He’s on the phone. Talking about someone. I still don’t get why he’s calling his sister.
“I came downstairs, and she was sitting behind the counter. Not stealing anything. Just hanging out.”
Wait. Is he talking about me now?
“She knows shit about me,” Dax continues. “She knew that you run. Even my coffee order. I think she might be stalking me. I think she needs help.”
He is talking about me. What the actual hell?
My throat instantly goes dry. And the low odds I gave earlier about upchucking on Dax’s floor skyrocket as my stomach completes a double back tuck.
Something is wrong.
Something is very, very wrong.
It’s like I went to bed last night in my normal life and woke up this morning to a completely new one. Unless, of course, I’m still dreaming? I pinch the skin of my arm just enough to feel a slight sting. Nope. I’m definitely awake. Have I been in some sort of coma for years and only just woken up? I pull the not-my-iPhone from my purse. The date reads precisely as it should, Tuesday, July 19. Plus, the coma doesn’t explain Mr. Big, or my license, or the fact that my best friend is acting like he has no idea who the hell I am.
My pulse that was racing moments ago now feels as if it’s beating at supersonic speed. I attempt the three deep breaths that somewhat helped earlier this morning. They do nothing but make my head woozy. Think, Gemma. Think! You are a smart, capable woman. There has to be a logical explanation for all of this.
My head is pounding so badly and I swear my stomach acids are starting a slow pilgrimage up my esophagus. I retreat to Dax’s stool, letting my head fall into my hands as my elbows hit the countertop.
I can’t think like this. I’ve got nothing.
Out of theories, I do what I always do when facts and science don’t hold the answers I’m looking for: turn to the internet. However, before I can type “causes of temporary amnesia” into Google, the phone in my hands starts to vibrate. Aunt Livi’s name flashes across the screen beside the words incoming call.
Okay, bizarro day, let’s see what twist you’re going to throw at me now.
Pressing the phone to my ear, I brace myself. “Hello.”
“Oh hi, poodle.” Aunt Livi’s voice is its usual even timbre. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Well, Mr. Zogaib called me this morning to tell me your store is still locked up tight. He said he saw at least three different customers try the door and leave. He was worried something happened to you.”
I lift my head from my hands and gaze around Dax’s store. My vision is slightly blurred. It could be the way my eyeballs were pressing into my palms just now. Or maybe something is medically wrong with me. Oh god! What if it’s a tumor?
“What store are we referring to,” I ask, “and why would I be opening it?”
Aunt Livi pauses. The only reason I know she’s still there is because I can hear her raspy breathing. “Your store, sweetheart, Wilde Beauty.”
At the name Wilde Beauty, my heart does this thing where it completely stalls for a good three seconds, then beats like crazy as if catching up. What Aunt Livi’s saying is impossible.
Now I know I must be dreaming.
I pinch my arm for a second time. It stings so badly that there’s definitely going to be a purple bruise there in four to six hours, but I need to be absolutely sure I’m awake.
Years ago, when I was in university getting my business degree, I took a course where I had to create a business plan. Wilde Beauty was the name of the clean beauty, health, and lifestyle boutique I dreamed about owning one day. My plan was to open it up, build a strong brand and supply chain, and then expand. My very own clean beauty empire. This was long before I got the reality check that adulting involves paying off student loans and doing my own taxes. I never told anyone that name. Ever. Even when I submitted the assignment, I chickened out and called it Hamilton Health and Wellness.
This new fact is like a neon warning sign surrounded by flashing lightbulbs. There’s something seriously wrong with the universe.
“Why don’t you come by for supper tonight,” Aunt Livi continues, oblivious to my inner dilemma. “Your sister is coming by to pick up a book I got in the donation bin this week. We could even make margaritas.”
Aunt Livi’s words make something in the back of my brain click. My sister. Margaritas. The book.
No. Noooooooooo.
It can’t be it.
I am not Bill Murray. Or Doctor Who. Or whatever the name was of Rachel McAdams’s character in The Time Traveler’s Wife.