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“I think I’m okay now,” I whisper, and he releases me.
“I brought you these.” He reaches to the step below and produces a to-go cup that I assume is coffee and a brown paper bag with grease spots seeping through. I open it and find a frosted vanilla doughnut covered in coconut flakes.
“It might not be a Nana’s doughnut, but Google said they’re pretty good.”
“Thank you,” I say, my mouth already half-full of baked deliciousness.
“I’ve learned Gemma Wilde isn’t her best self when her blood sugar is low.” He laughs, but he’s definitely not wrong.
“You ready to tell me more or do you need to finish your coffee first?”
I hold up a finger as I guzzle half of the oat latte. Each sip makes me feel that much better.
“It was a really good meeting, right up until the end.” I attempt to explain it all again. “I knew it would be a lot of money, but seeing the numbers on paper really triggered a reaction. I think I could get the loan. But if things didn’t work out, I’d be completely screwed, and I’d have nothing, and that thought is totally terrifying.”
Dax doesn’t respond right away. He lifts my coffee to my lips and waits until I finish the entire thing. “You’re right. It’s terrifying. Working your ass off for something and seeing it not work out kills you a little inside. But do you know what happens next?”
I shake my head, and little coconut flakes fall into my lap.
Dax brushes the remaining ones from my lips with his thumb. “You get up the next morning, and you start working on a new plan. And yes, the world sucks for a while until you figure the next thing out, but you will figure it out, Gemma. You’re a smart woman.” His thumb moves upward on my face and wipes a single tear I didn’t realize had fallen.
“I think the doughnut and the compliments are helping,” I say.
Dax pulls my forehead to his lips and plants a soft kiss. “Tell me something,” he says. “How are you going to feel five years from now if you don’t at least try to see if you can do this?”
I think about his question. The advantage I have here is that up until a few weeks ago, I’d spent night after night wondering if I would have been able to make Wilde Beauty a success if only I’d had the guts to try.
“I think I’d regret not at least seeing if it was possible. I just wish I had some sort of guarantee it would all work out.”
Dax gets to his feet. “I can’t promise you everything will work out. But what I can tell you is that you’re smart and you’re driven and incredibly talented, and you have everything you need to make this thing happen.”
“Yeah, except a giant bank loan.”
Dax holds out his hand. I place my palm in his and let him pull me to my feet. “You’re right,” I say to him. “About all of it. You’re very good at this. If you ever get sick of running Kicks, you should consider becoming a therapist.”
Dax laces his fingers through mine. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”
We start walking in the direction of Queen Street. “And since you are so smart,” I tell him, “I’ll let you pick where we have lunch.”
Dax thinks for a moment. “Pho?”
“I think you meant to saysushi.”
We settle on Indian from a tiny little family-run place wedged between a ramen noodle shop and a podiatrist’s office. By the time I’m through my paneer tikka, I’m feeling better, and I have a plan to set up a call with my bank on Monday and then with Priya’s investors to determine my best financing options. It may not end up working out, but I’m going to try.
We leave the restaurant, bellies a little too full and hands clasped together, taking the long route back to the train station so we can window-shop all of the little independent stores along Queen. My heart feels a little lighter and more hopeful with every step until the door to one of the stores opens. We have to stop to let a mother and her stroller out, followed by a man who is so achingly familiar that my heart momentarily stops beating in my chest.
He’s wearing a navy-blue Tom Ford suit.
The jacket rides up as he reaches down to lift the stroller over the single front step. He looks directly at me as he straightens, and it feels like a kick straight to the shins. It stings because it isn’t Eric. Or Aiden. Or Elliott. Or whatever the hell that doppelgänger’s name was at the Prince and Pauper that night.
It’s the real thing.
Stuart Holliston in the flesh.
The mother with the stroller beside him fusses with the baby, then searches for something in her bag. Stuart takes the stroller’s handles and starts to steer it around Dax and me. It takes a full moment for me to realize that Stuart and this woman are together.
I guess if he hasn’t been dating me for the past four years in this reality, it means he’s been free and clear to find someone else. Apparently, Stuart’s someone else is curvy, stunning, and happy, judging by the way she lovingly pops a pacifier into the infant’s mouth, then takes Stuart’s arm with the kind of practiced affection I don’t think I ever gave him.
