Dax raises his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s a fun fact. I will file it away for a rainy day.”
There’s an awkward pause in our conversation that draws out for a while, leaving me searching for the right words to say next. It is a twist of fate that we’re both here. Although I might have preferred nonfluorescent lighting and to have put on more presentable pants, my body craves Dax. Not in a sexy way, but the kind that I want to go home with him. Curl up on his tiny two-seater couch, steal his favorite big fuzzy Hudson’s Bay blanket, and watch reality television until our eyeballs start to ache.
I eye his basket. “Those look like great bananas. Ripe, but not so ripe that you’ll be forced to make banana bread tomorrow.”
Dax nods. “That’s the hope.”
There should be a thousand conversation starters on the tip of my tongue. I’ve never, ever had problems talking to Dax. But the only thought that seems to surface is to comment on the plumpness of his plums. At least I have the self-awareness to know that that’s fucking weird and not at all in line with the fun-loving friend I’m trying to portray.
So I stand there. Awkwardly. Mouth shut. Staring creepily at his fruit until he makes a wide turn with his cart to get past mine. “Have a good night, Gemma.”
“I guess I’ll see you around,” I say to the back of his head.
Jeeeeeessssuuuusss. Okay. Deep breaths. Round three with Dax has gone slightly better than round one, about on par with my performance at the curling club. At this rate, it will take me another four years before we’re friends. Maybe Kiersten was right. Not the showing-Dax-my-tits part. But maybe I should change my tactics. There are only so many opportunities to have Dax practically falling into my lap.
I finish my shopping and head for the checkout counter, where I’m grateful Other Gemma also uses the same debit card pin she picked out when she was thirteen.
By the time I get outside my arms are burning, and the yellow plastic bags are cutting my palms, a painful reminder never to shop when I’m hungry. I start down Main toward my basement, but a passing car catches my attention. An old Toyota Avalon—I swear for a moment that it’s Dax’s old car. The one he nearly drove to rust before he finally gave it up and got his Jeep. I turn to get a better look. My body makes the rotation, but my flip-flop does not. My foot slips right off the side of my shoe, and instead of dropping my groceries and saving my face like a rational human, I try to save my bananas from bruising.
My knee hits the pavement with a hard thud. It slows my fall but not enough to counter the momentum that thrusts my torso forward, connecting my chin with the curb.
“Ahhhh,” I cry, abandoning my groceries two seconds too late.
Woman down.
I’m wounded.
I’m…
I roll to my back like an injured turtle, pressing my palm to my chin, which is stinging like a motherfucker. It’s unclear if I’m dealing with a minor flesh wound or something that requires medical attention until I remove my hand and determine that although there is a notable amount of blood, it’s probably not ER worthy.
It is, however, serious enough to justify retiring my Pepto-Bismol sweatshirt from any future public appearances. I pull its cuff over my hand and press on my wound as the entirety of my chest aches with a heavy, hollow feeling.
I want to go home. Not my basement home. To my condo and my old life.
And although my common sense fully acknowledges that a slip and fall could have easily happened to anyone, my temporal lobe blames Other Gemma. Her lack of a car. Her tightly managed budget that only allows for the necessities of frill-less groceries.
I’m pulling myself from my puddle of self-pity and into a seated position when a car drives up beside me, and its familiar grumbling engine and chipped red paint calm the thunderstorm inside my chest.
The driver’s side door of the Avalon opens and slams, and mere moments later, Daxon McGuire is kneeling beside me, asking in a worried tone, “Are you okay, Gemma?”
His hand slides under my chin, tipping it up toward him, cradling my face as if it is his firstborn’s.
“Can I take a look? Do you mind?” His fingers cover mine, and he waits until I nod before he carefully moves my hand from my chin.
“Oh shit.” He winces at my wound and then returns my hand to my face.
“Hold tight for just a sec. I’ll be right back.”
He runs to his trunk and pops it open. I’m blocked from seeing what exactly he’s doing until I hear a slam, and he returns with a white piece of cloth in his hand.