Just Be Her

by Kaydence Snow

  “Holy shit.” I threaded my dirty hands into my hair, making the bun even messier.

  How the hell was this possible? Vague notions of adoptions, distant relatives, and evil doppelgangers flashed through my mind, but I was so shocked I couldn’t think straight.

  The automatic lights flicked off, plunging us back into near darkness and breaking the spell.

  I scrambled to my feet and took a step away, my heart hammering against my rib cage. She stood too, smoothing her dress and sliding her feet back into her heels.

  “Alexandria?” a deep male voice called from the mouth of the alley. The backlight turned him into an almost perfectly black silhouette, the wide shoulders and firm stance menacing.

  I took another step back.

  Alexandria looked over her shoulder, then back at me. “I’m all right, George.” She wiped her face with her hands and smoothed her dress once more.

  “Your phone keeps ringing,” he replied. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt him watching me.

  “I just need a moment.” She took a step toward me, and I took another one back. George folded his hands in front of himself and angled his body toward the street, but he was still keeping an eye on the alleyway.

  I wished the light would come back on. It would be safer to run for the door if the light was on.

  “What the fuck is this?” Feeling like I had no escape, I went on the attack.

  “I haven’t the slightest clue, I assure you.” Her voice was now even. “But I intend to get to the bottom of it . . . discreetly.” She frowned and looked down. The faint light glinted off her matching pearl earring.

  “This is weird, right? I mean, this is . . . what is this? Who are you people? I’m not . . . I need to . . .” I backed farther away.

  “Toni.” She held her hand out in a calming gesture. “I don’t know any more than you—”

  The back door screeched on its hinges, interrupting her midsentence. Andre leaned out, and the lights came on. “Toni? What the fuck? I need you in here.”

  I rushed up the stairs and turned back to look.

  She was walking away, her heels clicking on the concrete, her shoulders back—a complete contrast to the blubbering, struggling-to-breathe mess I’d encountered at first.

  “I’ll be in touch,” she called over her shoulder as she rounded the corner. George turned to follow.

  “What? No!” I called after her. “You hear me? Don’t get in touch. Just fuck off!”

  “What’s going on?” Andre took a step farther out the door, but I spun around and shuffled him back inside, closing the door firmly behind us.

  “Toni, you in some kinda trouble?” he persisted.

  “Nah, it’s all good. Let’s get in there. They need us behind the bar.” I tried to weave around him, but the corridor was narrow, and he was a big guy.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at me. “Toni.” His voice was half warning, half demand.

  I huffed and propped my hands on my hips, looking up at him. “I’m fine, Andre. I promise. It was just a misunderstanding.”

  He stared me down for a long moment. I held his gaze, waiting for him to drop it.

  “OK.” He finally lowered his arms. “But you know if you need any kind of help . . .”

  I patted him on the shoulder as I finally managed to squeeze past him. “Yeah, yeah. But really, I’m good.”

  I didn’t wait for his response, rushing straight to the bar and letting the increasing noise in the Cottonmouth envelop me.

  Evenings usually started with food orders, burgers and beer at the counter. As the night progressed, the patrons moved on to harder drinks as the available space slowly and surely filled up.

  Tonight’s band arrived to set up before it got too crowded.

  I handed three beers over to a college guy and turned to the other end of the bar, half tidying the area as I spoke. “What can I get ya?”

  “Yeah, can I get a . . . ah, fuck.” The man rolled his eyes as we both looked up and saw who we were speaking to.

  Ren was the guitarist and lead singer of the Thousand Lies. They played at the Cottonmouth regularly. I had mixed feelings about it. Ren was a total and complete douchebag. The tattoos, piercings, and bad attitude perfectly complemented the giant chip on his shoulder. On the other hand, the man’s music was like a drug—I didn’t want to like it, because I didn’t like him, but I couldn’t help myself, couldn’t get enough. Not that I’d ever admit it.

  “Ugh. You.” I looked him up and down without even trying to hide my disdain.

  “Hello, you raging bitch.” He smiled at me sweetly.

  “Hi, asshole.” I leaned on the bar and waited. He’d either make a rude comment or place his order. I could handle either.

  Andre’s big hand landed on my shoulder. “There’s a bunch of chicks wanting to order slippery nipples or some shit at the other end. Why don’t you go deal with that?”

  “Why don’t you?” I whined.

  “Don’t wanna.” He shrugged. “And I have staff I can pay to do the shit I don’t wanna.”

  He shooed me away, and I reluctantly moved off toward the lesser of two evils. Andre and Ren slapped their hands together and hugged over the bar, then started chatting like old friends as Andre served Ren his Old Forester 1920 bourbon. Maybe they were old friends. I’d never bothered to ask.

  I spent the rest of the night working hard. The Thousand Lies always drew a big crowd.

  It was a good distraction, and by the end of the night, the bizarre situation in the alley almost seemed like a disturbing dream. Maybe I’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe I’d done more than just get drunk the night before. I didn’t remember taking any hallucinogens, but I supposed it was possible there were still some in my system. That was a pretty fucking specific and vivid trip though . . . But what was the alternative? I had no idea how to explain why there was a rich chick walking around with my face, and I had no interest in trying to figure it out. That was just asking for trouble. It was easier, and frankly made more sense, to assume I’d just imagined the whole thing.

