About Kismet

31

She was munching on a Cinnabon while Wesley drove around aimlessly. He would glance at her every now and then, watching her as she ate.

Originally, they had planned to have dessert at the diner. However, after a chat with one of the waitresses, they discovered that the lava cake wasn't an option on the menu. So, Wesley had insisted on going to another place for dessert.

He had driven to a bakery near the diner shortly after lunch, buying Cinnabons and a Japanese cheesecake, despite Kismet's protests.

She glanced up from her Cinnabon as the car came to a stop, looking ahead to notice the traffic and red light. When she turned to look at Wesley, she was caught off guard at the pair of cerulean eyes that were already staring intently at her.

He had been relatively quiet for the past few minutes, and it was starting to unnerve her. "You okay?"

He shook his head, clearing his throat. "You look so much like her. As if you grew into her features over the past few years," he said quietly, distractedly.

The light atmosphere from within the diner had now transformed into this thick tension that hung between them, as it often did when the topic at hand was brought up.

Her lips parted slightly in surprise. "Let's detour," she replied impulsively. "Just follow my directions," she said. She wasn't sure how ready either of them were for this, but it's now or never, she told herself.

Wesley was confused but he agreed.

He followed her instructions, turning left and right when she said to. Eventually, they had wound up on a private road off the highway. While the scenery was beautiful, he was beginning to doubt Kismet's mapping skills.

"Okay, turn left at the gate," she instructed, not raising her voice as to prevent it from trembling.

Only then did Wesley realize where they had come. He drove through the large gate, parking in the open lot fronting the private cemetery. Kismet was quick to climb out of the car, numbly shutting the door behind herself.

She didn't wait for him as she began trudging towards the cemetery path, walking past the graves of strangers until she arrived at her mothers—marked by the engraved headstone and the bench that was stationed across from it.

She heard quiet footsteps approach behind her, and she knew it was Wesley. "She was buried here. It was her favorite spot among the options she had picked for herself," she said to him, refusing to turn around.

"When'd she pass away?" he questioned, moving around Kismet to approach the grave. He took a seat by it, sitting on the cool grass.

Kismet bit her lip regretfully. "February 14th," she mumbled. He had his tournament then.

His head whipped around, "When?" He had to have misheard her, he tried convincing himself.

She spoke louder this time. "February 14th," she replied.

"That's—why didn't you tell me? How did you—I would've booked a flight the minute you did. All you had to do was call me, Kiss," he exclaimed, his voice scratchy.

She took a seat on the bench, pulling her legs up onto it. She hugged them close to herself for comfort, shaking her head. "I'm sorry that my mother passed away and my first thought wasn't to call you," she replied bitterly, regretting it the moment the words left her mouth. They had left behind a sour after taste.

He didn't register her response, only growing more upset. "You could've told me when I got back, then. You could've told me at that fucking party. You didn't tell me until a month later," he stressed.

Her throat ached from the urge to cry but not being able to. "I didn't want to burd—" she began, only to be cut off by him.

"Were you going to tell me at all? You didn't come to the diner to meet me. Hell, you walked right past me," he stated. "I didn't get to say goodbye—see her," he whispered quietly, and she could tell from his voice that he had given up.

"You didn't get to say goodbye?" she questioned incredulously. "I didn't even get to say goodbye," she said hoarsely, the stubborn tears finally falling, staining her cheeks tinged from the cold as she got up from the bench.

Wesley turned around and immediately got to his feet, hearing her voice crack before she began to softly cry. He was in front of her in a second, pulling her close to his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

"I'm sorry," she cried, her words muffled by the fabric of his sweatshirt. Her hands clutched at his back, her arms wrapped tightly around him.

He rested his chin on her head, blinking back the moisture in his eyes. "It's okay. We're okay," he replied. It only made her cry harder.

They stayed in that position until Kismet sniffled, pulling away from him. He lifted his hands to her face, cupping it gently as he wiped away the remaining tears with the pads of his thumbs.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, glancing up at him with red, watery eyes. He only shook his head. "Don't be sorry, baby," he murmured.

Butterflies swarmed her insides at the endearment, and she rest her forehead against his chest to hide the blush warming her cheeks.

A short while later, they both sat side by side on the grass. Her eyes still stung and his throat ached, but neither felt the heaviness from before. Kismet sat, leaning her head against his arm while he talked to the grave as though Yuri were there, listening.

He talked about his career, his family, Kismet. At one point, Kismet nudged him and said, "You sound like you're talking to God." Effectively so, he quickly changed the topic.

Whatever tension previously there was now gone. A different light and ease existed between them—replicating the kind of chemistry they had years ago.

Finally, as they got up to leave, Wesley kissed two of his fingers, pressing it against the headstone.

Kismet looked at him in wonder, and he grinned, kissing his fingers again to press to her lips. She tossed her head back, laughing at the gesture as Wesley watched her contently.

Is this what it's like to have a soulmate?