Body Jumping

by Brenda Lowder

  Aiden hands me a thick, fluffy gray towel. “I could get in with you, you know.” His eyes light up. “Help you wash your back?”

  “Not yet. But thanks.” I’m feeling way too self-conscious to attempt anything like that tonight. All I want is to get cleaned up so I don’t keep obsessing about it, and then get back out there to kiss him. And then see where else that will lead.

  Please let it lead someplace good.

  “I’ll see you in a minute.” I tilt up on my toes and kiss him on the cheek.

  “I’ll be waiting.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I laugh and push him out the door before closing and locking it.

  Things really are going well, and they’ll be just about perfect after a nice, hot shower and drying off with the fluffy towel. Maybe I’ll come out of the bathroom in just a towel. I bet I’ll look great in a towel. As Evie, am I brave enough?

  I unbutton my shirt, peel it off, and throw it on the floor. I unzip my skirt and let it follow. Natasha’s letter falls out and lands on the tiles with a little thwack.

  Natasha’s letter. How could I have forgotten?

  I scoop it up and stand there holding it, my hands shaking like an idiot. All night I’ve been waiting to read this thing. Here it is in my hands, and all I can do is tremble at the thought of opening it.

  Natasha seemed scared when she handed it to me. Scared and…what? There was something of the inexorable in her eyes. The undeniable. Like she had to give me this letter, even though she didn’t want to.

  What does it say?

  I sit down on the edge of the tub, the porcelain startlingly cold against the back of my thighs since I’m wearing only underwear. I look at the envelope.

  The outside is addressed to Natasha at her house wherein I briefly resided for a few hours. The envelope had been torn open with a letter opener. Inside is another envelope. It’s addressed by hand in Evie’s handwriting, but reads, “Give this letter to ‘Evie’,” followed by today’s date. And “Evie” is really in quotes. The hairs on my arms rise, and I shiver with a sudden chill. It’s like Evie knew she wasn’t going to be Evie when the letter got to her—me. Just like she somehow knew to address the other letter to me, Julianne. How did she know? How did she know I was going to be here?

  Dear Julianne,

  By now you’ve probably figured out that my life is pretty messed up. You may believe that I don’t deserve the life I was given. If you think that, then you’d be right. I don’t. Things started off better for me, a lot better. But life is hard. People either rise to the challenge or they fall. And I guess I’m falling. Tell Natasha I’m sorry. I think she always thought I was taking her down with me.

  You’re probably wondering how I know about you. The answer is that I don’t. Not really. Things come to me in bits and pieces, and it’s only later that I can tell what’s important and what’s not.

  One thing I’ve known for a very long time is that the end is coming for me. I have a feeling that you’re a sensitive person and will worry about this. Don’t. I’m fine. I’ve made my choices and que será, será. And I pretty much know what will be.

  What would you do if you knew how your life would end? Would you make decisions to try to fight it? Or would you give up, knowing that whatever choices you made or didn’t make would lead you there, so what’s the use in trying?

  Natasha hates me. And she hates you because she thinks you’re me. And the reason she hates me is very simple. It’s because I can see the future.

  In the beginning she thought they were fairy tales. It was funny at first, having a little sister who told such crazy stories. Daddy’s got a secret girlfriend. Mommy’s going to leave us. But when they started happening, she blamed me. It started when I was seven, and it’s never stopped.

  I stopped talking about it, of course, but when there was something big, something scary, I’d warn Natasha in a way that wasn’t straight-out telling her, and she’d still resent it. She hated me. Like I’d been responsible for our parents’ divorce, our mother leaving us. I think deep down she knew it wasn’t my fault, but it was easier to blame me. I was a freak. She couldn’t explain me. So she was afraid. And I guess it’s pretty traumatic for someone to be afraid of her younger sister all her life. You might say you can’t have a normal sisterly bond after that.

  Do I sound bitter? Maybe I am. Maybe I want a second chance at my life. Maybe I don’t deserve one. I don’t know.

  But that brings me to you. There’s stuff going on for you, too, Julianne. I don’t know exactly how our lives will overlap, but in my head, I keep seeing that I’m no longer me and that somehow you are. I see you trapped inside me, with me unable to help you or talk to you and you unable to get out.

  When you were little, did you ever have trouble thinking about how you would be, what kind of person you would be, when you grew up? Before I started seeing the future, I used to think about future-me and think that when I got there, I wouldn’t be me anymore. Some smarter, better Evie would come along and tap me on the shoulder and say, “It’s okay, you can go. I’m here to take over now.”

  But growing up, I was always me. Until you.

  I don’t pretend to know how it works or why this could possibly be happening. There’s strange stuff in the world. If this is possible, then the world is big enough to hold the strangeness of you being a tourist in my body.

  Have you been to others?

  Maybe you don’t want to get out. Maybe you think it’s good to hide. But Julianne, I’ve seen stuff. More than I could ever write. And I want to tell you that people need you. Out there. The real you. And you shouldn’t be afraid to be yourself. Not like I’ve been. I see Laurel and the love you have for each other. She needs you. You need to figure out a way to be there for her.