  Two

  Alex

  When I got back into the car after meeting my body double, I had nearly a dozen missed calls. I didn’t even bother calling my mom back, just waited for it to start ringing again.

  When I picked up, she sounded frantic. “Alexandria? What’s happening? Why didn’t you answer? Are you all right?”

  “Hey, Mom. I’m just on the way to the hotel. Everything is fine. My phone was on silent. Nothing to worry about.”

  “You sound off. Are you upset?”

  “No. I’m just tired. Traveling takes it out of me.” I smiled, hoping it would make me sound more relaxed.

  It took a full ten minutes to get her to calm down. She’d been overprotective and overbearing my whole life, and she didn’t handle bad news well. I loved her for it most of the time, but sometimes it drove me nuts.

  Once she was convinced I was OK, there was a pause on the other end. “You don’t have to do this, you know. We can still call it off. We’ll figure it out. Maybe we could sell some of the land.”

  “We’ve been over this.” I sighed. We’d been over every conceivable option to get the winery out of debt. This was the only way.

  “I know.” Her sigh was almost identical to mine. “I just wish . . .”

  “I miss him too, Mom.” My father would’ve known what to do. He would never have let it get to this stage in the first place. “We’re about to pull up at the hotel. I’ll speak to you tomorrow?”

  “OK, sweetheart. I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I was spending a few nights in a suite—courtesy of rewards points, because I was in so much debt. I’d told my mother I wanted to get beauty treatments and prepare for meeting my future in-laws, but really I just wanted a few days to myself before I signed my life away.

  One of the hotel staff opened my car door as a bellboy started removing luggage from the
trunk, but I left the man waiting and scooted forward in my seat.

  “Did you get a good look at the woman in the alley?”

  “I did.” George nodded. After a beat of silence, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll get the wheels in motion. You get some rest.”

  “Thank you, George.” I gave his shoulder a squeeze, grateful to have someone I could truly rely on, before getting out of the car.

  Despite the luxurious suite, I hardly slept. I tossed and turned, unable to get the images of my face on someone else out of my mind.

  After reassuring my mother I hadn’t died in my sleep, I tried to spend the next day relaxing, as planned, but ended up working. It was the only way to keep my mind occupied.

  George had dropped a manila folder on my table over breakfast. It had taken him only a few hours to find out Toni’s full name—Antoinette Mathers—and to learn she was from Wisconsin, working at the Cottonmouth Inn, and living in an apartment above. But anything regarding why she looked like my carbon copy was going to take more time and effort than a simple background search. Especially considering I needed it done discreetly.

  Not knowing was driving me almost as crazy as the ludicrous plan starting to form in my mind. Maybe I could get more than just a few days of freedom before I married a man I didn’t love.

  One thing was certain—I still needed to speak to this Antoinette properly.

  Using the number in George’s report, I tried to call and text her a few times, but she didn’t answer. This was probably not a conversation to be had over the phone, but there were no etiquette rules for pursuing a dialogue with your body double. And I was running out of time.

  Tomorrow, I was due to arrive at Hazelgreen Manor to spend the month with Oren Charles Winthrop the third—my soon-to-be husband.

  I couldn’t really call it an arranged marriage. Oren and I were going into it with our eyes wide open, our decisions our own. Yes, our parents had helped set it up, but I was not being forced into anything. I may have been forcing myself to marry a man I didn’t love and had never met, but that was a different issue altogether.

  The alternative was to either do nothing or implement one of the other options we’d discussed and go bankrupt in twelve months instead of three. I refused to do that. I refused to be the Zamorano under whose watch a generations-old business ceased to exist.

  I deleted another email from a debt collector and sighed, slumping in my chair. Splashing and children’s laugher drifted up from the hotel pool and through my open window. It was a hot afternoon, and I wanted to go for a dip myself, but how could I rest when everything was such a damn mess?

  Zamorano Wines was one of the oldest vineyards in the country, established when my ancestors immigrated from Spain and settled in California. It had been passed on to me five years ago when my father died in a boating accident that nearly killed my mother and me.

  At twenty-two years old, I’d had no idea how to run a business that employed more than one hundred people and had a reputation the world over. My father had been grooming me to take over, but I was nowhere near ready when he passed. My mother had shared the burden while I finished my business degree and we mourned my father.

  I could point to a multitude of things that led to my family legacy teetering on the edge of destruction, but hindsight is twenty-twenty.

  Mostly it was a series of bad investments, some of which were in place even before my father took over the company, some of which I chose to take a chance on. Any investment was a risk, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. A bad crop, made even worse by a horrific storm that damaged half our vines, didn’t help.

  As we started to realize there was no way to save the company other than to take it public and sell the majority, my mother floated the idea of a marriage of convenience. It sounded insane at first—I mean, which century did she think we were in? But the more we discussed it, the more it became apparent it was the only way to save the business and keep it in the family.

