The Double

𝒯𝓌𝑜

The next day is terrible. Nope. Hideous, horrid, and hateful.

Omo, there are a lot of negative H words. I wonder why that is? It's heinously horrendous.

Here's another: You better hold it together and handle your shit because you need the money. A two for one.

Ben punishes me for calling in sick yesterday by ripping my proposal to shreds in front of he rest of the team, then tells Ricky to take it over and do it right. The other men don't seem to notice but Rosa, the admin assistant, gives me a pitying pout.

I ignore her look, put on a neutral face, and pretend it doesn't bother me. It's better to keep my head down than to protest; experience has taught me the only consequence of reminding Ben he signed off on that proposal tow days ago will be negative. For me.

The day drags and I finally leave at seven after the office empties. According to my new task list—I've gone back to basics with a pen and paper—I should go to the gym and do the laundry I didn't do yesterday. Instead I drop off my bag, pull out my sneakers, and start an aimless walk around the neighborhood. The summer sun hasn't yet dropped behind the horizon, so I decide it's safe enough to go on the running trail built along the train tracks near my place. It's busy and I wind around a kid learning to inline skate and dodge a group of serious cyclist guys in bright shirts and black shorts. Apparently the Tour de France has made a detour through Orange county—how nice.

I try to relax but the toxic mess in my brain infiltrates me body and I stare hard at a man strolling by with gigantic silver headphones. His face is so punchable that my hand curls into a fist.

The lawyer told me I need to get proof about ben's behavior, but how? even if I could outwit him, not only is he a vice president, but his dad is golf buddies with the CEO. And Garcia Brothers Investments isn't the most feminist organization out there. I bet even a dick pic would only get a "Boys will be boys," and Ben's smart enough to not say or do anything that I can call out specifically. Standing too close? Feeling uncomfortable? I was reading into the situation, end of story. The pay is also better than anywhere else I've looked so I'm stuck. Between Eomma's private room and saving for the new home, I've burned through all the cash I'd managed to put away.

I stop abruptly, causing a runner to shout "Hey" and shoot me a dirty look as they swerve to miss me. The walk should have calmed me—nature, outside, exercise, all that—but I want to scream. I'll go to bed. A solid night's sleep will get rid of this itchiness inside my skin.

By the time I reach my street, I'm almost in a daze as worry circulates through my brain. Eomma. Work. Eomma. Money. Work. Ben.

As I wonder what it would be like to walk and walk and keep walking forever, a glossy black SUV pulls up close enough to make me jump to the side. This is not the kind of car that usually comes by my street, which tops out at a Lexus owned by the dentist five doors down. I automatically takes three safe steps back to put me out of snatching range and am off the sidewalk and on the grass staring warily when the car door opens.

"Suzy Prime?" A very familiar face looks out and I gawk.

It's familiar because, except for her long, lustrous strands—like a shampoo ad or Susan Bae strolling down Blossom Street on her way to meet her romantic destiny—this woman is my doppelganger. We have the same face shape with a U-shaped chin and similar rounded dark eyes, except I know mine are shadowed with fatigue and hers are simply elegantly shadowed. her skin is dewy and fresh. I may look dewy, but I certainly do not look fresh.

"Wow," I say, looking at her. "I have to know, are you a bartender on the Anaheim? People are always telling me my double works in some bar in the West End."