by Didi Oviatt
It takes a couple of tries to swallow the lump in my throat as familiar face number one drops to one knee. He holds a velvet box in the air, containing a shiny rock on a silver ring. It’s pointed in the direction of familiar face number two. Only number two isn’t familiar because I know her. She’s familiar because she looks exactly like me.
We have identical neon-green eyes that stand out from a distance. Her lips peek in the exact fashion as my own. Her hair is long, thick, and black, spilling over one shoulder untamed. The likeness of this woman and myself makes me a little dizzy.
I watch them closely, completely oblivious to Dorothy and the party I should be mentally attending, but I can’t. My mind is racing, until it stops and the only comprehensive thought in my brain is, no fucking way! My doppelganger cries, nods her head, and lets the man slip the shiny ring on her finger. Then he pulls himself up, engulfing her into a hug and a spin.
As soon as her feet touch back to the floor, he lifts his glass into the air, looks right over to our side of the conference center, and allows his handsome gaze to land on mine. Our eyes lock instantly. Time stands still long enough that if it were a pond, it’d likely grow stagnant. I freeze in place, molding into my chair; the air is stuck in my lungs. He smiles as big as Superman . . . mission accomplished. Then he winks at me before handing his attention, and life, back to his new fiancé.
An old man at their table stands to give them each a hug. His deep, aged voice carries into the quiet of their crowd, just loud enough for me to hear the words from our side of the event center.
“Welcome to our family, Mac.”
Chapter Three
Despite the delicious scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls that Lucy just pulled from the oven, nausea sweeps through me. A salty line of cold sweat beads are forming on the upper outline of my top lip. It’s been a week since Dad’s party, and the queasy feeling returns to my body every time I recall the haunting wink I got from Mac after he proposed to that woman who looks exactly like me. His words from that day at the Amtrak station ring over and over in my ears. “Trust me; I have a thing about faces. Especially pretty, detailed ones like yours.”
In the far corner, opposite the restrooms, I sit and stew. The screen from my laptop stares at me, taunting me. Multiple tabs are pulled up. The one and only tab I should be focused on leads to nothing but a blank document, absent the writing that I aspire to do. I couldn’t concentrate in my apartment this morning, so here I am.
I dread the inevitable day when I find myself out of cash, as that day is rapidly approaching. I really do want nothing more than to produce something, anything, but I’m grasping at straws. My notebook of fictional killers based on real people sits off to the side of my PC’s keyboard, splayed out and flipped through a hundred times over. Yet, not a word of it has been transformed into anything useful or novel-worthy.
After pissing around on the internet for a couple of hours this morning, mostly on one particular site that has nothing to do with my own writing, I thought food might help. My kitchen is usually empty, aside from a few packages of twenty-five-cent processed noodles in a styrofoam cup and a couple of fat-free yogurts that will likely expire before they’re eaten. I found myself tucking my PC into a backpack and making my way to Airington’s, as usual.
One of the perks of having the family business is that it provides an endless supply of free food. For the most part, I’ve spent years trying to pace myself with this delicious convenience. Lately, I couldn’t care less about the sugar and carbs. I’m broke, so screw it. Who cares if I wind up with a few more pounds in the mid-section? There’s no one to impress. As long as my stomach doesn’t grow any bigger than my rear end, I’ll cope. Free food is free food, so you won’t hear a complaint from me.
I let my teeth sink into the delicious edge of a glazed donut and continue to stare at all the open tabs across the top of my screen. One in particular is calling to me. It’s the same webpage I’ve spent most of the week memorizing. It’s one that Madge’s granddaughter, the vodka smuggling caterer, pointed me to. She watched my face practically fold from a few tables away, while topping off a glass of sparkling cider. Apparently, the girl’s an observant little sneak, bless her heart.
I pull the business card she’d slipped me from out of my back pocket and read over the note she’d plastered on the blank side:
A friend of my grandma is a friend of mine. We both know she doesn’t have many. I noticed the look on your face when your twinner got engaged. Hope this helps.
I read the words over a few times, your twinner, your twinner, your twinner. I knew I wasn’t crazy for seeing the resemblance. I don’t understand how it’s possible. I flip the card over to its top side and rub my thumb across Mac’s face. MacConall’s Marketing Management, the card reads. His real name is actually Mackenzie MacConall. What the shit kind of name is that, anyway? No wonder he goes by Mac. The business name on the card is followed by a main business website, a couple phone numbers, and a slew of social media links. I shake my head and let out an exasperated breath of air.
I shove the card back into my pocket and force my attention to its rightful place on the computer. The temptation of that one particular open tab shouts out at me. One of my hands soon begins to drum its fingers on the table, while the other rubs its sweaty palm on my jeans. I can’t take it. Just one more look, and then I’ll exit out of this site for good.
