He turns and leaves me completely unattended. I know I’m in the clear.
A small ache blooms in my chest as I stare at the perfectly piled stack of knockoff Bounty. Another tiny memory that makes me miss Dax more.
“You ever get the urge to dive straight into that thing?”
At first, I think he’s a hallucination brought on by multiverse travel and hunger.
But he’s real. Dax in the flesh. Standing with his arms crossed. Staring at the scene of one of our best friendship moments.
“I can tell you, on good authority, it’s not a good idea if you plan on shopping here in the future.”
Then it occurs to me. Dax is a bit of a health nut. He insists on shopping at this overpriced organic store over on Locke. “What are you doing here? You don’t shop here.”
Dax looks around the store. “I don’t?”
Shit. I need to stop letting words come out of my mouth before I’ve had the chance to filter them. “What I meant is that I’ve never seen you shopping here before.”
Dax gives me a curious stare. “Well, I can say on good authority that I have been shopping here pretty regularly for the last few years. I am almost on a first-name basis with the assistant store manager.”
Manny walks by, eyeing Dax and me and the paper towel display as if he can sense we’re talking about him.
“Ah, right. Manny,” I tell Dax. “Giovanni’s nephew.”
Dax raises his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s a fun fact. I will file it away for a rainy day.”
There’s an awkward pause in our conversation that draws out for a while, leaving me searching for the right words to say next. It is a twist of fate that we’re both here. Although I might have preferred nonfluorescent lighting and to have put on more presentable pants, my body craves Dax. Not in a sexy way, but the kind that I want to go home with him. Curl up on his tiny two-seater couch, steal his favorite big fuzzy Hudson’s Bay blanket, and watch reality television until our eyeballs start to ache.
I eye his basket. “Those look like great bananas. Ripe, but not so ripe that you’ll be forced to make banana bread tomorrow.”
Dax nods. “That’s the hope.”
There should be a thousand conversation starters on the tip of my tongue. I’ve never, ever had problems talking to Dax. But the only thought that seems to surface is to comment on the plumpness of his plums. At least I have the self-awareness to know that that’s fucking weird and not at all in line with the fun-loving friend I’m trying to portray.
So I stand there. Awkwardly. Mouth shut. Staring creepily at his fruit until he makes a wide turn with his cart to get past mine. “Have a good night, Gemma.”
“I guess I’ll see you around,” I say to the back of his head.
Jeeeeeessssuuuusss. Okay. Deep breaths. Round three with Dax has gone slightly better than round one, about on par with my performance at the curling club. At this rate, it will take me another four years before we’re friends. Maybe Kiersten was right. Not the showing-Dax-my-tits part. But maybe I should change my tactics. There are only so many opportunities to have Dax practically falling into my lap.
I finish my shopping and head for the checkout counter, where I’m grateful Other Gemma also uses the same debit card pin she picked out when she was thirteen.
By the time I get outside my arms are burning, and the yellow plastic bags are cutting my palms, a painful reminder never to shop when I’m hungry. I start down Main toward my basement, but a passing car catches my attention. An old Toyota Avalon—I swear for a moment that it’s Dax’s old car. The one he nearly drove to rust before he finally gave it up and got his Jeep. I turn to get a better look. My body makes the rotation, but my flip-flop does not. My foot slips right off the side of my shoe, and instead of dropping my groceries and saving my face like a rational human, I try to save my bananas from bruising.
My knee hits the pavement with a hard thud. It slows my fall but not enough to counter the momentum that thrusts my torso forward, connecting my chin with the curb.
“Ahhhh,” I cry, abandoning my groceries two seconds too late.
Woman down.
I’m wounded.
I’m…
I roll to my back like an injured turtle, pressing my palm to my chin, which is stinging like a motherfucker. It’s unclear if I’m dealing with a minor flesh wound or something that requires medical attention until I remove my hand and determine that although there is a notable amount of blood, it’s probably not ER worthy.
It is, however, serious enough to justify retiring my Pepto-Bismol sweatshirt from any future public appearances. I pull its cuff over my hand and press on my wound as the entirety of my chest aches with a heavy, hollow feeling.
I want to go home. Not my basement home. To my condo and my old life.
And although my common sense fully acknowledges that a slip and fall could have easily happened to anyone, my temporal lobe blames Other Gemma. Her lack of a car. Her tightly managed budget that only allows for the necessities of frill-less groceries.
I’m pulling myself from my puddle of self-pity and into a seated position when a car drives up beside me, and its familiar grumbling engine and chipped red paint calm the thunderstorm inside my chest.
The driver’s side door of the Avalon opens and slams, and mere moments later, Daxon McGuire is kneeling beside me, asking in a worried tone, “Are you okay, Gemma?”
His hand slides under my chin, tipping it up toward him, cradling my face as if it is his firstborn’s.
“Can I take a look? Do you mind?” His fingers cover mine, and he waits until I nod before he carefully moves my hand from my chin.
“Oh shit.” He winces at my wound and then returns my hand to my face.
“Hold tight for just a sec. I’ll be right back.”
He runs to his trunk and pops it open. I’m blocked from seeing what exactly he’s doing until I hear a slam, and he returns with a white piece of cloth in his hand.
“Here.” He hands it to me. “Use this. It’s clean. I promise.”
I recognize the soft cotton fabric immediately. It’s Dax’s favorite shirt. Well…one of his three favorite shirts. He got them in a three-pack two years ago at a Boxing Day sale at The Bay. They feel like butter, have the perfect level of V (not too much chest), and are the right length to fit his long torso yet slim enough to pull tight in all the right places. He loves those shirts far more than any human should love a piece of clothing.
He wore the first of the three so often that it had holes and was so thin you could see his nipples. His mother got so fed up with him wearing it that when she came to visit, she offered to do his laundry and had an “accident” with the bleach (or so Dax tells the story). Shirt number two suffered a run-in with a bratwurst at a Jays game. No bleach could stand up to the bright-yellow mustard stain. Dax cried when he threw it out.