“Fine,” I admit to my sister. “He’s attractive, but we’re not like that. Our relationship is purely platonic.”
Kierst thinks for a moment. “And your boyfriend was totally fine with you hanging out with a facially gifted lumbersexual?”
Stuart was…neutral. He didn’t understand the appeal of Dax. He was also so confident and assured that I don’t think it ever occurred to him to be threatened by Dax.
“I never gave Stuart a reason to be worried.”
She narrows her eyes. “You mean you’ve never once…” She looks over at Aunt Livi, who is busy looking for something inside her purse, then thrusts her hips suggestively.
“No!” I say loud enough for Aunt Livi to look up.
“Come on.” My sister is not letting this topic die. “I can practically count his abs from here. That’s hot. At least tell me you’ve kissed him.”
My cheeks flush.
“Aha!” Kiersten pokes me hard in the chest with her finger. “I knew it!”
“It’s not like that.”
It was a whim? A mistake? Either way, it sure as hell wasn’t what Kiersten is thinking.
We sit behind the counter for another five minutes. It’s probably four too many, but I’m paranoid. This whole Dax-not-knowing-me thing has thrown me for a loop, and I need some time to figure out a plan before I see him again.
“Kierst—” I nudge her with the toe of my shoe. “Can you check again and make sure he’s gone?”
My sister doesn’t immediately move. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head, as if she’s trying to decide if she will use this opportunity to blackmail more info out of me or surrender to the fact that it’s her sisterly duty to have my back in times of dire need.
Dire need emerges the winner, and she crawls over to the corner, takes another peek, then jumps to her feet. “Coast is clear.”
“Oh, good.” Aunt Livi stands and brushes imaginary dirt from her palazzo pants. “So should we try your house next, poodle?”
My house.
The mystery location written on the front of my Ontario driver’s license.
We walk back to the front of the bookshop, where we pile into Kiersten’s souped-up white Dodge minivan—even though Aunt Livi insists the distance from my store to my house is walkable, and I make the commute daily.
It’s a quick five minutes before we pull up in front of a two-story beige-brick house. Like most in this Hamilton neighborhood, it looks like it was built in the 1940s, sits steps from the sidewalk, and is tightly fitted in between neighbors on either side. It’s not my condo on the water, but it’s cute.
I take the front steps in a single leap, then seek out the final mystery key from my purse.
“Not that door, sweetie,” Aunt Livi calls from the sidewalk. “You use the one around the back.”
I follow Kiersten and my aunt along a narrow sidewalk and through a chain-link gate to a small but neat yard. The two of them straddle a narrow staircase and wait.
I stare at the cracked cement steps leading down. My stomach drops like a stone. “I live in the basement?”
Both of them nod.
Sure enough, my second mystery key slips easily enough into the lock. However, I need to duck my head as I push open the door and step into what looks like a compact kitchen. Then, with an easy quarter turn, I take in the living room, bedroom, and even bathroom with one brief sweep of the eyes.
It’s quaint. And it’s terrible. My heart and head are at war, taking in a space that is obviously lovingly decorated in my specific Scandinavian-inspired taste with the low ceilings, lack of walls, and dim lighting.
Tears prick my eyes once again. Unlike at my store, they are not tears of awe and joy.
“I willingly moved here? It smells like chicken soup.”
Kiersten gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “We think it’s from your neighbor upstairs. At least, we hope it is. And yes, you did. Signed the lease the same month you opened the store.”
I guess a storefront, even in Hamilton, isn’t exactly cheap.
Decisions were made. Priorities were set.
At some point, after not choosing Stuart, Other Me must have made a choice to live in this damp, dark basement to launch her store.
“I found it!” Aunt Livi calls from the opposite side of the room, interrupting my little pity party.
She stands next to a small white IKEA desk with several unrecognizable books on top, save for the big brown leather book that gathered us here today.
It takes her three whole steps to join Kiersten and me in the kitchen. The three of us crowd around my very tiny counter, the book open between us so we can all see the pages.