Body Jumping
Page 4
The two-story grand entrance foyer sports a stunningly huge chandelier and opens onto a living room straight out of Elegant Living magazine. I sit gingerly on the leather sectional, then immediately jump when a giant hairball with claws and fangs launches itself at my face.
“Ar-hgh!” I yell, throwing up my hands, too late, in defense.
I manage to pry the cat from my face and lever him onto the floor without murdering either one of us. Once on the carpet, though, Cujo the cat hisses at me and stares accusingly with his wise cat eyes. I get the eerie feeling he knows I’m not really Natasha. He knows I don’t belong here in his home. It gives me an unsettled feeling, as if I’ve been called out for cheating on my homework, or arrested for shoplifting a lipstick. The message is clear—I know who you aren’t. You don’t belong here.
Keeping my eyes on him, I slowly get up from the couch. I back down a short hallway into the first bedroom, only stopping to pause and breathe after I firmly close the door, leaving the killer cat on the other side of it.
Peering into the dresser’s vanity mirror, I assess the scratches on Natasha’s face. Luckily they’re near her hairline and will be mostly covered by her hair. I wash my face in the en suite guest bathroom and decide to take a moment to relax and regroup.
I kick off my shoes and sink onto the beautiful bed with its elegant metallic and beige bedspread and think about my situation. I’m in the body of a beautiful, rich woman presumably married to Greg Applebaum with whom, though I’ve never actually met him as myself, I feel intimately acquainted.
Am I doing any real harm to Natasha? Beyond the fact that she’s missing out on the moments of her life that I’m living for her. A sliver of guilt twinges in my core. I’m sure Natasha has more important things to do with her life than lie on a bed hiding from her cat in one of her spare bedrooms on a Friday night. I don’t know how to fix the situation, though, and judging from the day’s events it seems likely to me that I’ll soon whoosh into someone else’s body, and the cat will go back to being Natasha’s problem.
I turn over and look at the bedside table with its tastefully antique-looking alarm clock and artful collection of shells and coral in a shallow dish. My cheek is resting on a ruffled throw pillow I’m sure will leave an absurd imprint, but I don’t move it.
Beyond a twenty-minute gap wherein Greg is fuzzy about his motivation, he didn’t seem otherwise harmed by my possession. I hope the same holds true for Natasha. There doesn’t seem to be any reason that it wouldn’t. If God or metaphysics or whatever mystical force running this show engineered this, I can’t believe there’s intent to harm my interim hosts.
What is this body swapping about, anyway? Is it some cosmic lesson so I can learn to appreciate the body and life I had? If so, lesson learned. I’m fine. I want to go back. I want to be me.
But I immediately rebuke myself. How incredibly self-centered. Surely the universe wouldn’t mess with so many lives just to teach me a lesson about appreciating what I have. More likely this is one of those flukes existence throws at you, and I will have to accept it. Like gravity. And taxes.
I wonder for the millionth time if everyone goes through this when they die or almost die or flatline and come back like I did. Not that I’m all the way back.
Is it worth returning to the hospital and touching the used-to-be me’s hand as Natasha? Would it work now? What are the rules to this journey? Is there a timer? Is it running out? Will the microwave ding and my body be ready?
One thing seems true. With the exception of the dying old man, I didn’t switch bodies unless I touched someone skin-to-skin. That feels like an important thing to remember if I don’t want to go careening though fifty bodies in an hour. Be careful about touching people.
Valuable life lesson.
And I’d switched bodies three times in one day. Maybe it isn’t possible to move on past a certain number. Maybe three bodies and you’re stuck. Permanently? Or just for this inning? Or maybe it’s unlimited. At this rate, a couple of weeks from now I’ll be through dozens of people and lives and my head will explode trying to keep track of them all. There’s no way I can do this for long. I just don’t have the brain capacity.
So I’ll keep my hands to myself and stay in Natasha while I try to figure out how to get back to my own body. Though that’s not exactly fair to Natasha, who is missing her life right now because I’m in it. I sigh and roll over, my mind a whirl of circle-backs to my impossible situation. Thinking and worrying but exhausted, I fall asleep.
