Page 35 of This Spells Love
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 myPepto-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.
“Here.” He hands it to me. “Use this. It’s clean. I promise.”
I recognize the soft cotton fabric immediately. It’s Dax’s favorite shirt. Well…one of his three favorite shirts. He got them in a three-pack two years ago at a Boxing Day sale at The Bay. They feel like butter, have the perfect level of V (not too much chest),and are the right length to fit his long torso yet slim enough to pull tight in all the right places. He loves those shirts far more than any human should love a piece of clothing.
He wore the first of the three so often that it had holes and was so thin you could see his nipples. His mother got so fed up with him wearing it that when she came to visit, she offered to do his laundry and had an “accident” with the bleach (or so Dax tells the story). Shirt number two suffered a run-in with a bratwurst at a Jays game. No bleach could stand up to the bright-yellow mustard stain. Dax cried when he threw it out.
If the same things happened in this timeline, the shirt in my hands is the last one. Dax’s final perfect shirt, and he’s giving it tome.
“You’re really bleeding.” He takes the shirt from my stunned hands and presses it to my chin before I can tell him I’m not worth the sacrifice.
It stings. Oh fuck, it stings. But the tears in my eyes are not ones of pain.
“You didn’t even hesitate.” I fight back a swelling lump of gratitude in my throat.
His other hand cups the back of my head, his fingers checking for bumps. “Do you think you need to go to the hospital?”
I shake my head. “Just home to an ice pack and a Band-Aid and maybe a shot of tequila, but that’s more to soothe the ego bruise.”
He smiles. “That sounds like a solid plan. Think you can stand?”
I wait until my heart steadies to a pace where it feels like it’s not going to give out at any moment, then let him help me to my feet.
He gathers the can of tomatoes, the bruise-free bananas, and the rest of the scattered groceries into my bags. When he’s done,he brushes a few stray hairs from my forehead and once again repeats the chin lift and assesses.