . super busy.

Cam

Bummer . . . call me later.

Well, that sucks. He doesn’t get a lot of time for lunch, but it would’ve been fun to bring him a sandwich and see him if only for a few minutes. I’ve been dying to try this new burgerplace that’s close to base. Daveed won’t quit talking about it, he’s borderline obsessed with their truffle fries and I’m equal parts concerned for him and curious.

You know what makes a lazy day even better? Eating a giant greasy burger and fries while binge-watching my favorite show in bed. I shouldn’t, it’s financially irresponsible and certainly not going to help my waistline. On the other hand, I’ve been working out every day, pinching pennies, and I passed my trials. That settles it. Since Will isn’t available, I’m ordering takeout and making my own joy today.

Stepping into Patty’s Patties is like entering a different era. Daveed told me about the fifties diner theme and how it’s the perfect mix of cool and cliché. His description of the atmosphere alone had me itching to try it. I live for a novelty experience. Sit me smack in the middle of an old-school diner, and I’m instantly Sandy fromGrease, ready to squeeze into leather pants and belt out, “You’re the one that I want!”

Similar to my music addiction and how it can carry me away from any situation, a novelty like this restaurant is the perfect place to let my mind roam and dream up any number of fictitious stories about the people who work and dine here.

I intended to take my order to go, but the perfectly appointed décor, Elvis strumming on the jukebox, and insane-looking milkshakes have me second guessing myself.

“Hi there. Can I help you?” asks an older-looking waitress wearing a mint-green dress topped with a white apron. Her hair is piled up on her head in a bun being held together by a pencil stuck through it. It’s mousy brown but large streaks ofshimmering white would place her somewhere in her sixties if I had to guess.

“Hi. I placed a carry-out order, but now that I’m here...I think I’d like to stay. Is that okay?”

“Of course, honey. Do you want a seat at the bar or a booth?”

Stealing a glance around the restaurant, I take in the jewel-toned plastic barstools and cushy-looking booths.

“Bar’s fine. Can I have a seat at the end?”

“Whatever tickles your fancy, toots.”

Flashing her a grin, I make my way toward the last stool and plop down. I wanted this seat because it provides the best view of the restaurant but also gives me enough cover to be unsuspecting in my examination of all the other guests. It’s close to the jukebox, and my need to play a few songs is as visceral as my need for a cheeseburger at this point.

Rhonda, the waitress whose name is clearly embroidered in black stitching on her dress, delivers my order, asking me if I’d like to try one of their famous milkshakes. After I order the Chocolate Peanut Butter Bliss, she scurries off and I dig into what can only be described as a gooey, buttery, cheesy explosion of delight.

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