Coincidentally Kismet

11. Cam

CHAPTER 11

CAM

“RED BOWLING BALL RUTH” - THE WHITE STRIPES

P ulling up the arrivals ramp to the passenger pickup area at Tampa International, I idle waiting on the curb for my person. And that’s truly who Elliott is, he’s my person, the Cristina to my Meredith, my man in a storm. After the past couple of weeks, especially last Thursday, I can’t wait to talk it out with someone who gets it. Someone who will be on my side, not in my ear talking about fate and true love like Lo and Micah keep insisting on.

Elliott

Walking out now, door 7

I pull my car back into the drive thru lane, inching up toward where Elliott is waiting. When I see him standing on the curb, relief washes over me like a tidal wave. I roll down the window and squeal the biggest, warmest hello I can muster. Elliott grins, waving and heading toward the trunk to put his massive suitcase in the back. If I didn’t know he was quite the fashionista, I would think he was staying for a month.

He opens the passenger door and plops into the seat. “Finally! I didn’t think I was ever going to get off that plane. People are gross, I need to shower immediately.”

“Ugh, they really are the worst. How was the flight though?” I ask, slowly easing back into traffic to leave the airport.

“Ehh. It was okay. What do you have planned for me? I told you that debauchery better be included.”

“Oh gosh. I do have a few things planned. But I think I’ve had enough of that recently to last me a lifetime.” I’m not looking at him as I merge onto the interstate, but I can tell he wants a full debriefing.

“We are going to get into all of that. But I’m starving. Food first?” he asks, almost like he’s reading my mind.

“I thought you’d never ask. I’m taking you somewhere really good. I found this authentic Mexican taqueria a little while back with Daveed. It sits right on Bayshore Boulevard, with scenic views of the bay and the best birria tacos you’ll ever have anywhere,” I say, hitting my blinker and turning down MacDill Avenue—we’re almost there.

“Yum, so I can grill you about your love life over a margarita? Even better.” He smiles at me, that arrogant I’m-going-to-find-out-everything look plastered on his pretty face.

We pull into the small gravel parking lot, get out of the car, and head inside to request a small patio table. The taqueria is quaint, crisp, and clean inside, and the patio has an amazing view of the water, with red, purple, and green umbrellas shading the tables.

Our server brings over the taco menu, an ordering form, a pencil, and a couple of waters. “Do you want something else to drink?” he asks, getting his notepad out.

“We will take a pitcher of your signature margarita, thank you,” I order the standard, making sure we’ll be covered for the conversation we’re about to have.

“A pitcher. That bad, huh?” Elliott raises an eyebrow.

“No, it’s really only three margaritas, hardly enough to get drunk on when we are sharing and eating,” I say, unnecessarily justifying my need for tequila at a moment like this. Some things are just easier to talk about when you have Jose Cuervo on your side.

We scan the menu, opting to share six different tacos so we can try a variety. We also put down an order of chips, salsa, and queso dip for good measure. Our waiter, whose name I’ve learned is Marco, brings the margarita pitcher and two chilled glasses, snagging our order form on his retreat back to the kitchen.

“So, Will Davenport lives here...What were the odds of that?” Elliott slurps his margarita, shaking his head at the coincidence of it all.

“Yeah, yup. Sure does.” I shrug, following his lead, licking salt from the rim of my glass and slurping some ice-cold Jose, hoping it infuses courage into my veins.

“That’s it? That’s all the reaction I get after all this time?” He’s astonished, but there’s not much else to say. Other than a few moments of trading barbs, there isn’t anything going on between me and Will. Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true, but I’m working up to it.

“It’s just...Honestly, it’s so weird. Like a part of me could so easily just fall back in step with him. We bicker and banter like we always have. But then I also hate literally everything about him. I hate his stupid beautiful face, the way his hands are the right amount of rough and soft, the way he insists on being nice to me and doting on his sister. It’s disgusting and fake, and I know that there’s this whole other side of him, the side that just throws people away like they mean nothing. So yeah, it’s fine.” I down half my margarita, afraid to look my brother in the eye.

“That’s a whole lot to unpack. What are we doing after this?” Elliott shifts in his chair as Marco drops a platter of chips, salsa, and queso in front of us.

“We are going bowling. Why?” I ask, a chip halfway to my mouth dripping salsa down my shirt, because of course I’m spilling red sauce on a white tank top.

“Just trying to gauge how many margaritas it’s going to take to unravel the shitstorm of red flags you just laid down. Didn’t want to jump in now and miss something important later.” He chews thoughtfully on a chip. “Let’s start with the fact that it doesn’t sound like hate at all. It sounds like a whole lot of tension of the sexy variety, but definitely not hate. Which is concerning because it means your heart is already involved, whether you want it to be or not.”

“My heart is absolutely not involved. I hate him, I promise.” I pull my leg up under me, leaning in, ready to defend myself against what is turning out to be a conversation with another skeptic.

“Okay, let’s pretend that’s true. If we hate him, then why does it even matter if he’s around? Like, why is it affecting you so much? Just pretend he’s a gnat and ignore him.” He grabs the pitcher, refilling our glasses with what remains and signaling to Marco to bring another.

