“I’m sure Dax doesn’t mind.” Aunt Livi practically shoves him into my lap. “It’s all for a bit of fun.”
I look into Dax’s green eyes and think I see the reflection of the birthday candle flame, which is silly, since we extinguished it minutes ago.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” he asks.
“Are you sure?” I fire back.
The only answer I get is Kierst holding her margarita glass up to my lips. “Need a little liquid courage there, Gems?”
I drink, despite knowing that more tequila and kissing Dax are both terrible ideas. That this—all of this—is so bizarre that I’m going to kick myself when I wake up in the morning.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, then turn to Dax. “We’ll make it fast.”
I close my eyes, the obvious step one of any kiss—coerced or not. It provides the added benefit of no longer seeing Kiersten in the background making humping motions with her hips. And although all I can see is blackness, I can sense Dax only inches away.
It’s just a silly kiss. The fluttering happening in my belly is only because it’s been a while since my lips have touched anyone’s but Stuart’s.
I lick them and try to remember the last time I brushed my teeth.
But what if Kiersten was right this afternoon? What if this kiss leads to a second? And then I’m waking up in the morning next to him. And then one day, it’s Dax telling me It’s not me, it’s you. There isn’t a margarita in the world that could help me after that.
“No!” My eyes fly open and see Dax’s closed ones only inches away.
Dax opens one eye, then the other.
“I think…” I search my brain for the right words. Ones that convey it’s not him. It’s the consequences.
“I really need to pee.”
I get up, ignoring the odd look in Dax’s eyes. Ignoring the fact that my hands are still tied. Ignoring Kiersten, leaning on the counter, muttering to herself, “What the hell were we supposed to do with the chicken?”
Chapter 3
I’ve hit that stage of drunk where I could be easily persuaded to go to bed or dance until dawn. It’s a toss-up.
However, after I spend twenty minutes too long in the bathroom, Aunt Livi makes the decision for me. She buttons me into my trench coat, finds my purse and the keys with my Dr. Snuggles keychain, and makes Dax promise—twice—that he’ll get me home safely.
And he does.
He walks me right to my condo door and waits patiently while I attempt to slip my keys into the lock and open it.
My alarm beeps as the door swings open. We both know there’s zero probability I’ll punch in the password correctly and a far more likely chance that the alarm company gets called. He gently moves me aside and punches in my passcode, Dr. Snuggles’s birthday, then stands in the doorway watching as I stumble into my living room, flop onto the couch, hit the cushions with a little too much force, and subsequently bounce off and roll onto the floor.
Fuck, I love my carpet. It was an obscenely expensive Crate & Barrel purchase, but it feels like it’s made of velvet. I run my arms and legs over the soft fabric until Dax looms above me, holding out his hands.
“Come on, Gems. We need to get a little more water into you before you pass out.” I let him pull me to my feet and lead me to my open-concept kitchen. The white marble countertops shine under the pot lights.
I also love my condo. It’s not huge, but it’s beautiful. Light-gray broad-board hardwood floors complement the concrete walls. The north one is made almost entirely of glass, with an unobstructed view of Hamilton Harbor. A winding wrought-iron staircase leads to a loft with a low platform bed and a non-walk-in closet, which will now be considerably roomier seeing that Stuart, the asshole, picked up all of his stuff.
We never decided to cohabitate, Stuart and I. Although he stayed at my place every weekend, he was never keen on committing permanently to the hour commute to his banking job in Toronto. I, on the other hand, didn’t want to lose proximity to my aunt and sister. In hindsight, it may have been a relationship red flag. Like somehow, deep down, I knew the end was inevitable, and that’s why I needed a backup plan. A safety net. Assurance that if everything went to shit, I’d still be okay.
“Here, drink up.” Dax hands me a glass of cold water. “It will make for a better morning.”
I take a small sip followed by a long gulp. “Margaritas were a terrible idea. I have, like, ten straight hours of meetings tomorrow.”
Dax takes a second glass from my cupboard and fills it for himself. “Well, you could call in sick and hang with me. We could Uber Eats breakfast sandwiches and watch Netflix all day?”
That’s exactly what I want to do, but I can’t. My job as a hair-and-body products buyer at Canada’s largest drugstore chain is surprisingly cutthroat considering I spend a large portion of my life anticipating whether Canadians are going to prefer smelling like lavender or ocean breezes next spring.
“I need a decent close to this quarter. Marley from finance is going on maternity leave next month, and if I want a shot at her job, I need to keep reminding them how good I’d be at it.”
“I thought you said Marley’s job was the worst.”
It totally is. Finance is a slog meant for the soulless. “It has a nice paycheck. And I like nice paychecks.” Not to mention the comfort that comes with having a little extra padding in the bank.
Dax takes my now-empty glass from my hand, opens my fridge, and pulls out my Brita for a refill. He shuts the door and stares at a Kijiji printout picture of an English bulldog puppy. “Who’s this?”
I remove the magnet from the picture and cradle it in my hands. “That’s Buster.”
Dax lifts a curious eyebrow.
“Stuart and I were talking about getting a puppy. I wanted to give him a people name like Justin or Bradley, but Stuart said that was ridiculous. So we settled on Buster.”
The sadness returns. I’m too drunk to figure out if I’m mourning Stuart or the dog. Either way, the feeling builds in my stomach until it fills my entire chest. I’m a fish tank with a crack. The fragile glass is fighting the pressure of the water, holding on as the crack grows and spreads, threatening to burst at any moment.
I tip my head back and gulp down my water. A last-ditch attempt to wash away all of the emotions inside me. With the last drop gone, I slam the empty glass down on the countertop. But instead of the typical ping of glass on marble, the sound we hear is more of a crunch.
“Ew!” I hold up the empty glass and the quarter-sized dark smudge on the bottom of it. “What the hell is that?”
Dax takes the glass from my hand and studies it. “Looks like a little spider.” He takes a paper towel from the roll, wipes away the carnage, and hands it back to me. “What’s wrong?”
My chest feels heavy, and my eyes are filling with tears as waves of remorse roll over me. My internal fish tank shatters.
“I murdered him,” I sob. “I did. He was just crawling along minding his own business, and I snuffed the life right out of him.”