  Maybe I can help. When I picture you in my body, in my life, I sense that you’re frustrated. That you don’t know how to get out. But this is what I need to tell you—you can’t. You can’t just by trying. Were you able to get into my body by trying? Anyone else’s you may have been along the way? No. What you need to do is to stop trying to be someone else—and I’m not talking about stopping being me—I’m saying that even in yourself you won’t be yourself. You need to stop hiding. You need to live. You need to do the things that you are meant to do on this earth. Some of those things, for some crazy out-of-this-world reason, you need to do as me.

  Go. Live. Be real. Be true to yourself about who you are and what you want and stop hiding. Life is for living. When you’ve done what you’ve been drawn here to do, you’ll move on. But not until you do what you’re supposed to do.

  I wish I could have known you.

  Evie

  I let the letter fall from my hand. My head is spinning.

  So Evie was some kind of psychic. She’d seen me and known I was going to take over her body. I feel so guilty. So wrong. Like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Only so, so much worse.

  But Evie could see the future. And no, I’m not going to question that for a second. If the world is astonishing enough that jumping into other people’s bodies is possible, then being able to see the future doesn’t seem like much of a stretch.

  An irritating thought scrapes at the edges of my mind. Evie’s goodbye in the letter sounds a lot like she thought she’d be dead when I read it.

  There’s a knock on the door, and I jump. “You okay in there?” Aiden asks.

  I turn on the bathtub faucet. “Fine!” I yell over the water. “Be out in a few minutes.”

  I pick up the letter and fold it along its original folds, tuck it back into both of its envelopes, and place it on top of my clothes. The shower water has warmed up so I finish undressing and get in. As the hot water runs over me and soothes my tired muscles, I think about Evie and me and Aiden.

  What should I do?

  The only thing I really can do right now is follow Evie’s advice. She seems to know more about my situation than I do. So I need to figure out why I’m here. How my being E
vie in this point in time could help the world.

  Oh no. Am I supposed to save the world?

  I stop myself from huddling in the corner of the shower and crying. Surely I’m not expected to save the world. At the minimum, that would require some kind of military training, right?

  Maybe I’m just supposed to do something that Evie couldn’t for herself.

  That list is actually pretty long.

  What does Evie need help with? Well, she could stop hooking, stop stripping, stop doing drugs, get an upstanding-citizen-type job, get a better place to live where drug dealers don’t show up and try to kill and/or assault people. For a start.

  But in my gut, I know all of those things are superficial problems, only the symptoms of the real things that are broken in Evie. I don’t feel like I’m familiar with her life deeply enough to know what the real things are, but I do feel like I know a good place to start.

  Natasha.

  Evie’s relationship with her sister barely exists. There’s so much hurt and history there.

  And I know something about tough sister relationships.

  If I can reach out to Natasha, help heal the rift between them, then maybe I’ll have accomplished what I’ve been sucked into Evie’s body to do.

  And that’s another thing about Evie’s body. I might be reading between the lines here, but I think Evie’s letter is telling me to make myself at home. To make the decisions that I, myself, would make in my own body.

  Which means I can have Aiden if I want him.

  And I really, really want him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  When I get out of the shower, I have a bit of a freak-out when I remember I don’t have any other clothes to put on. But the naked truth is that Evie’s body looks good in anything so I wrap one of Aiden’s fluffy gray towels around me and walk out of the bathroom with my head held high.

  Aiden is standing in his bedroom. He drops his phone when he sees me. I smile and lean in the open doorway.

  “You busy?” I ask.

  “Not anymore. I think I just hung up on Stacy.” He picks up his phone from the floor, but his eyes barely leave me. I feel my skin heat under his gaze.

  “How’s Jacob doing?”

  “He’s good. Really good.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “He really liked you, you know.”

  “Really?” I’m surprised by how welcome this bit of news is. For as short a time as I’ve spent with Jacob, I really like him too. He’s strong and brave. He’s facing challenges, but without an excess of attitude or a martyr complex.

  Aiden takes a few steps forward. “Not like I do, of course.”

  “Yes, let’s hope not.” I clasp the top of my towel with my hand, making sure it stays closed. “Wait. You like me?” My mouth curves into a smile. I suspect he does, of course, but I’d love to hear it confirmed. Over and over again.

  He moves closer, but we’re not touching. It’s almost like there’s an invisible force field around me, one he doesn’t quite want to breach. Is his reluctance part of the whole he’s-technically-my-boss thing?

  I don’t know, but I know he doesn’t need to keep this distance. In fact, I really wish he wouldn’t. But if it’s up to me to make the first move, I suppose I’m uniquely positioned to do so. I’ve never been more confident in my appearance before in my life.

  I pull my towel off and let it drop to the floor. I don’t watch it go, but instead stare boldly into Aiden’s eyes. His mouth falls open, and his pupils dilate to what must be twice their usual size.

  “Good Lord,” he murmurs under his breath.

  He won’t stop staring so I walk forward the last three steps until I’m up against his chest. I start undoing his buttons. He smiles and blushes as he looks down at me, and I secretly thrill at my brazenness. He has no idea that this is novel for me. Completely out of character. Because he doesn’t know me, of course. And I don’t know me—not really. Because I’ve never been Evie before. And I’m different as her.

