The Double

𝒩𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓃

I make an effort with Duna. I'm not comfortable talking to her about her mental health straight on, but one night when she comes over, I mention that I forgot to take my medication and let her see me swallow a pill.

"Are you sick?" she asks with concern.

I try to respond casually. "I have depression and panic attacks. These SSRIs help calm me down because they adjust my brain chemistry."

Her eyes widen. "What?"

"I've had it a long time, but I only started dealing with it a couple of years ago," I say. "It was hard for me to admit I needed help." Try excruciating, but I'm trying to make it sound easier for Duna, like this is something she can do."

She doesn't reply for a moment, then says, "I'd like to go for a walk."

I take the hint. "You should. Fresh air is good."

"I don't know the city very well. I get driven everywhere."

"Let's go together," I say suddenly. "We'll go to a shitty dive bar where no one will expect ou. You can wear my clothes."

She looks torn. "I'm not sure it's a good idea. Someone might get a photo."

I think. "What if we get ready and you take a look at yourself? We won't go unless you're comfortable."

Duna looks out at the dark night through the window. "It'll be hard to see my face on the street," she says as if convincing herself.

I pull a pair of jeans and a tank top out of my drawer. "Here."

She grins and walks away with the clothes. When she comes back fve minutes later, I have to laugh. She's added a belt, tied the shirt with a small knot, and added heels. She looks fantastic.

"Close." I shirt the shirt into a messy French stuck and give her a pair of my flat sandals and a hat. "No makeup."

"Not even lipstick?"

"Use this." It's a tinted lip balm.

When we stand side by side, we look almost like sisters, but there's no way an average person will mistake the slight ponytailed and bare-faced woman in the ball cap for a film star, at least not in Orange County. "Looks good to me," I say.

"Let's do it." She has a pink flush on her cheeks. "We'll wander around with a coffee from the Starbucks."

"I'll go down first and wait for you outside the lobby doors, just in case," I say. "The lobby's the worst part for people watching who's coming in and out."

Duna nods as she tales the little cross-body bag I give her. With my bangs covering most of my face and minimal makeup I look like no one in particular, so I walk through the lobby without an issue. Duna joins me and we hit the streets.

I decide to ditch the dive bar idea and take her up Anakiemm Street, which is only a few minutes from the hotel. I tap in our coffee orders for the mobile pickup, and soon Duna is living the dream of sipping a decaf Americano as she walks up a dirty sidewalk. Since it's summer, there are people milling around, and except for a guy who walks in front of us to say, "Hubba-hubba," Duna is thrilled to discover no one gives a shit who she is.

"What is it like for you back home?" I ask. "Can you walk around like this?"

She shakes her head so hard her hat falls off. "I have a driver and security."

"Even to go to the store?"

Duna waves her coffee at me. "I don't go to the store. It's not safe for me or people around me. I get mobbed."