This Spells Love(21)

The mystery location written on the front of my Ontario driver’s license.

We walk back to the front of the bookshop, where we pile into Kiersten’s souped-up white Dodge minivan—even though Aunt Livi insists the distance from my store to my house is walkable, and I make the commute daily.

It’s a quick five minutes before we pull up in front of a two-story beige-brick house. Like most in this Hamilton neighborhood, it looks like it was built in the 1940s, sits steps from the sidewalk, and is tightly fitted in between neighbors on either side. It’s not my condo on the water, but it’s cute.

I take the front steps in a single leap, then seek out the final mystery key from my purse.

“Not that door, sweetie,” Aunt Livi calls from the sidewalk. “You use the one around the back.”

I follow Kiersten and my aunt along a narrow sidewalk and through a chain-link gate to a small but neat yard. The two of them straddle a narrow staircase and wait.

I stare at the cracked cement steps leading down. My stomach drops like a stone. “I live in the basement?”

Both of them nod.

Sure enough, my second mystery key slips easily enough into the lock. However, I need to duck my head as I push open the door and step into what looks like a compact kitchen. Then, with an easy quarter turn, I take in the living room, bedroom, and even bathroom with one brief sweep of the eyes.

It’s quaint. And it’s terrible. My heart and head are at war, taking in a space that is obviously lovingly decorated in my specific Scandinavian-inspired taste with the low ceilings, lack of walls, and dim lighting.

Tears prick my eyes once again. Unlike at my store, they are not tears of awe and joy.

“I willingly moved here? It smells like chicken soup.”

Kiersten gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “We think it’s from your neighbor upstairs. At least, we hope it is. And yes, you did. Signed the lease the same month you opened the store.”

I guess a storefront, even in Hamilton, isn’t exactly cheap.

Decisions were made. Priorities were set.

At some point, after not choosing Stuart, Other Me must have made a choice to live in this damp, dark basement to launch her store.

“I found it!” Aunt Livi calls from the opposite side of the room, interrupting my little pity party.

She stands next to a small white IKEA desk with several unrecognizable books on top, save for the big brown leather book that gathered us here today.

It takes her three whole steps to join Kiersten and me in the kitchen. The three of us crowd around my very tiny counter, the book open between us so we can all see the pages.

“Dang it,” Aunt Livi curses. “I didn’t bring my reading glasses.”

“Well, I didn’t bring a flashlight.” Kiersten nudges me with her elbow. “This place is a tomb, Gems. You really should invest in some floor lamps.”

I’d argue with her if I didn’t agree.

We decide it’s best to take the book back to my aunt’s apartment, where there’s natural lighting and an ample supply of coffee.

The ride back feels twice as long as the ride there as the anticipation builds in my stomach. It doesn’t ease until we’re finally back above the bookshop, sharing the three-seater sofa with the book cracked open to the page with the spell that brought me here.

“A love cleanse,” Kiersten muses out loud. “Kind of fitting considering you and your love for everything crunchy granola, eh?”

I ignore her comment, too preoccupied with finding my answer.

My aunt flips through several pages, scanning the words with the speed of someone who spends most of her day reading. “I can’t seem to find anything here about how to reverse it.”

My stomach sinks. “So I’m fucked?”

Aunt Livi shoots me a disappointed look.

Kiersten kicks her feet up onto the coffee table. “I’m starting to feel a little bit insulted here. Why are you so desperate to ditch us? I might be biased, but I think our reality is pretty solid.”

Kiersten’s the person I would have thought would understand my urge to get back to the life I know. But I guess a small part of me understands her point. Aside from Dax and my terrible basement apartment, at first glance, there seems to be nothing wrong with this reality per se. It’s just different.

But back in my other life, I had a carefully cultivated plan. One with a nice thick security blanket that kept me warm, fed, and a functional level of anxious. Yes, Stuart ripped a giant hole in said plan, but I’m a woman with contingencies. My terrible job came with retirement savings. I invested wisely with my condo. The predictable, uncomplicated vision I had for the next few years of my life should remain relatively intact, just with Stuart’s head cut out of the picture—metaphorically, of course.

“I don’t know what this reality’s Gemma is like, but I do not go with the flow,” I tell them. “I like plans. Ideally, well-thought-through ones. Where I know where I’m sleeping at night, and there is a minimal chance my life will go sideways.”

My sister and my aunt exchange a look, and before I realize it, their arms are around me, forming a Gemma sandwich.

“I get it,” my sister says softly into my hair. “You and I got the same raw deal here too, kiddo. We haven’t seen mom since 2017. Dad sends a Christmas card every year, but it goes to an address Trent and I moved from before we even had kids.”