I search my nightstand for my phone. It’s not plugged in where it’s supposed to be. I rip the covers from my bed and search under it, around it. The bathroom. The kitchen. My desk. It’s not here.
I have no way of contacting the outside world.
Fuck.
I need to find out what happened. I need to talk to Dax.
There’s a pile of clothes next to my bed. They’re not my costume from last night. I actually have no memory of wearing them recently, but I don’t have time to dwell. I throw them on, grab my purse, and sprint out of the house, trying to figure out where I went wrong.
I had the candles. We did the hand-binding thing. We didn’t do anything with the chicken, but the chicken has always been an unnecessary item of flair. Nothing makes sense.
I hit the asphalt of my front driveway and stop in my tracks. Parked in front of my house is my car. The gray Volkswagen Golf GTI Sport I bought after my first annual commission.
In my old life.
I make a full circle. Just to make sure it’s not an auto doppelg?nger. But there’s no question it’s my license plate. My favorite Aritzia sweater is tossed on the front seat.
What the actual fuck?
I reexamine my keys. My VW key is on the chain. This doesn’t make sense, but what the hell. Time is of the essence. I unlock the doors, climb into the driver’s seat, and challenge every yellow light all the way to Aunt Livi’s store.
She doesn’t answer my banging on her apartment door, and the store below is still locked up tight. With no other ideas, I let myself in with my spare key, hoping it will hold a clue to what the hell is going on. The store looks the same. But there’s no evidence of the night before. No candles. No yarn. No chicken.
But there is something.
It’s just the wrong thing.
What the hell have I done?
I run my fingers over the burned linoleum. The scar from our first attempt at the spell.
It’s here. My car is here, but so is my basement. It’s almost as if I’ve melded my two lives together. Or am I in a third timeline? How many timelines are there?
Abandoning Aunt Livi’s, I cross the street, heading north down James, and when I hit the block where Kicks once stood, my heart bursts into a million happy pieces.
It’s still there.
Its shiny window sports all of Dax’s beautiful creations. I press my nose to the glass, and although the inside is dark and empty, the shelves are well stocked with inventory.
This is good. This is really good.
I knock on the door in case Dax is in the back office, but he doesn’t come out. Which makes sense. It’s still early, and it’s Sunday, right? Who the hell knows. All I care about is that I’ve done something right here.
But why the hell did I wake up in my basement apartment? Have I created some sort of weird hybrid world?
I stare around at the near-empty street, wondering what I should do next. If only I had my phone, I could call Dax, Kierst, or even Aunt Livi. They could tell me if I still have Dax. If I still have Wilde Beauty.
Wilde.
I practically run the block and a half.
My heart quickens when the painted white bricks come into view, but as I get close enough to see inside my window, I’m not prepared for what is inside.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
No shelves. No perfectly curated array of clean beauty products. Just empty space and a realtor’s sign stating property available for lease.
Wilde is gone.
It hurts. Even though it was my choice, and that choice was the right one, my soul aches at the sight of the sad, empty space. I stand for a moment and mourn the loss of my beautiful dream until I remember that reality is still wonky and that more important matters need my immediate attention.
Like finding Dax.
My feet keep moving. It’s as if they have a mind of their own this morning. And they carry me halfway into Brewski’s before I realize it. Coffee is always Dax’s morning priority before he does anything meaningful. My eyes skim the sitting area and those in line before determining that he isn’t here. I’m about to leave when I hear a voice call, “Grande oat milk latte, right?”
I turn and meet the eyes of my man-bunned barista.
“Snake,” I call loudly enough that his eyes widen, and he takes a step back.
“Uh, yeah.”
“It’s me, Gemma with a G.” I point at my chest as if it isn’t obvious whom I am speaking about.
“So no oat milk latte?”
“Yes. Absolutely yes. And I need you to answer a question for me.”
His eyebrows rise as he punches in my order without looking.