This Spells Love(48)

Then drinks were spilled.

And up walked Stuart.

After some run-of-the-mill flirty chitchat, he asked me, “Where do you imagine your life in ten years, Gemma?”

I didn’t have a good answer. But he did.

“Anyone can make a five-year plan. I can tell you where I will be in ten years and exactly how I will get there.”

He was speaking my love language.

A vice-president position at Godrich and Dundas. A semidetached house in Cabbagetown. A dog—preferably a goldendoodle.

I’d lived most of my life with lots of uncertainty—I fell hard, craving the safety of a stable relationship.

So I screwed up. I chose the wrong guy.

Or maybe he was the right guy at the time, but here, tonight, sitting in this bar, things are different. I am different.

This is my second chance. To be with Dax. Not just as friends. More. So much more.

But everything is going wrong. Spiraling in the wrong direction.

Even as he takes his seat, I can tell things between us have shifted.

His knee is no longer pressing against mine. And he’s moved his chair ever so slightly away, leaving a cavernous space between us.

The hand that once rested on the back of my seat now clutches his beer and refuses to budge no matter how much I will it to return.

All night, Dax was telling me without telling me that he was into me, and I ignored it.

What else have I ignored these last four years?

“We should probably get going.” Lux gets to her feet. Our last round of beer is now empty glasses.

She hugs me and whispers into my ear. “Let’s stay in touch. I don’t want to let another year go by without seeing you again.” I squeeze her back because I don’t want that to happen either. I want many, many more nights exactly like this one.

“I should head out too.” Dax doesn’t quite look at me as he says it.

“I’m ready,” I tell him, ignoring the I that wasn’t a we.

Oblivious, Elliott hugs Lux, then holds up his phone to me. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

I turn to Dax to—I don’t know, explain? But he’s purposely looking past me to the door.

I have a sinking feeling that I’ve screwed everything up before it’s even started.

We weave our way back to the exit. His hand is noticeably missing from my back. Like I was his before, and now I’m not so sure.

We part with Lux and Leo on the street. They head south. We walk north to a blue Ford Focus and a driver named Ahmed, who blares Tiesto so loud that neither of us says a word until he pulls up in front of my house.

“I had a good time tonight,” I say because I’m not sure of where to even start.

“Me too,” he replies.

“Do you want to come inside?”

He thinks about it for a second. I can see it in his eyes, but then he opens his mouth. “I think it’s better if I head home.”

“Okay,” says my voice. What the hell? says my head. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go now. I’ve realized it. I’ve figured it out, Dax. I’m supposed to be with you. Except all I say is, “We should do this again sometime.”

He nods, then opens his door and helps me out.

I wait for him to open his arms, to pull me into a hug like he has done every single night we’ve ever hung out together, but his hands stay gripped on the open door of the waiting Uber.

“Text me when you get inside.” He nods at the darkened side path. “Let me know you’re okay.”

I’m not okay. But I nod and walk toward the house, closing the gate behind me, pulling my keys from my purse, opening the door, then locking it with a quiet click. I pull my phone out and stare.

My head is so messy. I’m still reeling from the idea that I want to be with Dax. But if I tell him how I feel—especially after the disastrous end to our evening—there’s a strong possibility he won’t feel the same.

It’s a risk.

And I have never been good at taking them.

My hands hover over the keys.

Home Safe

I don’t hit send. Because as much as I don’t want to risk losing Dax, I’m also worried that if I don’t say something tonight, tomorrow will be too late. I may wake up and rationalize all of these feelings away, or, worse, he may wake up and realize I’m not worth the trouble.

I delete my last message and type, I think I might have screwed up tonight. I want to be more than your friend.

Send.

The whoosh of the message is followed immediately by a knock, knock, knock on my back door. The sound pulls my breath from my lungs.

Shaky baby-deer legs take me to the door.

I flip the lock. My insides are a storm of anxiety and hope that collide to form a cool rain of relief as I take him in, standing there, phone in hand, reading.

He looks up. “I didn’t like the way we ended things tonight.”

I step back to let him in, but he stays rooted on my doormat.

“I saw you with that guy, and I got jealous, and then I think I overreacted because you and I have never talked about…” He holds up his phone. “I think we need to talk.”

My heart is beating so hard that I can feel it in my throat. “Want to come in?”

He ducks his head and steps into my kitchen. The light from the tiny lamp next to my door leaves most of his face in shadows.