∞∞∞
I awake slowly to the feeling of something wet licking my neck. I freeze and wonder if the cat has somehow gotten in and is licking my throat before sinking his claws into my jugular. But then he swings a heavy arm around my waist and hauls me to him, and I realize Greg Applebaum is in bed with me, feeling amorous toward his wife. He pulls me close and in the hardness that stabs my hip I feel he is ready to go. He leans his head down and gives me a long, possessive kiss on the mouth. It’s not unpleasant, I decide, but it’s not toe-curling. And my stomach doesn’t jump, not like when Aiden orders coffee from me on weekday mornings at seven fifty-two. And those moments when Aiden’s hand brushes mine when he takes his cup from me and my stomach leaps three feet in the air. This kiss is miles short of that, and I wonder, as I’ve wondered every day since I first saw him eight months ago, if kissing Aiden would be as stomach-jumping as grazing his hand is.
Greg tangles his fingers in my hair, messing up the bun until my shoulder-length hair is tumbling down. I wonder if Natasha would be annoyed. She seems like a very put-together sort of person. Refined. Uptight. But maybe she doesn’t mind coming apart during passionate lovemaking with her husband. Husband. Lovemaking. I can’t do this. I can’t let this happen.
Greg unzips the back of the teal silk sheath dress. It slides off my shoulders, exposing a tasteful beige silk bra edged in lace. I have to stop this. This is Natasha’s body and Natasha’s husband, and I have no right to be in this situation, even if she won’t remember that I was.
It’s also a violation of Greg. He doesn’t know who I am. He thinks I’m his wife. This whole thing is wrong, wrong, wrong.
I pull away, but Greg pulls me back, kissing me passionately with too much tongue. I try to turn from him, but he slides my dress down and it traps my arms, robbing me of the leverage I need.
When he lets me come up for a breath of air, I quickly say, “I can’t do this.”
He freezes and looks at me, ego-bruised anger hot in his eyes. “Why the hell not?”
I clear my throat. “I’m on my period?” I try.
He smiles and his shoulders relax. “You know I don’t care.” He kisses my neck and pushes the dress down further so it ends up somewhere around my knees. It’s no longer trapping my arms, and I put my hands on his naked chest, only now realizing he must have gotten undressed before even getting into bed with me. I scoot to the edge and start pulling my dress up and on as I watch the gathering storm in his eyes.
I clear my throat. “I’ve just become allergic. To cats. I have to go buy some Benadryl.”
He looks confused, but, before he can move, I grab Natasha’s handbag and shoes and run out of the house.
Chapter Six
I should have fixed my hair before I ran screaming from the Applebaum home. Okay, I wasn’t screaming, but I felt a lot like Goldilocks escaping the house of the three bears. I was discovered sleeping in one of their beds, and I really didn’t belong there.
Where could I even go?
Walking down the beautiful residential street on which Casa Applebaum is located, I decide to take another Uber somewhere. I don’t want Greg to see me wandering down his street and think that his wife has gone insane. Or that she’s spurning him and causing a crisis in their marriage. Which I may have already done. But it’s better that I got out when I did. I think I left it well enough—and soon enough—that Natasha would be able to fix the situation when I—hopefully—leave her body for my own.
Most people with retail jobs try to avoid their places of business when they’re not on the clock. Who wants to think about work when they don’t have to? But I find the coffee shop comforting. I love the aroma of the espresso brewing, and I swear you can smell the sweetness of the syrups all over the store, the Christmas-y, spun sugar scent of them. And my coffee shop has the added advantage of being inside an independent bookstore.
Bookstores are pretty much my happiest place on earth. They always have been. When Laurel was busy with cheerleading or dating the quarterback, I was curled up with a book. Going to bookstores, getting lost in the stacks, wallowing for hours amongst classics and bestsellers, sci-fi and fantasy, self-help, and young adult—it was all my domain. Losing myself in other worlds helped me forget I was the ugly duckling, the weak shadow of my radiant twin sister. It wasn’t something I could forget at school—or even at home where I felt Laurel would always be the unspoken favorite child—but in the worlds I read and then the worlds I started writing, I, and not my sister, took center stage.
