Page 8 of Coincidentally Kismet

“Fine, I’m in, but I’m not buying you a lap dance. You gotta pay your own way,” I say on a huff while I point my finger at him for emphasis, not that it will work. I don’t typically enjoy frequenting strip clubs, but maybe he’s right. Maybe I should try casual. I’m just afraid if I do, no one will ever measure up.

“Deal,” Smith agrees, while trying to mask his sly smirk with his hand. He knows I’m paying, even though I literally just said I wouldn’t. I always end up paying because I’m the only one who doesn’t regularly blow the minuscule paychecks we get. I guess that’s my penance for refusing to go dancing and for being stingy, saving every penny I earn aside from what’s necessaryfor living expenses and the occasional stock up at the nutrition store.

Salty ocean air swirls around me, wafting hints of fish and sunscreen into my Jeep. The breeze is warm on my skin, not as refreshing as I’d like it to be with the temperature nearing triple digits, but it’s moving air nonetheless. Lyrics honoring small hometowns and the people we take for granted vibrate from my stereo. Nothing like a classic country song to make you feel seen, or to sometimes deepen the ache for times, people, or places gone by.

I do my best thinking when driving, the silence allowing my brain to marinate on mistakes I wish I could change. I never meant to break Cam’s heart; it’s just, I’ve seen this all play out before. My mom was a devoted wife, but my dad felt like he missed his chance to sow his wild oats since he married his high school sweetheart, so to speak. He had never dated anyone else, never went to parties unless my mom was with him, and supposedly the dullness of never experiencing the things he “should” have wore him down. One day, my mom came into an on-call room at the hospital they both worked at and found him bent over a nurse with his pants around his ankles.

She wanted to forgive him—honestly, Valerie Davenport is the sweetest woman known to man, a real-life angel walking on earth. The problem was, he didn’t want to stop giving it to Susie Homewrecker because she made him feel “alive,” whatever the fuck that means. Getting his release was more important than his wife or kids.

I think that’s why I fell so hard for Cam. Aside from her outer beauty, she taught me what it felt like to truly be loved, withoutexception. She met me where I was, and my scars became the roadmap to earning my heart. But I had to end it. Knowing I would never be able to give her as much in return as she gave me ate at me. Cam is sunshine, she’s the most beautiful bouquet of flowers, the rainbow on a rainy day. I am the man who wasn’t even lovable enough for his father to stick around. Splitting up was easier than falling short of ever being able to lasso the moon for her.

“Honk,” a horn blares behind me, alerting me that traffic is moving once more and I’m carried back from my trip down memory lane. I turn into my complex, zip into my parking spot, and grab my gym bag from the back. Glancing at my watch, I have exactly three hours to eat dinner, relax, and shower before we’re heading out. Rounding the corner to head down the hallway to my apartment, I grind to a halt. Something is off, out of sync, but I can’t immediately place it.

Trained to trust my instincts, I slowly step down the long hallway. Ten paces away, I notice the edge of a suitcase peeking out from the alcove at my doorway. Anxiety ratchets up another notch within me—unattended bags equal bombs in my experience. My brain immediately races through scenes of how many cars are out front, which of my neighbors could be home, and where the hell is Smith? The acrid taste of gunpowder and the smell of pure dirt mixed with iron dance on my senses. Fighting the urge to panic or hurl, I place my hand flat on the wall, stare at a palm tree swaying in the distance, and repeat in my head the mantra I’ve practiced so many times:You’re safe, you’re home, you’re in Florida. You’re safe, you’re home, you’re in Florida.

When we got back from our last deployment, mandated counseling was one of the many prizes we won. Tina, my therapist, taught me to deal with the flashbacks or triggers by focusing on an object and repeating words to affirm my safety. Ifought her on it—hello, it’s me, not a big fan of therapy or talking about my feelings. But it does help, not that I’d admit it to most people.

I take a few deep breaths to steady myself, then place one foot in front of the other to close the distance. My younger sister, Amy, is perched carefully on a duffel bag with a rolling suitcase in front of her. What the fuck is going on?

“Aims, what’s wrong, why are you here, what the hell?” I huff out at a rapid clip, anger laced in my voice where shock should be. “I thought, well...I thought...never mind.” I almost tell her the suitcase triggered an episode of PTSD, stopping only because she doesn’t know I still have these episodes in the first place. And even if she did know, explaining why something as benign as a suitcase could send me into one doesn’t make sense even to me. There is no rhyme or reason to it. It’s easier to leave it alone.

