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My next set of customers comes about fifteen minutes later in the form of three teenage girls. They wear matching blue V-neck sweaters and blue-and-gray kilts. I ask if they need help, but they completely ignore me until finally, one breaks away from the pack and comes over to my counter.
“Wow, you are so pretty. You need to tell me what you use on your skin.”
Now, I don’t normally think of myself as a vain person, but after spending a night with Sunny, my confidence is in need of a boost. I take my new friend through my skincare routine, showing her the products, even letting her sample a couple. I’m sure I’ve made a sale, but when I ask her if she’d like to purchase anything, she smiles with a “No thanks,” then turns and leaves with her two friends out my front door. It isn’t until I’m back behind my counter that I even notice something is missing. The cleanser I showedher when she complimented my pores has vanished. As have a toner, two lip gloss tubes, and a pot of hand cream.
“Those little bitches.” Or am I the bitch? I was duped. Lulled into a false sense of security with shameless compliments. My sole consolation is that those fuckers made off with the almost-empty jar of stink cream.
Now I’m really done with this day.
Tears brim my eyes, and when they threaten to fall, I squeeze my eyes shut until the feeling subsides. When I open them again, he appears like an apparition. Walking briskly down the sidewalk past my window, tall dark roast from Brewski’s in hand.
“Dax.” I only whisper the word, but it’s as if it reaches him anyway. He turns and raises his hand in a wave, and our eyes meet through my front window. I wave back, sending him subliminal messages with my eyes.Dax, if there is any part of you that recognizes how great we are together, give me a sign.He smiles. My heart fills like a helium balloon.
Because that right there is a genuine Daxon McGuire smile.
Chapter 9
The terrible, horrible,no good, very bad day ends with nervous energy and a strong desire to avoid spending any length of time in my dark and dreary apartment. The sizable pile of well-loved runners in my bedroom closet hints that I don’t own a Peloton in this reality (who even am I?) and instead get my exercise from a good old-fashioned run. After questioning Other Gemma’s life goals for a few moments, I accept my fate and strap on a pair of Nikes.
By the time I reach the end of my street, I miss Cody’s motivational quotes. And watching Olivia’s perfect abs. And even Miss Calibrated, the high-five creep. Mostly, I miss knowing the exact resistance and cadence I need to burn my 405-calorie workout goal.
However, the soothing pitter-patter of my sneakers on the pavement is almost as good as therapy. By the second long loop around the lakeshore, the cool night air hits my sweat-soaked skin, and I stop stressing about the clusterfuck that is my life. There’s nothing quite like a runner’s high.
There’s also nothing quite like the hanger that rears its ugly head exactly thirty minutes after I get home.
I open the fridge with a beastly snarl paired with high hopes that my love of clean beauty products translates to clean eating. But other than a box of baking soda and my half-filled Brita water filter, my fridge is completely bare. As are the cupboards.
My shower, however, is occupied by a tiny black spider. I name him Frank. He absolves me for accidentally squishing his cousin and we make an agreement that if I vacate the apartment for forty-five minutes, he’ll skitter off back to his web and save us both the trauma of attempted murder by Kleenex.
I throw on my salt-and-pepper Roots sweatpants, pull my sweaty hair into a bun, and grab my old faded pink Abercrombie hoodie.
I love this sweatshirt. It is aggressively pink and incredibly comfortable. Yet, I gave it away in my timeline because Stuart said it reminded him of Pepto-Bismol.
Well, fuck you, Stuart.I slip it on with a smile, grab my phone, and google nearby grocery stores.
In my old life, I mostly shopped at the market downtown, held every Saturday in Jackson Square. Or had my groceries delivered, as my high-paying job came with demanding hours that allowed little time for browsing the aisles. Occasionally, I would shop at Giovanni’s No Frills over on Main—until two years ago, when Dax and I had a minor incident in aisle five, resulting in a lifetime ban.
We had come from one of our curling games. There had been a few more postgame pitchers than usual. I’ll admit we were a little bit tipsy, at that happy level of drunk where everything made us giggle.
We needed ketchup, chips, and white milk (which may sound gross in theory but will change your life). Our cart was empty otherwise, so I told Dax to get in (or maybe he got in on his own). Either way, it ended with me attempting to push him down the aisle at full speed.
All I remember is Dax yelling,Beware of rogue bananas.And then seeing an abandoned, half-eaten one on the aisle floor. I didn’t slip on it (that would have been far too cliché), but in my attempt to avoid stepping on it, I took a sharp turn, causing Dax and the cart to crash into the paper towel display. It toppled everywhere. The assistant store manager, Manny Paletta, came running. Dax named it a top-five moment in his life. We were told to never, ever step foot inside No Frills again. In all fairness, it was a fitting punishment.
I haven’t thought about setting foot inside since.
Until now.
Because it occurs to me, as I head out into the late-July evening, that in this life, Dax and Gemma—dynamic duo—does not yet exist. Therefore, neither does the ban.
A fortuitous loophole.
My rule-loving heart still palpitates as I walk through the automatic front doors. It keeps its off-tempo rhythm until I reach aisle five and the rows of no-name potato chips and off-brand pop.
The aisle is empty, save for a stack of President’s Choice diet colas in its center.
I breathe a soft sigh of relief.
“Is there anything I can help you with, miss?” I recognize the male voice behind me immediately.
