I shake my head. “It’s pretty much a straight shot. Only one sharp turn, but you can see it coming. I think I’ll be okay.”
He moves from his seat, around the car, and to my door so quickly that I have barely undone my seatbelt before he’s holding my door open. He offers his hand, helping me and my groceries out onto the sidewalk, and we stand, facing each other, both with the same uncertain posture as if neither of us is sure of what comes next.
Dax clears his throat. “Maybe I should give you my number. So you can text me and let me know you got in okay.”
I know his number by heart, but this is the progress I’ve been waiting for.
I pull my phone from my purse and enter his digits as he says them, then send a text to him with the message, thanks again. Gemma.
As I place my phone back into my purse, the strap slips from my shoulder. Dax moves like a flash, catching it before it falls to the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” I tell him as he carefully places the strap back on my shoulder, noticing how warm his fingers are even through the heat of my sweatshirt.
It fills me with this urge to dive into his arms again. To feel safe. To feel like me. But he removes his fingers before I do anything stupid.
“You good?” he asks.
“Great,” I answer honestly. “Really great.”
I keep to my promise and make it all the way to my basement without any serious injuries.
I unload my groceries and get ready to take what is thankfully a now spider-free shower, but before I start the water, my phone vibrates on the counter.
It’s a text.
From him.
A link to a recipe for banana bread and the words just in case.
Who knows. With everything that’s happened, maybe I will get wild tonight and make it. New world. New me. Right?
Chapter 10
What you think you become.
What you imagine you create.
Tell the universe what you want.
Trust that it will gift you with all that you need.
The text flashes across my screen as I’m slipping my keys into the lock at Wilde Beauty. I fling my purse onto the front counter while simultaneously kicking the door closed with my foot and responding to my aunt’s cryptic message.
More advice from your tea leaves?
She responds back immediately, almost as if anticipating my skepticism.
Krystal my yoga teacher said it this morning during Savasana. Although I suspect she was misquoting Buddha. Either way, I think it’s a good mantra for your day. Tell the universe what you want. It may surprise you.
What I want is a grande oat milk latte. And to have Dax back in my life. And to not completely screw up my store, like I did yesterday, as I’m not entirely sure how dimensional time travel works. On the off chance there is another Gemma out there, I don’t want to completely fuck things up for her when I go back and she returns. So although I’d normally roll my eyes at my aunt’s suggestion to manifest what I want to happen, today, I’m willing to try it.
“Hello there, you,” I say out loud to no one in particular. “I’m Gemma Wilde. And I’m a little new at this manifesting thing, so bear with me. Um…”
I look around my store, which appears to be plucked straight from my imagination. Stuff I only dared to dream about in my old life.
Logically, I should be over the moon right now. I am living the manifestation of my dream. But yesterday’s fleeting few moments with Dax have me longing for a life where nights like that were the norm and not the exception.
“I want my best friend back.” I speak my heart to a table of cleansers and toners.
Other than the morning sunbeams streaming through my front window, hitting the glass jar of crystal-handled jade rollers and causing tiny rainbows to splay across my ceiling, nothing particularly otherworldly happens. However, my chest feels a little lighter, and it makes me wonder if Aunt Livi is onto something.
“Also, please banish anyone who thinks yelling at me is cool or who feeds their self-worth by posting negative Yelp reviews. And please just send the angry old ladies up the street.”
I may not exactly be manifesting, but getting out all of these worries and fears I’ve been holding in since I stepped foot in Wilde Beauty is cathartic.
“While you’re at it, I wouldn’t mind a little wrath aimed at anyone who tries to distract me with shameless compliments while stealing my stuff. Curse them with flaky skin and cystic acne.”
“Remind me to stay on your good side,” says a voice behind me.
I wheel around, clutching my heart, which has momentarily lodged itself between my ribs. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Dax leans on my doorframe, seemingly at ease. “Just stopped by to see how the face is healing.”
My fingers instinctively stroke my now Band-Aid-free chin. “Face is recovering. Ego is still a little bruised. How long were you standing there?”
He responds with a single lifted eyebrow. “Long enough to have a few questions.”
I don’t know how to explain this without looking ridiculous. “I was…” Wishing? Hoping? Complaining? “I was manifesting.”
“Oh yeah?” His mouth curls into a smile. “How is it working out for you?”
Fair question. I have no idea. “I think I might have been doing it wrong. I was trying to aim for good things and instead spiraled a little and started listing a bunch of thoughts that confirm entrepreneurship is probably a terrible career choice for me.”
He breaks into an even wider grin, as if something I’ve said is amusing. “I hate to tell you, but I think it’s a little late for that. And…” He makes a show of glancing around the store. “I think you might be better at it than you think.”
It might be the words or the way he says it. Either way, Dax’s comment creeps under my skin. And for a moment, I look around Wilde Beauty with wide, new eyes.
Other Gemma really knows what the fuck she’s doing. The carefully curated products. The tiny touches. Even the minty-lemon smell of Wilde Beauty is exactly how I think a clean beauty store should smell. But the thing I admire most about Other Gemma is that she had the guts to actually try.
For a whole half second, I’m jealous. Why her? Why not me? We share the same DNA, right?
But then my eyes land on the display of hand creams. The one missing a couple of jars from yesterday’s teenage crime spree. And I’m painfully reminded that cosmetics are the most stolen retail item in North America. A fun little tidbit I picked up in my old job. However, big-box retailers, like my former employer, have resources to cover shrinkage. An organized high school crime ring could sink a small store like Wilde Beauty.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I say accidentally out loud to Dax, who has been worrying about this stuff for years. “There’s just so much that can go wrong,” I clarify.
There’s a longer-than-normal beat before Dax answers. “You’re right. Owning a place like this isn’t easy on the heart.”