My life is not a romantic comedy. It’s…well, it’s my life. Shit like this doesn’t happen to me.
It doesn’t happen, period.
“Uh…hey there.”
I jump a good two feet in the air, let out a very loud gahhhh, and drop my phone onto the polished concrete floor. Picking it up, I stare up at Dax, who stands in the doorway holding two steaming mugs.
“Sorry to startle you. Just wondering how you take your coffee?”
My sweet Dax. He’s staring at me with his big green saucer eyes and this crinkle in his forehead that only appears when he’s concerned about something. Like when he finds a baby bird flung from its nest or reads about natural disasters in the news.
That look, that crinkle, is aimed right at me. I’m the broken baby bird.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” I’m trying very hard to keep the panic from my voice, but all of the potential causes I’m coming up with for his sudden bout of Gemma-related amnesia are not reassuring.
“Do you know who you are?” His voice is so deep and so kind that for a moment, I strongly consider diving into his arms, laying my head against his chest, and being that broken baby bird. But I can’t. I need to figure out what the hell is going on.
“The name Gemma doesn’t mean anything to you?”
Dax doesn’t blink. There isn’t even the teeniest tiniest flicker of recognition on his face.
“Gemma Wilde.” I try again. “Wilde with an e.”
He lifts his head. “Like the store down the street?”
“No! Actually…yes, I guess that is my store. But that wasn’t—”
Then it hits me. A possibility. A perfectly logical explanation for everything. And I cling to the idea like it’s a life raft. “Did Kiersten put you up to this? Because if she did, it’s way too fucked-up to be funny, and I need you to end this horrible trick now. Right now, Dax.”
So much for not sounding hysterical.
My nerves are so on edge that I feel like I could easily lift a Toyota Prius or collapse into a heap of ugly tears. It has to be a trick. It has to.
I stare down Dax as if the sheer will of my beliefs will make him open his mouth and confess everything.
He sets the two mugs down on the counter and pulls out his phone again. “Is there someone I can call for you? A family member?”
I need to fix this. Whatever we’ve done. I need to talk to my aunt and put everything back.
“Thanks for making coffee. I appreciate it more than you realize. But I need to go.”
* * *
—
I wander down James Street like I’m a character in a post-apocalyptic drama who’s just emerged from a bomb shelter: staggering, dazed, not entirely sure if the world around her is real or a hallucination brought on by one too many canned kidney bean dinners.
The thing that’s tripping me up the most is that everything is so ordinary. James Street is busy with its normal Tuesday morning pedestrian traffic. Little old ladies with their wire shopping carts on their way to the Jackson Square market. Tight-panted hipsters heading home after an all-night house party. Bleary-eyed parents pushing strollers. Lazy twentysomethings who refuse to buy a coffee maker when there’s a perfectly good coffee shop nearby.
Typically, I fall into that last category. I share Dax’s philosophy that coffee tastes better when someone else makes it, which is why, despite not being entirely sure if I’m going through a delusional episode, I join the line at Brewski’s.
Coffee is never a bad idea.
“What can I get for you?”
Staring at me are two light-brown eyes belonging to the dark-haired, man-bunned barista.
“Oh hey, Gemma,” he says. “Grande oat latte, right?”
“You know who I am?” It comes out in a kind of creepy whisper, but the barista, whose name I am almost certain is Snake, doesn’t seem to notice.
“Uh, yeah. It’s Gemma with a G. I remember because this one time I wrote it with a J and you said, Actually, it’s Gemma with a G, so that’s what I call you in my head every time I go to write on your cup.”
This isn’t weird. Well, it is weird, but for all the right reasons. I do order my coffee here pretty much every morning. And Snake is usually the one who serves it to me. This part of my life is exactly as it should be.
“I also wrote your name down in my phone after we made out that night. I figure if a woman is willing to put her tongue in your mouth, you should probably remember her name forever. I’m just a gentleman like that.”