  It wasn’t long before her brunches, benefits, tennis tournaments, and other high-society social engagements yielded a result.

  I closed the latest depressing financial report and opened the Internet browser, entering the name of my betrothed into the search bar. It was something I found myself doing several times per day, trying in vain to find some emotional connection to a man I’d never met.

  Oren was thirty years old, an eligible bachelor and poised to take over his family jewelry business. Just like us, they didn’t want their generations-old business to end up outside the family, but their problem wasn’t money. It was an archaic, ironclad clause in the company bylaws and family trust. The male heir had to be married before he could take over.

  Mr. Winthrop senior was getting old. Oren was already running the business for all intents and purposes, but he needed a wife to make it official. We’d get married; he’d inherit his family business and bail mine out. We both benefitted equally from the arrangement.

  It was the right thing to do. I was absolutely determined to get the business back on its feet. I couldn’t stand the thought of telling all our staff they were out of a job, couldn’t stand to see the sadness in my mother’s eyes.

  Realistically, I knew not all the blame sat on my shoulders, but I had contributed, and I felt responsible. I should’ve been able to avoid letting it get this far. If only I’d worked a little harder, was just a little smarter . . . I felt like I’d failed. I needed to prove to everyone, prove to myself, I was better than that.

  I could fix this.

  So why did it feel like I was marching to an open grave, ready to jump in and be suffocated by the tons of earth about to pile down on top of me?

  I got up and started to pace in front of the balcony.

  From the pictures I’d seen online, Oren was handsome in that classical way—auburn hair, square jaw, hazel eyes. He could have easily graced the cover of Esquire.

  We’d spoken on the phone a handful of times. He was polite, gracious, professional. I didn’t want to say cold; he wasn’t unyielding or mean. I just didn’t ever feel more than politeness between us.

  I groaned and sank into the couch, my knee beginning to bounce immediately. I guess a polite marriage is better than an abusive one. Oh lord! Is that the bar? As long as he’s not abusive, this is fine? There’s nothing fine about this!

  My heart threw itself against my ribcage as though trying to break free of my body, as desperate to get away as I was nervous to enter this arrangement. My breathing was getting shallower; my throat felt like someone had wrapped a gentle hand around it and begun to squeeze.

  I knew it wouldn’t let up.

  It hadn’t let up the night before, when I had to make George pull over so I could break down in a dirty alleyway.

  The panic attacks had started after my father died. I’d learned how to manage them for the most part, but they were getting worse and more frequent as the wedding day approached.

  There was no way out. I was stuck, tethered to the gravity of my own decisions.

  It had been such a long time since I hadn’t felt the overwhelming stress of a failing business, a family legacy, and so many livelihoods. I almost couldn’t remember what it felt like to be carefree. This was the only way, but I just wanted a break from it.

  Toni’s face—my face—popped into my head once more, providing just the distraction I needed to pull me out of my anxiety spiral.

  My Spanish heritage was responsible for my black hair, olive complexion, and curvaceous body. Where had Toni gotten her identical looks? As the myriad of possible explanations flew through my mind, I considered the possibility that my mother had another child. A difficult delivery meant she’d been unable to have any more children after I was born, but had she had one before? Although that didn’t fit either. George’s report showed that Toni and I had different dates of birth but definitely the same year.

  I couldn’t broach the subject with Mom—not until I had more information. She’d freak out and prob
ably demand I come home. I didn’t have time for that.

  Instead, I let myself wonder what her life must be like—working at a bar, no one to answer to, no one else’s life or legacy her responsibility. Of course she would have her own issues and stresses, just like everyone else, but they would be vastly different from mine. What did it say about me that I longed for someone else’s problems?

  I made myself take deep, measured breaths. I listened to the laughter of children below. I felt the fabric of the navy-blue couch under my hands.

  The panic attack receded.

  I leaned back and stared at the bright blue sky peeking in between the curtains.

  I had one more night before it was time to go to Hazelgreen Manor—one of many properties owned by the Winthrop family—and spend a month making the engagement look real before we were married another month after that.

  One more night of freedom.

  One more month before I went home to prepare for a wedding.

  For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine living Toni’s life, just leaving it all behind.

  What did it matter if I got to know Oren a little better? It wasn’t as if it would change anything. He’d be spending most of his time working anyway, overseeing the opening of a new flagship store in New Orleans.

  I chewed on my lip. The idea had sparked in the back of my mind as soon as I’d laid eyes on her, but I hadn’t really considered it properly. Now it was all I could think about, even as every practical, logical part of me warned that it was insane, dangerous, and stupid.

  George chose that moment to let himself into my suite.

  “Anything?” I asked, getting to my feet.

  “Not yet.”

  I sighed. I never pestered George for updates when I gave him a task. The man was more than competent; he’d tell me as soon as he had new information. “You saw it right? I’m not losing my mind?”

  His professional mask softened. “Yeah, Alexandria, I saw it. It was uncanny.”

  George wouldn’t lie to me. He’d more than proven he was willing to tell me the whole, awful truth no matter the situation. Even if it was hard to hear. Even if it meant he was bringing me news of a dead parent.