As I hand it back, I get this weird pain in my chest and an overwhelming feeling that something is wrong. I look up and see Dax across the bar watching me.
Our eyes lock and hold for a beat before he breaks contact to look at Elliott, then the door.
Dax and I have always shared a weird telepathy. The ability to communicate entire thoughts with the raise of an eyebrow or roll of the eyes. Although this particular Dax is still technically a stranger, I have no trouble piecing together what he thinks he just saw.
No. Wait! Noooooooo. I fight the urge to yell out, This isn’t what it looks like.
And when Dax turns toward the door, it’s as if the entire bar freezes, and I’m teleported back to four years ago. Because it was here, in this very same bar, that I met Daxon McGuire.
It started with the Guinness mix-up, then moved on to charming banter. I was far from smitten but definitely intrigued. Dax was exactly like me back then. Trying to find investors to start up Kicks and as uncertain about his future as he was about what he was having for dinner that evening. A man without a plan.
Then drinks were spilled.
And up walked Stuart.
After some run-of-the-mill flirty chitchat, he asked me, “Where do you imagine your life in ten years, Gemma?”
I didn’t have a good answer. But he did.
“Anyone can make a five-year plan. I can tell you where I will be in ten years and exactly how I will get there.”
He was speaking my love language.
A vice-president position at Godrich and Dundas. A semidetached house in Cabbagetown. A dog—preferably a goldendoodle.
I’d lived most of my life with lots of uncertainty—I fell hard, craving the safety of a stable relationship.
So I screwed up. I chose the wrong guy.
Or maybe he was the right guy at the time, but here, tonight, sitting in this bar, things are different. I am different.
This is my second chance. To be with Dax. Not just as friends. More. So much more.
But everything is going wrong. Spiraling in the wrong direction.
Even as he takes his seat, I can tell things between us have shifted.
His knee is no longer pressing against mine. And he’s moved his chair ever so slightly away, leaving a cavernous space between us.
The hand that once rested on the back of my seat now clutches his beer and refuses to budge no matter how much I will it to return.
All night, Dax was telling me without telling me that he was into me, and I ignored it.
What else have I ignored these last four years?
“We should probably get going.” Lux gets to her feet. Our last round of beer is now empty glasses.
She hugs me and whispers into my ear. “Let’s stay in touch. I don’t want to let another year go by without seeing you again.” I squeeze her back because I don’t want that to happen either. I want many, many more nights exactly like this one.
“I should head out too.” Dax doesn’t quite look at me as he says it.
“I’m ready,” I tell him, ignoring the I that wasn’t a we.
Oblivious, Elliott hugs Lux, then holds up his phone to me. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
I turn to Dax to—I don’t know, explain? But he’s purposely looking past me to the door.
I have a sinking feeling that I’ve screwed everything up before it’s even started.
We weave our way back to the exit. His hand is noticeably missing from my back. Like I was his before, and now I’m not so sure.
We part with Lux and Leo on the street. They head south. We walk north to a blue Ford Focus and a driver named Ahmed, who blares Tiesto so loud that neither of us says a word until he pulls up in front of my house.
“I had a good time tonight,” I say because I’m not sure of where to even start.
“Me too,” he replies.
“Do you want to come inside?”
He thinks about it for a second. I can see it in his eyes, but then he opens his mouth. “I think it’s better if I head home.”
“Okay,” says my voice. What the hell? says my head. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go now. I’ve realized it. I’ve figured it out, Dax. I’m supposed to be with you. Except all I say is, “We should do this again sometime.”
He nods, then opens his door and helps me out.
I wait for him to open his arms, to pull me into a hug like he has done every single night we’ve ever hung out together, but his hands stay gripped on the open door of the waiting Uber.
“Text me when you get inside.” He nods at the darkened side path. “Let me know you’re okay.”