Coincidentally Kismet

28. Cam

CHAPTER 28

CAM

“TWO THINGS” - KELSEA BALLERINI

H ave you ever heard the expression, if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans? Plans are my thing. I make lists, set goals, overthink every possible outcome and yet my follow-through, virtually nonexistent. No one would call me type A, organization is not my strong suit, cleaning—meh. Good intentions should count for something though, right?

Good intentions are exactly how I would label every interaction I’ve had with Will so far. I intend to go in, be fun, and protect my heart at all costs. My follow-through...in serious jeopardy. He’s too kind, too sexy, too funny, too badass, too everything. The kryptonite to my Clark Kent. The very things I wished for back when my mother used to tell me you could have too much of a good thing. Except it’s not too much, I want it all.

At this point, I can’t even pretend I’m trying to be unaffected by him. I like being with him. It’s simple—well, not really, but it feels easy. He makes me brave and also calls me on my shit: The perfect balance of building me up and bursting my bubble when necessary.

And then there’s the sex. When the dictionary was written, it should’ve had a picture of Will next to that word. No definition needed, just a picture, people would get it with a mere glance. I thought it was good back when we were younger, but let the record show—like fine wine, it got better with age.

Aside from the phone sex, I initiated both times things went further than kissing, which I should regret. But I can’t help it that Will turns me into a glorified floozy. I can’t resist him. My mother would be mortified to know I had sex on a beach. Well, technically in a Jeep on the beach. Same difference.

Was it worth it? A million times over, absolutely, hands down. The man knows how to make my body come alive with a simple caress of his hand. He’s efficient and skilled and, lord almighty, gives me earthquake orgasms. You know, the ones that give you aftershocks a day later just thinking about the experience.

Yes, experience . Sex with most people is an act. Something that, based on my previous history, you do while tightly squeezing your eyes closed and praying for it to be over. Not with Will—that shit is like one of those immersion experiments where you’re blindfolded in a dark room and eating odd foods but nothing has ever tasted better in your life because your senses are fully activated.

It’s addicting, and I’m shamelessly desperate to do it again. The problem is, while I’m ridiculously into him, I’m also scared out of my mind that I’m letting myself slip right back into what we had. I am trying to let go of the past and these fears that haunt me, but it’s still really hard to fully trust him. I keep thinking that the more time I spend with him, the easier it’ll get. Fake it ’til you make it, if you will.

Unfortunately, today’s a workday for him, so hanging out is basically off the table. Speaking of his work, our conversation yesterday was pretty intense. On some level, I knew his job wasn’t simple, safe, or easy, but I had no clue how involved it was. No vacation without special permission, leaving at a moment’s notice, walking into unknown situations. It’s a lot.

I can’t quit thinking about what happened the last time they went on a mission. What kind of sick world exists in which someone would hurt a child? That girl was someone’s baby, maybe a sister, definitely a friend. Thinking about it has me choking back sobs, and I wasn’t even there.

It’s unfair and yet that’s life. If I could change what happened, I would. Not just for her but for the guys too. Wrapping my head around how they could have witnessed such horror and yet still laugh and smile and joke...It’s incomprehensible.

I like to think I’m strong, but I know I couldn’t have come back from that. I can empathize with why Thatch didn’t. Often, since reconnecting with Will, I’ve wondered why he seemed hardened or different. Now I know. His heart has scars from being haphazardly stitched back together. Not all wounds are visible, but that doesn’t make them any less real.

Hell, my heart has a permanent bruise simply from hearing him recount what happened. He asked me if I could handle this life, his life. What kind of question is that, and who would I be if I said no? I’m not delusional enough to think it will be easy, but taking even a bit of pain, fear, or worry from that man—it’s not even a question, I will do it without reservation every single time. I will be my own kind of warrior; I will fight every battle to protect his soul.

Over the past several weeks, I’ve pushed and pulled, ignored and evaded, trying desperately to keep my true feelings at bay. I refuse to do that now. I love him! I’m not ready to tell him that yet, but acceptance is the first step, right?

It terrifies me in the worst way, the soul-crushing, anxiety spiral, aching-in-my-bones kind of way. Somewhere inside, buried deep, I know he has the capacity to hurt me. He’s walked away before, and even though he was young, it doesn’t mean this is guaranteed to work now, just because we are older.

Love to me is not logical. It’s not something you choose, at least not in the beginning, but rather something that happens to you. Like how the strike of a match causes it to ignite: All relationships have the potential to set sparks ablaze or to burn out. It simply depends what type of ignition device you’re working with. Is it a cheap match that was a free giveaway at your favorite bar? Or is it a refillable Zippo lighter that you can top off when the flame gets low? If it’s the latter, you can make that choice and reignite the flame as it ebbs and flows through the years.