I spend the car ride trying to fix Natasha’s hair until I look less like someone who has just rolled out of bed—or around in it. I dispense with the bun and instead brush my hair until it’s smooth, falling softly on my shoulders. I appreciate the straight sleekness of Natasha’s hair. My hair—Julianne’s—is curly, but not curly enough to be exotic, just wavy enough to be unruly and a pain.
I arrive at On the Page, and it’s far busier than I thought it would be, and In the Cup is the most crowded I’ve ever seen it. Not that I’d have known. I never work Friday nights. I’m part of the day shift. Early mornings are my beat, which is great because that’s how I get to see Aiden every weekday. Friday night shifts are usually covered by the high school and college students who have classes during the day.
After getting my coffee from Tucker who has no idea he’s serving coffee to someone he works with several times a week, I find every table is already taken. Students are clustered around laptops for study groups, mothers are enjoying cups of coffee while treating their children to cookies after shopping, couples are sharing lattés and cheesecake after their dinner dates. I hover near a two-seater while a middle-aged man with a graying mustache picks up his extra napkins and book, obviously readying to depart. The second he goes, I’m in his seat, already feeling more relaxed as I take a deep breath and inhale the book and coffee scents I adore.
I blow across the top of my ceramic mug and watch the steam swirl a curlicue in the air—something that would not have happened in my earlier noncorporeality. I wonder if I should feel guilty for spending Natasha’s money on a coffee and pastry for myself. Although they’re going to go into her body, so really it’s not like stealing.
But oh no! What if she doesn’t want coffee and a pastry in her body? She might be gluten-free or sugar-free or non-dairy creamer intolerant.
I’ll go crazy if I keep worrying over every tiny detail like this. I should just accept the fact that I’m Natasha and try to make conservative Natasha-type decisions in my position as interim Natasha and hope for the best.
“Is this seat taken?”
A man in a suit looms over me, and I say no before looking up. When he sits down across from me, I choke on my sip of too-hot coffee.
It’s Aiden. My Aiden.
Or rather, Julianne’s Aiden. Who doesn’t love her and doesn’t know her. Whose relationship with her is a complete fiction created only to make Laurel think I have someone—a male someone—in my life. Whose name I only know because I write it on his to-go cup every weekday morning. He could be lying every day. His name could be Bill.
“Are you okay?” His brow furrows in concern.
“Yes.” I take a breath. “Too hot.” I fan my coffee cup.
He smiles and my stomach flips over. “I’d better take it slow, then.” For a second I wonder if he’s talking about me—us—our relationship that’s pretty solid in my mind, then feel stupid when I see his eyes crinkling toward his own cup of hot coffee.
I nod and smile back and wonder what he thinks of Natasha. Did he sit here because he wants to hit on her?
A sharp stick of jealousy jabs me in the ribs until I tell myself I’m being silly since I am currently Natasha. If he wants to hit on Natasha, I should let him. And kiss him. And more. And then marry him and have his babies.
Okay, that’s getting ahead of myself. And obviously I can’t do that as Natasha. What would Greg say?
“It’s really crowded tonight.” He looks around the room at the dozens of mini-dramas unfolding in the lives around us.
I curl my hands around my mug and let the heat anchor me in the moment. This moment of staring across a shared table with Aiden. Not having to be myself. “It is. I wonder if it’s always like this. I’m usually only here in the mornings.”
He raises his eyebrow at this. “You are?” He cocks his head. “Impossible. I’m here every morning, and I’ve never seen you before.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’d remember you. That sparkle in your eyes.”
My heart warms, but it’s a traitor. He’s not really talking to me. He’s talking to Natasha, appreciating the way she looks, the words she speaks, her sparkling eyes. He’s saying she’s memorable. And attractive, by implication.
He’s not wrong.
