Chance Encounters

seventeen

Chapter 17

If somebody told me I was going to spend my Saturday night sitting around a campfire with semi-drunk strangers at the beach, I would have laughed.

That was exactly what I ended up doing, though. And no, I wasn't laughing.

It felt as if we'd been on this wild chase since forever. It was exhausting. I almost found it hard to believe just a few hours ago, we were watching Serendipity. If it wasn't for that godforsaken movie, Tori never would have gotten the absurd idea of searching for our soulmates.

(And I thought the worst thing that could happen to me tonight was to be subjected to watch Tori's pathetic romance movies.)

Needless to say, I wasn't exactly having the time of my life. That made one of us, I thought as I watched Austin and his friend Peter talking animatedly about something. They were sitting right across me on the small campfire circle. I couldn't help but steal glances every now and then, as if I was drawn by the vibrant energy emanating from Austin.

I could see traces of the Austin from the picture—in the way he smiled, in the sound of his laughter, in the rhythm he was unconsciously drumming with his hands on his lap. He looked relaxed and calm—happy, even—as he and Peter talked. It was hard to believe he was the same person as earlier this night, with the semi-permanent scowl and creased eyebrows.

As though he sensed my gaze, his eyes suddenly flitted over to where I was sitting. I immediately turned away, pretending I was busy, but not before he caught my eye.

Thankfully, that was the moment somebody chose to block my view of Austin.

I found myself face to face with a bottle of beer, held out by a hand. I looked up from the hand to its owner, only to see Will smiling down at me. "Hey."

 "Hey," I replied, reluctantly taking the drink from him. It was already unopened, which of course bothered me (who knew what he could have put in there?), but whether or not I had trust issues, I would have probably refused it either way. For some reason, however, not taking it seemed impolite, so I did.

He let himself sit down on the log I was sitting on. I inched to the other end to give him enough space. "So," he said, "you look bored."

"Camping isn't exactly my style," I replied.

"You've never camped before?"

It was nothing but an innocent question from a stranger who knew nothing about me or my past, but it was enough to take me and my thoughts a few years back. Dad had always been looking through catalogues about camping, always buying some tents from a garage sale, always planning for us to go to camp one summer together.

There was one place, a few hours away from town, that we liked. We saw it from a brochure and I saw that it was famous for having fireflies during the summer. I told him I wanted to go there, so he took the brochure, pinned it with a magnet on our refrigerator, and promised me he'd take me there.

"Next summer, pal," he had told me. "Next summer, I'll bring you to see the lights."

There was no more next summer.

He left before he had the chance to bring me there.

What I hated most was the fact that I never would have wanted to go camping in the first place if it wasn't for him—that I never would have gotten excited over it if he hadn't come home with that fucking tent that was still sitting in the basement, along with everything he left behind.

Every thought I had about camping was a product of poring through brochures with him on late Saturday nights, and when he left, I'd never really thought about it again.