My daddy always told me the key to a lifelong love was finding someone who pushes you to become the best version of yourself. He said you don’t need a yes-man; you need someone who isn’t afraid to tell you the stuff that’s hard to hear. The guy who will tell you that you do indeed look bad in that dress, but that you are still the most gorgeous woman on earth. Someone who will walk beside you during a storm, not run off for shelter, leaving you to follow behind. I want to believe that Will is that man.

A knock on the door drags me sluggishly out of my warm bed. Ugh! Who is here? This was supposed to be my lounge day.

“Delivery for a Ms. Cam Wright,” the paunchy old man with a scraggly beard bellows from behind a bouquet of what must be three-dozen pink, white, and red peonies.

“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 burger place 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 from Grease , 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 of shimmering 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.

Daveed was not lying! This is unquestionably the best burger I’ve ever had, and the truffle fries elevate the otherwise basic french fries to near perfection. Rhonda returns, sliding the milkshake across the bar to me at the perfect moment. The chocolate mixed with peanut butter in the milkshake cuts the grease perfectly. I’m quickly approaching food coma status, so I toss my napkin on my plate and drizzle some milkshake on it to stop the temptation of going back in for more.

It’s been a while since I took myself on a date, so to speak. I generally don’t love eating at restaurants alone. Soaking in this atmosphere, though, is enough to make up for any lack of conversation or awkwardness.

Peering around, I see there is a mix of business people grabbing a quick bite for lunch, couples sharing milkshakes in the most swoon-worthy way possible, and a couple of families. Rhonda and her fellow employees bounce from table to table carrying armfuls of plates, shakes, and baskets. Listening to the hum of the music, the clanging of silverware, and the sizzle of the grill mimics a live-action play evolving around me.

Every time the door jingles with the sound of a new guest coming or going, I’m swept up wondering who will enter next, why they are coming here, what’s their story. This particular guest entering is breathtaking. Flowing chestnut-brown hair that’s perfectly coiffed with tendrils falling effortlessly down her back. An emerald-green sundress that hits just above her knees paired with strappy chestnut-colored sandals. She’s petite but has killer curves, the kind of woman every other woman wants to hate because she’s simply stunning.

I realize I’m approaching creepy stalker status, but I’m drawn to watch her as she talks quietly to the host and follows effortlessly to a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant. Noticing the host has placed down two menus, I can’t stop myself from fixating on the door in anticipation of who is meeting her. Will it be her lover or a friend for lunch? Perhaps a business meeting or a first date.

I steal another glance at this mystery bombshell when the jingle of the door chimes again. In walks Will, all svelte and macho looking in his uniform. He’s beautiful and breathtaking, but what the hell is he doing here? I sit up a little straighter preparing to wave when he turns away and heads toward the gorgeous girl I’ve been obsessing over for the last five minutes.

What in the actual fuck?

She slides from the booth with ease, wrapping her arms around his waist in a hug. He hugs her back and smiles at her with that dazzlingly sexy smirk that I thought was reserved for me at this point. They sit down and chat comfortably while looking at their menus. It’s obvious they know each other as neither seems tense or awkward like they would be on a first date.

This isn’t happening—I’m the other woman. How did I not know he was seeing other people? I mean, we haven’t discussed being exclusive, but I assumed when he said he was “all in” to see where this goes that he wasn’t dating anyone else. I wonder if Smith knows—wait, does everyone know but me? How stupid am I to think a man like him wouldn’t be playing the field? I need to get out of here, now .

Cautiously slipping a twenty on the counter to cover my milkshake and tip, since I prepaid for the carry-out order, I slink off my stool. I head toward the door walking as quickly and quietly as possible to go unnoticed. Damn it, I can’t help but steal one more look. Hand on the door handle, I peer over at the table and immediately lock eyes with Will.

He looks confused and a little stunned. The milkshake, burger, and fries are rioting in my stomach, like a brick sloshing around and battering my insides. My heart is pounding against my rib cage, and yet it feels like it might stop beating all together.

I push my way out into the fresh air and sprint to my car, quickly unlocking it and ducking inside with a slam of my door. I need to move, get out of this parking lot, go home, bury myself in bed for the foreseeable future, but all I can do is put my face in my hands and cry. The sobs sound more like screams from a wounded animal, but I guess that’s kind of what I am.

I fucking love him and he’s seeing other people. I knew better, dammit, this is why I didn’t want to get involved. How could I be so stupid and reckless?

A knock on the car window startles me, and I peer up to see who it could be. Freakin’, Will.

“Cam, it’s not what you think,” he says through the glass.

Deep breath, keep it together, don’t show him you’re in pain.

“I’m fine, Rambo. Just leaving now, have a nice day!” I shout back through the window.

“Wright, seriously, dammit. Let me explain,” he pleads.

“It’s all good, Rambo. Have the chocolate peanut butter shake, it’s great. Please move so I don’t run you over,” I respond, trying to sound normal despite wanting to throw my lunch all over my lap.

He steps aside looking defeated and sad. I flip it in reverse, peeling out of the parking lot. Time to go start over . . .again!