Where the fuck is my phone, and who the hell does this one belong to? Did I pick up the wrong purse?
The bag in my hand is a simple black Matt & Nat. Definitely mix-up-able. However, I know it’s the same one Kiersten bought me last year for Christmas because it has a small purple stain inside from that time I threw a bottle of nail polish in the pocket, and it wasn’t completely closed. Yet, there’s also a small bottle of hand cream I know I don’t own and a pair of earrings I’ve never seen before. It’s mine, but it’s not mine.
I draw three deep breaths. Because it’s the only coping mechanism I am currently equipped to execute at the moment. Even though I’m significantly more pissed at Past Gemma for her questionable life choices, the increase in oxygen intake has enabled me to focus.
On to plan B.
Dax.
We may have locked lips last night. But I was drunk, and he is Dax. If I pretend like nothing happened, he will too.
He owns All the Other Kicks, a custom sneaker shop on James Street about a block and a half north of my aunt’s bookshop. It doesn’t open until ten on Tuesdays, but he is usually in by eight-thirty, poking around doing whatever Dax does when he’s alone.
I address Eddie with the renewed confidence of a woman who is sure of her own address. “I have some things to sort out, but I will be back.”
He murmurs a not-so-convinced mmm-hmm as I exit the building, head held high, feet thankful I didn’t opt for heels last night as I make the trek to James Street on foot.
Downtown Hamilton has undergone a bit of an extreme makeover over the last few years. Pawnshops and Money Marts have given way to artisanal cheese boutiques and legal cannabis dispensaries as Toronto’s hipsters—priced out of the big city—make their way west.
Although hipster-adjacent, Dax was born and raised in the Hammer. Weekends of his youth were spent outside the Jackson Square theater back when you could see a flick on their Two-Toonie-Tuesday. He hung out on James Street long before it was cool, coloring his sister’s hand-me-down, generic-brand sneakers with Sharpies from the Dollarama, dreaming about opening up his custom sneaker shop one day.
“Hey, Dax. It’s me.” I knock on the back door of his store and call his name simultaneously. When he doesn’t answer, I try the knob and find it unlocked, which is fortunate, as Dax’s spare key is in a very realistic-looking hide-a-key that takes me twenty minutes to locate more often than not.
“Dax,” I call again as I cross the threshold. “It’s Gemma. Not a murderer. Or a ghost.”
I’ve let myself into Daxon’s place a hundred times before. But Dax is convinced the building is haunted, and I don’t want to freak him out, coming in unannounced and making creepy creaking sounds on his floorboards.
I walk through to the front of the store, already brightly lit from the morning sun, and take a seat behind the counter to wait, knowing Dax will be along eventually.
His space is long and narrow. A mix of old and new with a bit of wild thrown in, just like Dax. The far wall is half white shiplap and half red brick with perfect rows of wooden pedestal shelves, each holding up a pair of Dax’s custom-designed sneakers. His art. His soul. Little pieces of Dax you can take home for the average price of three hundred Canadian dollars.
Whether it’s the sun or the fact that I’m sitting down and finally in a safe space, the adrenaline in my blood starts to slow, leaving behind the hangover I woke up with. My head is thumping like a techno jam, which is not appreciated by my stomach, which is still all sloshy and queasy. My chances of puking are at a low but notable 30 percent. I rest my head on the countertop and close my eyes. Not sure if I drift off for a few moments or just zone out, but I’m all of a sudden brought back to reality by the very distinct feeling of a presence in the room.
“That better be you, Daxon. Or else I’m going to have to take back all that shit I gave you about this place being haunted.” I don’t open my eyes or lift my head, blaming the hangover but also not wanting to risk seeing an actual ghost.
If he’s there, he doesn’t say a word. However, the floorboards creak, but by the time I look up, whoever or whatever was standing there is gone.
Okay, nope. I am not in the mood to fuck around with the paranormal right now. I have bigger problems to deal with. I reach for my purse, which has fallen to the floor, and when I stand, my eyes catch the edge of a shadow.
I spin around. The second adrenaline rush of the morning floods my veins.
Dax stands in the doorway of his office, braced like he’s ready to fight with a shoehorn clutched in his fist.