  Aiden finally snaps into action and helps me dispense with his shirt, which he wads up and tosses across the room impatiently. He winds his arms around me and kisses me until I think I’ll faint from lack of oxygen. Or I’ll have a stroke from the amount of blood that’s suddenly pumping its way at lightning speed all through my body. He kisses my neck, and I moan. He laughs and does it again.

  Not satisfied with his teasing, I tug at his waistband until I find his belt buckle and start undoing it clumsily. On purpose. So I can touch him through his pants. It’s his turn to moan, and he catches my hand in his and pauses for a moment, breathing heavily. I tilt my head at him with a sly smile. He kisses my hand before pulling me flush against his firm chest.

  He runs his fingers down my back and nuzzles my neck, kissing under my ear. I whimper with pleasure and want so much more. I tug at the pants I haven’t yet succeeded in removing. He laughs and finally takes them off.

  He looks fantastic in his black cotton boxer briefs, but I only have a second to notice before he’s propelling me backward onto the satiny silver comforter that tops his king-sized bed. I land with a giggle, and he’s over me, smiling, seeing someone who bears no resemblance to the person I’ve always been. And should be.

  I lean up and kiss him anyway.

  ∞∞∞

  I wake up and for a minute wonder where I am. The oversized red numbers of the alarm clock’s digital display look aggressively masculine, and I remember I’m in Aiden’s apartment, and we had sex last night.

  And I’m not me.

  It’s funny how I forget sometimes.

  Aiden’s still asleep. He’s on his back with his arms above his head. I recall reading about sleep positions in some magazine that this means he’s open to the world, secure and happy with his place in it. He doesn’t have any secrets.

  But I do.

  I wonder at my chances of being able to sneak out of the room without waking him. I’d love to make him breakfast. Last night was amazing. He was passionate and so sexy and everything I wanted him to be and more. And the more was because of me. I was so confident, so unworried about my physical shortcomings and insecurities because I clearly don’t have them anymore, and it was all just, well, wonderful.

  And now I’d like to cement that wonderful with a home-cooked meal, which my mother always claimed was the only real way to a man’s heart.

  And I’d like to prove to myself that our bond is more than physical because I can’t really take any credit for that part, can I?

  “Hey.” He’s smiling up at me through drowsy eyes, not seeming at all alarmed that I’ve been hovering over him, staring as he’s slept.

  “Hey,” I say, and snuggle down under the covers.

  He pulls me close until his arm is around me, and I’m resting on his muscularly defined chest with my head tucked under his chin. This is nice, I think, as I breathe in the smell of his skin and feel his chest hair tickling my cheek. And I’m trying to ignore the ache in the pit of me—the part that is really and truly Julianne—that these gripping feelings of love and acceptance, of belonging and contentment, are soul-piercingly temporary.

  What am I going to do? It’s way too early for any kind of relationship talk. I don’t even know if this is a relationship. Eight months of handing him his coffee—that he doesn’t know about—one date, one trip to the hospital, and a one-night stand. This is not the time to ask him if he loves me for my soul or for Evie’s body.

  Not to mention that no man in his right mind would use the word “love” to describe this, even without all the other problems.

  How long does it take for a man to really and truly fall in love with you, to recognize you, soul to soul, regardless of your outer appearance? Maybe even contrary to?

  Longer than I’ve got.

  I sit up and pull away.

  His eyes had drifted shut again, but now they pop open. “No, don’t get up yet.” He smiles and tugs on my arm. “We still have time. We don’t have to be
at the restaurant yet.”

  I want nothing more than to stay with him and spend every possible second I can touching him and breathing him and living this fantasy I’m perpetrating.

  Which is why I have to go.

  “Sorry, I can’t stay. I have things to do.” I avoid looking at his eyes because the half-glance I get of them shows me a hurt I don’t want to see.

  “Okay,” he says and swallows, and I feel even worse. I realize he doesn’t think we’re close enough for him to argue with me to stay.

  I throw on my dirty clothes, grab my purse, and manage to order an Uber and leave the apartment without looking back.

  ∞∞∞

  I go home to change and find Barclay camped out on the couch in the living room when I get there.

  “What’d you do with Julianne?” he hollers the moment I walk through the door.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re walking in the door at nine a.m. wearing the same clothes you left in yesterday. Something’s obviously wrong.” He starts yelling. “Evie! Evie, if you can hear me, what happened to Julianne?”

  I round the corner of the sofa and make a motion for him to move his legs so I can sit. With a grudging look, he moves over three inches, and I sink onto the cushions and partially on him.

  “I’m still me,” I say.

  “Me who?”

  “Julianne.”

  “Bitch, you’re not acting like it.”

  “I know.” I sigh. After a minute Barclay kicks my leg.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Well, if you’re still Julianne, then you were out all night up to something.” He drops the critical act and rubs his hands together. “Tell me everything you did with Aiden. Everything. Leave out no detail, from the moment you sucked his pinkie toe to the number of times he chewed your hair.”