I ride the elevator down, then tumble through the lobby out into the bright morning sun. It takes a whole minute before I’m able to orient myself. The blue waves of Lake Ontario glitter in front of me, gently bobbing the slew of sailboats parked in the marina. I can even see the balcony of my condo on the other side of the bay.
Needing time and fresh morning air to sort out my brain, I opt to walk home. My purse bangs rhythmically against my leg as I strain my memory for any more clues as to what happened last night, yet I come up with a whole lot of nothing.
I need a shower. And some coconut water. And Aunt Livi’s special peppermint essential oil blend that somehow feels like it possesses the magical ability to erase poor life choices.
By the time I reach the front door to my building, I’ve calmed down a little. However, as I pull out my keys, I realize Drunk Gemma did a lot more last night besides picking up some random man.
You have got to be kidding me.
The keys in my hand aren’t mine. Wait, the Dr. Snuggles keychain is. But I’m missing the fob for my front door and my condo key and have somehow acquired two metal keys I’ve never seen before.
How does this even happen? There’s no logical explanation. But Drunk Gemma did a lot of stupid things last night. If I ever needed a reason to quit drinking altogether, this was it.
I press the intercom buzzer and wait until a “How can I help you, miss?” crackles from the other side.
“Hey, Hammond,” I reply. “It’s Gemma Wilde here. I’m having a bit of an issue with my keys this morning. Any way you can let me in?” The front door buzzes, and I’m able to push it open, but when I step into the lobby, it’s not Hammond, my usual concierge, behind the desk. It’s Eddie, the concierge who was fired over a year ago after Stuart kept catching him watching Leafs games on his phone and complained to building management.
“Excuse me, miss. I didn’t quite catch your name. Who are you visiting?”
I know it’s been a whole year since he’s worked here, but Eddie and I used to be buddies. We’d chat about the weather or last night’s game. He’d spill all the tea about my neighbors, and I’d bake him extra granola every time I made a batch. I’m a little insulted that I’ve been so easily forgotten.
“I’m not visiting,” I clarify. “It’s me, Gemma Wilde. Unit 804. There’s been a mix-up with my keys and…well…I don’t have them. Any chance you can let me up?”
Eddie crosses his milky-white forearms, leaning back in his black office chair so far that I’m worried he might topple over. “Listen, lady, you and I both know you don’t live in 804. I don’t know what the hell you’re selling, but I can tell you the residents here don’t want it.”
I’m starting to feel less bad about Stuart getting this guy fired. “Listen, Eddie. I know you’ve been gone awhile, and there’s probably been a few new tenants since you left, but I am the owner of number 804, and I can prove it.”
I pull my license from my wallet and thrust it at him with such enthusiasm that it feels like it wouldn’t be out of place to add a ha. He squints at it for a moment before his hand subtly reaches for the cellphone attached to his hip.
“I don’t wanna call the cops this early in the morning, so I’m gonna ask you once, nicely, to please leave.”
Heat floods my body, and I become acutely aware that I’m clenching my jaw and a few seconds away from losing the last of my bananas. I have half a mind to tell him to go right ahead and call the cops, but as I open my wallet to shove my license back inside, my eye catches the address listed beneath my name.
What the actual fuck? It doesn’t say I live in this building. It lists a Hamilton address. But it’s a street I don’t recognize. What is going on? Am I a victim of identity fraud? I was passed out cold in Mr. Big’s bed for god knows how long. Could he have done this? Creating a brand-new license with a completely different address feels like it’s a very involved yet unnecessary step for identity theft, but what the hell do I know?
I’m suddenly struck by the urge to call Stuart. Practical, sensible, logical Stuart, who always seems to know what to do in every situation.
But I can’t.
We’re done.
Merlot has been thrown. Relationship has taken a permanent vacation.
And even if I wanted to, calling Stuart would be a lot more difficult than anticipated because as I pull my phone from my purse, one very quick glimpse tells me with certainty that the phone in my hand isn’t my nearly new iPhone. It’s sparkly, white, and a Samsung. Most importantly, again, not mine.