“I can’t take it anymore, Will. Mom is unbearable...she treats me like a child. I can’t find a job. Rob is a cheating asshole. I dumped his no-good sorry ass, by the way. Ugh! Can we please just go inside?” she pleads with me, water dangerously close to leaking from her eyes.

“Yeah, of course, let’s go.” I sigh, desperate to bring her back from the brink of tears.

What does this mean? Is she staying? For how long? Does she expect me to pay for her to live, I mean obviously I would, she’s my baby sister, but this isn’t how I saw my evening unfolding. Hell, I only have a one-bedroom apartment, and I can’t force my little sister to sleep on the couch in her current state. How the hell did she even get to Florida without anyone knowing—wait does Mom know? Questions flood my mind like a tidal wave crashing into the coast.

“I know it’s Friday, Will. If you have plans, you can just go and I’ll crash here.” Amy withers.

“Well, I was going to go out with Smith and the guys from our unit. I am not leaving you alone, but if you think you’d be up for some dancing...it could be fun.” Smiling at her and wagging my eyebrows, I’m desperate to make her happy. There’s no one else in this world I would subject myself to a night out at the country bar for, except Cam.

“Yes! Dancing sounds like exactly what I need. Is Butler going to be there?” Her cheeks turn a vibrant shade of pink as she hides her eyes under those long lashes.

“He will but you know my friends are off-limits. These aren’t the kind of guys I want you to be anything more than friends with.” Bristling at the thought of my sister, the one who used to skin her knees trying to keep up with me on the playground, dating one of my friends—not happening, ever.

I shoot off a text to Smith letting him know Aims is in town and we will need to change plans. Of course he responds with heart-eye emojis, furthering the churning in my stomach. Looks like I’ll be spinning my sister around the floor tonight to keep the hounds at bay.

CHAPTER 4

CAM

“MISS ME MORE” – KELSEA BALLERINI

Inserting my key into the deadbolt, I grab the door handle and push it open, drinking in the sweet relief of being home early and one step closer to being braless. The microwave clock glowing in its emerald green shows the time is approaching eight. It’s a shockingly early time to be home after a Friday at the salon. Fridays are typically chockful of last-minute walk-ins trying to squeeze in a blowout or fresh cut before the weekend.

Daveed is headlining a big hair show in Orlando this weekend and needed time to prep, so we closed early, even turning a few guests away. Shows like this are pretty standard for someone of his caliber, and he usually brings all of us along. There’s something awe-inspiring about watching him dazzle a room full of people while his hands magically transform the model’s look. This time, he left Micah and me behind, opting to break in the less experienced assistants, since we’ve both been with him for nearly a year.

I should be jealous of the assistants who get to go, but I can’t remember the last time I had a Saturday off. Three days of nowork is music to my ears—minus the fact that I won’t be making any tips, which is remarkably bad for my bank account.

Slinging off my purse, abandoning it on the table, and toeing off my flats, I plop down on the edge of the well-worn blue suede sofa. This thing has seen better days for sure. Lo says it’s in style and fits our mid-century modern meets boho meets Goodwill style, since neither of us is exactly raking in the cash.

Our apartment is small, a boutique sort of place with two bedrooms, a living room, and a small kitchen in between. It’s not fancy. The cabinets could use an upgrade since best-case they were installed in the eighties. Yellow Formica counters add a unique and funky “vintage” flair. Lo calls the apartment “dated chic.” In other words, it’s fucking old.

She’s always able to pick out the best thing about a person or place, always able to see the silver lining, which is one of the many reasons I love her. Being overly optimistic doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m more of a tell-it-like-it-is, goofy kind of girl, who’s a little fun and a lot self-conscious. I suppose that wasn’t always the case, but you know...a heartbreak and fifteen pounds will have an impact on a person.

I lean back into the couch, trying to get into the coziest part of the corner. I have absolutely zero intent on leaving this position for the foreseeable future. All weekend, I’m going to sit here, look at my phone, and try to find inspiration for the new-and-improved Cam. Daveed suggested I create a storyboard to hang in my room, he wants me to really lean into who I want to become. But that would require things like glue, poster paper...Ugh, who even has the time for that?

Raising my hand to no one at all in this empty room, I admit it’s me, I do. I’m just too lazy and maybe a little too worried about putting something out in the universe that I’m not one-hundred-percent sure about. Trying to decide who I want tobe when I’m not even crystal clear on who I am—well, that’s proving to be extremely hard.

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