I need booze. Something to steady my nerves. Clearly not having learned a lesson from our margarita party last night, I make my way to the bar. Sliding onto a maroon cracked-leather barstool, I greet the bartender, Larry, with my sexy wink that Dax has informed me, on more than one occasion, is not the least bit sexy.
“Evening, Lawrence.” I nod at the television mounted to the wall behind him. “Your Jays are looking pretty decent this year. It’s just a shame Joe Nintendo broke his toe. Won’t be rounding the bases like he did last year.” I rest my chin between my two hands and wait for Larry to argue with me. It’s our shtick. We do it every Tuesday night. I say something about sports that’s completely ignorant or entirely made up. He gets all riled and red, arguing with me until he realizes I’m joking. Then he pulls his bar towel from his back pocket and pretends to swat me with it. I run away, yelling, Free beer! He puts it on my Visa card at the end of the night.
However, this Larry just squints at me and scratches his balding head.
Right. I’m still in curse country. And since I’m not friends with Dax, I don’t frequent the Grand Victoria’s bar, so this poor guy doesn’t know who I am.
“Uh, yeah,” he finally says. “Looking like it’s going to be an interesting season. What can I get for ya?”
There’s no need to think hard about this answer.
“Pitcher of Hurry Hard, please and thank you.” It’s what Dax and I drink every week. We split a pitcher of beer and a Rock On party platter. Dax eats the wings. I get the potato wedges. We order two dipping sauces for the mozzarella sticks because we both refuse to share. And although Dax in this timeline doesn’t know me, it’s never a bad idea to approach someone with free beer. I figure I can use it as a peace offering.
With the pitcher in one hand and a stack of glasses in the other, I turn in time to see a group of players exit the ice. Half of them head to the changing rooms to shower or change or grab belongings from lockers. The rest head straight for the bar.
Dax skips the shower and heads straight to our usual table, next to the window but far enough from the DJ table that you can hold a conversation. I intercept him just as he’s about to sit down.
“It’s you.” His eyes widen as they meet mine. “What are you doing here?”
My stomach instantly fills with a hundred fluttering yet very confused butterflies. Fluttering because I haven’t had my beer yet, and I’m nervous. Confused because this is Dax I’m talking to, and there’s no reason to be nervous. I should be good at this by now.
He doesn’t sit. But he grips the back of the chair with enough force that his knuckles turn white. I wonder if he’s considering throwing it in my path and seeking out the nearest exit. After this morning, I don’t blame him.
“I am not stalking you, I swear. I came for the cheap hot wings and to check out the league because I’m thinking of joining. And then I saw you out there on the ice and I wanted to apologize. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Gemma.” Setting the beer down, I thrust my hand toward him and wait. He shakes it because Daxon McGuire is a true gentleman, even in the face of a potentially unstable female.
“I owe you an explanation.” I take a seat on one of the benches, completely uninvited. After a moment of deliberation, Dax takes the chair across from me.
Grabbing a glass from the stack, I pour myself a drink, taking the time to conduct one last mental run-through of my story.
Kiersten, Aunt Livi, and I all agreed that it was probably best for me not to tell Dax the whole parallel universe story, seeing as my mission is to get him to sign up for a lifelong friendship. Instead, I’ve concocted a string of excuses that are close enough to the truth that I’ll remember them and normal enough that they’ll make me appear quirky—or at least that’s the plan.
“I was having a bit of a rough time this morning.” I dive right in. “My boyfriend broke up with me, and my best friend…well—to shorten a very long story—I thought something terrible was happening with him. So when I wandered into your store, I wasn’t thinking straight. And then it seemed like a safe place to let all my pent-up angst out, so I did. Then I got embarrassed. But I’m good now, and I want to thank you for your kindness.”
I stop talking. Or yammering. Or whatever you’d call the jumble of semi-sensical words pouring from my mouth.
Dax stares back at me for a solid moment before he gives a sharp, curt nod. “All good. I get it. We all have days where we need to scream into the void. I’m just glad to see you’re okay.”
He moves to stand, as the conversation is over, and I’m good, so he’s good.
“So yeah,” I say, a little too loud for an indoor setting. “If you ever need me to return the favor, I’m happy to. We could grab drinks. Or if you ever need a safe place to let out your pent-up angst, you could come to my place. It’s a basement. But the walls are pretty thick. Great for angsting.”
Dax raises a brow. “You want me to come to your basement where no one can hear me scream?”
Shit. That sounded way less creepy in my head. This is not going well.
I push the stack of glasses toward him. “Can I offer you a beer?”
Dax eyes my cups and the beer pitcher on the table before shaking his head. “Thanks, but I’m not a fan of lagers. I’m gonna grab something else from the bar, but you have a great night, Gemma.”
He smiles at me before he gets up, but it’s stiff and forced—no teeth. It’s the smile he gives tollbooth operators and those people who go door-to-door selling internet packages. Our conversation is over.
I’m a little stunned. Shell-shocked. Also, in what universe does Dax not like Hurry Hard? Splitting a pitcher of beer after curling is our thing. We do it every Tuesday, which makes me suspect that this is less about the beer and more about the person offering it.
On my walk over here, I pictured many ways this night could go. Envisioned awkwardness, maybe even a little groveling on my end, but at the end of every one of my fantasies, Dax and I became friends. He’d find me funny and charming. Recognize our souls are kindred spirits. We would end our evening both knowing we’d stumbled upon a friendship that was really special. Not once did I ever picture him rejecting my friendship. And frankly, that hollow, aching hole in my chest feels a hell of a lot worse than it did when I broke up with Stuart.
Abandoned and alone, I contemplate my next move with limited options. Aunt Livi is in bed. Kiersten’s probably watching reality television or doing god knows what with Trent, and although I live by the philosophy that abandoning a nearly full pitcher is a mortal sin, I have too much pride to sit here by myself and drink it.