I know I’m more attractive and he’s proving it with his attention. His eyes are bigger, taking in my slim, elegant hands wrapped around my coffee cup. His head is angled toward me, his hands open, palms showing on the table. All of his body language is connecting to Natasha’s body. Not her mind and not her heart, which are mine.
But still. His attention is heady and my heart flutters anyway, insisting that right now, he’s looking at me. Right now, I am the woman he’s talking to.
“I’m Natasha,” I say and hold out a pale, shapely hand. He shakes it softly and nods.
“Aiden.”
His name is a feather stroking my arm, a frisson of excitement and possibility. We’re here, together, having a real conversation without a counter and the responsibilities of my job coming between us. There are so many things I want to know about the man I already love.
“What do you do, Aiden?”
He picks up a sugar packet and plays with it before answering. “I own a restaurant. Well,”—he clears his throat—“it’s going to be a restaurant. Um, it is a restaurant. It’s just not open yet.” He tears into the white sugar packet too far and tiny grains spill out of the rip. He sets it down and rubs his hands together, brushing off the loose granules. “Can you tell I’m nervous about it?” He smiles and my heart clenches, even though it’s physically Natasha’s heart. I would never have thought Aiden would be nervous about anything. And here he is, sitting across from me, being vulnerable, and open and accessible, and heartbreakingly…real.
I smile with what I hope is empathy in my eyes. “When will your restaurant open?”
He leans forward and puts his arms on the table. His solid physical presence takes up at least two-thirds of the space between us. I don’t think I occupy that much of my life even when I’m really living it. Aiden is living his for real.
“Six weeks.” He shakes his head like his mind is boggled. “I still have so much to do. Gaspard put up quite a fight, let me tell you. He’s my chef. I had to steal him away from Kitchen Crate by promising him complete control and an unparalleled kitchen. And it also means putting up with his lethal mood swings and outrageous and ridiculously specific demands. It’s like Van Halen’s concert rider.”
“What?” I blink at him.
“Oh you know, those over-the-top demands that rock stars make or they’ll cancel the venue? Like how Van Halen always wanted M&M’s in their dressing room, b
ut no brown ones.”
“Oh, weird.” I wonder what’s wrong with the brown ones. Maybe because they look like chocolate on the outside but are really just the disguised candy shell. Maybe David Lee Roth didn’t like the dishonesty of the brown ones that were pretending to be something they weren’t. A shell that lied about what it really was.
Except they really are chocolate. There’s no reason they’d have to advertise that they’re a candy shell by being brightly colored. Maybe David Lee Roth didn’t think this deeply about it. Maybe he was just messing with the concert people.
“So does Gaspard demand M&M’s?” I ask.
Aiden laughs. “No. He’d probably accuse me of poisoning him if I tried to give him any.” At my quizzical look, he clarifies. “American chocolate. Gaspard doesn’t believe in it. He says it’s not chocolate. Too much wax. But anyway, sorry. I’m going on and on.” He shakes his head again as if clearing his mental Etch A Sketch.
“No! Not at all. I’m enjoying the conversation. I love chocolate.” I smile and wonder if Natasha would be a more interesting person for Aiden to talk to. I’m sure she could come up with better romantic banter than I’m managing.
“Well, if you like chocolate then you’ll have to come to the restaurant when we’re open. Gaspard’s chocolate lime infusion is sublime.”
I cock an eyebrow at him, which I feel like I’m able to do in Natasha’s body. In mine, both my eyebrows go up when I try—I can’t really separate them. Not that I have a unibrow! Just that I can’t usually move them independently. But Natasha’s face manages a single eyebrow lift that I can feel. “Chocolate and lime? Those don’t sound like flavors that belong together.”
His smile is charming, confident. “When you taste it, you’ll know. In fact, I’m willing to bet you a free dinner opening night that you’ll love it so much you’ll want to lick the plate.”
For the first time I notice he has a dimple in his left cheek. My heart catches. I’m sad I’ve never seen it before. That he has never smiled at me, Julianne, enough to show it.