Page 123 of Big Dill

“I’ll do my best, but Jaxon…”

“Yeah?”

The sudden rush of someone hurrying past sends me wobbling in my heels. I catch my balance and gulp. “Do you…do you really think I should do this?”

His voice, steady and teasing, cuts through my doubt. “A little late to be asking that now, don’t you think? You just landed in Toronto.”

I glance up at the towering glass-and-steel skyline in the distance, the airport buzzing with taxis as people bustle about. Toronto is alive in a way Churchill Falls never could be—and somehow, even though I grew up in a city, it feels like I no longer belong in one.

My damn heart is tangled up in Churchill Falls.

“Yeah, I guess it’s too late to turn back now.” It might be too late to be second guessing everything, but something about all this…I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. I’ve always wanted my own line, that little spark of independence I’ve carried since forever. But the thought of scaling up, doing things on a big scale…my stomach twists at the idea. Deep down, I think I’ve always imagined a boutique of my own—a small, personal space where everything is exactly how I want it. And, as much as I hate to admit it, there’s still that stubborn child inside me, still trying to impress her parents, still hoping they’ll see me.

Damn.

“Jami,” Jaxon’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, pulling me back.

“Yeah?” I murmur.

“It’s actually not too late. You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says, and the warmth in his tone is tinged with something serious. “You can just… turn around and come back home.”

Home.

The word hits me like a jolt. Churchill Falls does feel like home now—the quiet streets, the familiar faces, the smell of pine and fresh snow—but I can’t stay there if Brody and Elise are back together. Not and still keep my heart intact.

“I’m here now,” I say, almost to myself. “I might as well at least give this a shot and hear what he has to say. I mean…can you imagine how many designers would kill to get a private interview like this? It has to be rare, Jaxon. I can’t even believe it’s happening to me.” I pause, my fingers tracing the edge of my phone. “I should be respectful and go. Heck, he might not even like the designs, or the price point, or even think he could sell them…”

And truthfully…I’m still not sure I’m ready for my clothes to hang on a department store rack.

There’s a pause on the other end. “Okay,” Jaxon says finally. “Call me when you’re done. Let me know how it’s going.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’m going to grab an Uber. Talk soon.”

I hang up and tap open the Uber app, entering the address Elise had given me. Three minutes later, a sleek black sedan pulls up. The driver hops out with a polite nod.

“Jami?” he asks.

“That’s me,” I say, lifting my bag. He takes it carefully, placing it in the trunk, and the click of the latch sends a small jolt of anticipation up my spine. I slide into the back seat, my heart still bouncing in my chest as he slides into the driver’s seat and pulls out onto the street.

As we drive, the city stretches out alive and pulsing. Traffic hums steadily, just as chaotic as I imagined. Horns honk and the occasional shout cut through the morning air. Toronto is louder than Halifax. Bigger. Faster. And yet, as I watch the streets unfold, I realize…I’m not sure I missed this.

The driver takes a slow curve, and I lean back, phone in hand, considering a message to Brody. But he’s probably busy at work, already deep in his day. I let out a sigh that seems to hang in the car, soft against the drone of the engine, and catch the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. I smile faintly before turning back to watch the city pass.

Rowhouses with peeling paint, vibrant cafés spilling onto the sidewalks, mid-rise office buildings reflecting the sunlight. I think about texting Lauren, but it’s early afternoon and she’s probably already lost in her own work. A hollowness creeps in, subtle but insistent, a quiet tug of uncertainty. Where do I belong? Maybe this meeting…maybe this is the thing I need. Something to give me focus, to fill the ache that lingers inside me.

The car takes a sharp turn and Bathurst Street opens up ahead, the sidewalks busier now. The street is dotted with small shops and cafés, a patchwork of old brick and brightly painted facades. The city hums around me, and I lean forward.

Finally, the driver slows, and I catch sight of the building. A modest commercial space, mid-sized, its windows catching the sunlight just so. My heart jumps. This is it. The place that might change things I’m not sure I want to change.

“We’re here,” the driver says.

“Perfect, thank you.” I gather my carry-on bag as he grabs my suitcase from the trunk, the wheels bumping against the curb. I have a small Airbnb booked for the night, but there’s no sense stopping there first—the suitcase carries my samples, the pieces I need for the meeting. I can’t afford to waste time.

I open the heavy glass doors and step inside the building. The lobby is quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead mixing with the faint echo of footsteps on the tiled floor. I find the elevator and press the button for the third floor. Up I go. I reach my floor, and the hallway is eerily calm, a few doors lining the hallway with nameplates glinting in the muted light. I stop in front of one: Elliot Kane. My hand hesitates on the polished metal handle before I push the door open.

Inside, a woman sits behind a sleek, modern desk. Her head lifts as I enter, eyes flicking over me with a mixture of curiosity and mild confusion. I plaster on a smile that feels fragile.

“Hi, I’m Jami Grant. I have a private meeting with Mr. Kane.”