“Ugh...I can’t because he insists on either being nice to me, which is just so...so typical of him that it’s infuriating. Or he’s giving me a hard time, and you know I can’t back down from a fight.” I put my head into my hands, fighting back tears of frustration, tears of longing, tears of pure despair. Five years of my life have been wasted on this, five years that I will never get back. “How am I supposed to deal with caring about him as a person but at the same time wanting to throat punch him repeatedly?”

“My dear...that right there is what I like to call sexual tension.” Elliott pauses, presumably trying to be thoughtful about his response. “And normally I would advise you to just take him for a roll in the hay, but in this case, that’s too dangerous. For your heart, I mean.”

“I know that. I just wish he had...I don’t know, aged poorly?” Marco drops off our tacos and we dive in.

“Let me ask you something.” Elliott has his serious face on, except he’s got a smidge of crema on his cheek making it difficult to meet him there. “Do you trust him?”

“No.” It’s an easy answer, one that I can give emphatically and without reservation.

“Well, that’s the answer then. Regardless of how much you want to jump his bones—which by the way, gross—it won’t work if there isn’t trust. Without it, you don’t stand a chance.” He takes another bite of the birria taco, hogging the rest of it. So much for sharing.

“So I hate him. Okay. I can do that.” I reach for some queso, pouring it onto a chicken taco.

“I didn’t say that.” He shakes his head. “We both know you don’t. But there’s too much history, too much baggage. It’s like...do you remember when our house burned down? We loved that house, and then the fire came and ripped it to shreds. Mom and Dad rebuilt and we both liked the new place but it was never the same, you know? I think you could be friends-ish. Not too close but, like, acquaintances, since you share a group of friends.”

“I don’t know, El. That sounds easier than it actually is.” I sip the last of my margarita.

“Listen, you don’t have to decide anything right now, you just have to trust your instincts. Do what feels right and don’t overthink it—which I know you will, but you have to admit that it’s got to be fate bringing you both here. It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise.” Elliott waves to Marco, likely to request the check.

“It’s not fate. I don’t believe in that. But maybe you’re right, maybe I needed this, needed to see Will again, to finally let go and move on.” My brother nods his agreement.

I don’t know why Will is back in my life, but I do know one thing: It’s time for me to get closure. It’s time for me to move on.

The smash of balls hitting pins echoes all around us as Elliott, Lo, and I walk into the Alley. After our fiesta lunch, Elliott and I headed back to my apartment to change before our evening plans and pick up Lo. The Alley is a classic bowling alley that’s been renovated to be provide modern amenities with a vintage flair. The carpet is a kaleidoscope of colorful swirls beneath our feet as we make our way to the lane we reserved. The very one that’s already occupied by my three new friends and the Davenport siblings, one I love and one I hate.

“Hey, Cam! Bring a date?” Smith hollers when he sees us approaching.

“That’s her brother.” Amy elbows him in the ribs. “Hey, Elliott, how are you? It’s been a while.”

“Little Amy Davenport? It’s been forever. I’m great, you?” Elliott and Amy start catching up. There’s nearly a ten-year age gap between them, but Amy was around a lot when Will and I were together.

“Wright, good to see ya.” Will nods a welcome in my direction. If I was guessing, I’d say he’s a little nervous with my big brother around. Serves him right. “Elliott, been a long time, man. Good to see you.” He reaches out a hand to shake my brother’s, interrupting Elliott’s conversation with Amy.

Elliott looks at him, really assessing him, before saying, “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not shake hands. Not until you’ve made things right with my girl.”

“I respect that, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to steal a moment of your time.” Will points toward the patio. Apparently he’d like to talk outside, man to man.

“What is this, the 1920s, Rambo? You don’t need to talk to my brother.” I stomp my foot and prop a hand on my hip. I do not need him to chat up Elliott and come to some big understanding. If he wants to talk to someone, he can talk to me.

“Cam, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a few. Order me a drink.” Elliott leads the way out toward the patio. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he puffed out his chest a little as he walked away. Men are so dumb!

I say hello to the rest of the group, pick out a red, sparkly bowling ball, and set up our names in the computer to keep score. Then I order a couple of fishbowls, which are advertised to contain sixty-four ounces of blue punch with more than enough alcohol to hate myself in the morning, and slump into a chair at one of the two tables skirting the red pleather horseshoe-shaped bench seating. It’s been like ten minutes, and there’s still no sign of my brother or Will.

“Hey, you okay over here?” Butler bumps his shoulder into mine, gentleness etched in his brow.

“Yeah...But actually, what the hell are they doing out there?” I groan before taking another sip of punch. Yep, I am going to hate myself in the morning.

“It’s a man thing. He just wants to clear the air with your brother. It’s fine.” Butler shrugs before grabbing one of the ten straws sticking out of the giant (literal) fishbowl and sucks. “Davenport is an honorable man. He’s doing the right thing by owning his mistakes.”

“If you ask me, he’s owning those to the wrong person,” Lo quips before also grabbing a straw to drink her fill.

“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, and lunging 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.