The tab is clicked on, and their faces are instantly staring back at me, with a quote from the alluring Mac himself:
“MacConnall Marketing Management will soon be expanding the family business. Two families joining together. Because that is what we are as a business . . . family.” – Mac
Who in the actual shit uses a marriage engagement as an advertisement tool? And for a marketing business? Takes a real lack of couth to be so bold. It seems a little tacky for my taste. I pulled this site up that very night the second I got home. The couple’s photo was already there, as well as Mac’s cheesy line. The photo was clearly taken by a professional in a time when the mountains in the background were still tipped with snow.
That had to have been at least two months ago. Yet, the engagement ring on her finger catches the light of the sun just enough to prove that their entire episode that night was for show. Surprised, happy tears and a fairytale twirl, my ass. Well played Mac, well played, but I’m onto your lie.
Granted, I’ve only spoken to him once, but I wouldn’t have taken him for a phony. Invasive, yes . . . irritating, absolutely. But a phony? I never saw it coming. If it wasn’t for his new fiancé looking like my double, I’d have forgotten about the entire coincidence of his engagement coinciding with Dad’s party. Forgotten entirely about Mac altogether. But because of her, I can’t.
Now here I am, obsessing over their photo. His words still bouncing in and out of my head like a kid’s bouncy ball. His wink still haunting my thoughts. Even his smell keeps randomly assaulting my nostrils. Perhaps I imagined it, but I swear the woman pumping gas next to me last night had to use the same detergent he does.
Before I can close out the tab, Lucy plops herself onto the heavily-padded, round bench next to me. I didn’t see her walking over. I was too consumed by the engagement photo of Mac and his lady. I fumble my fingers around, trying to navigate the mouse to that tiny ‘x’ in the corner. It does no good. She’s already seen what I’m looking at. Any further action would only draw more attention to myself. I’m thoroughly busted.
“Hey, you know that guy?” she asks, a pointer jabbing at his face.
“Nope.” It’s only kind of a lie.
“Ooooohhhhhh.”
A lone wrinkle forms at the top of Lucy’s pulled-up nose. She moves her face a little closer to inspect the lucky lady in Mac’s arms. He’s draped over the woman’s back like a comfort blanket.
“Wow, do you know her? I didn’t realize Mac had a girl. She looks exactly like you . . . weird.”
Words catch in the back of my throat. I don’t
even know where to start. Should I answer her question, lash out about the girl, or inquire exactly how she knows Mac? It can’t be coincidence, the way his name rolled so casually off of her tongue.
Lucy leans back in her chair and takes a long sip of her cappuccino. Her pretty, ocean-blue eyes fixated on my face, waiting for a response. I follow suit, taking a sip of my own hot beverage, letting my silence speak for itself.
“You looking for a marketing firm?” she asks; a smile plays at the corner of her lips.
I can feel my ears darken in a blush. I shrug and continue to stare at them, refusing to let Lucy see my face full on.
“I’m on break,” she continues, “and I have nothing to do for the next fifteen minutes until that buzzer sounds to tell me my apple pie is finished.”
“What’s your point?”
“You can ignore me all day, but embarrassment is written all over that cutsie, little face of yours.” She waves a wild finger in the air as if to prove a point. “I think I’ll just sit here until you crack.”
I sigh and drop my chin to my chest. A sure sign of surrender. Lucy is the closest thing to a friend that I have, besides Tim and Madge. She’s sweet, fun, and easy to talk to. But she’s relentless. Positively the most nosy girl I’ve ever met. It isn’t always a bad thing because she forces me out of my introverted shell. But it’s days like today that I crave her silence just as much as I do her companionship.
I can’t bear to open my mouth and say the words, yet I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want to shout about how I don’t know him, but I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t get his face out of my head.
I want to break down and tell her that the last time I was obsessed over two single humans, I was sixteen and I killed the girl in my sleep. I want to tell her about the way Tim came to my rescue that night. He drove our Dad’s car after having snuck it out of the garage. I want to cry and beg and demand answers about the woman with my face. Who is this bitch that’s engulfed in Mac’s arms?
“You know Mac?” I finally croak, still refusing to look over.
“Not really, but yeah, I guess. He’s been coming in every morning this week. Ever since he heard of the place.”
I nod to myself, connecting the dots while she continues.
“I guess sharing an event center wasn’t all bad. If nothing else, it brought us in new customers.”
“Hmmm.”
“Your turn.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, knowing exactly what she’s referring to.
Lucy leans forward into my space and grins before nudging my leg. She looks like an adorable puppy ready to chase a ball.
“What’s with the blush?” she beams. Then her smile fades to accompany the grim lowering of her brows. “And who is that girl?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“You don’t know about the blush? Or the girl?”
“Either?”
I tilt my head to the side, asking myself Lucy’s same questions. What is with the blush, and who is this girl? The sound of Lucy’s playful chuckle is a needle prick to my eardrums. It’s all I can do not to wince.
“You know, I’ve seen him at the mall too,” she hints, “twice this week.”
“So?”
“Soooooo, I just thought you might like to know that piece of information.”
“Why would I care about some stranger’s shopping habits?”
“Why are you stalking his business page?”
This batting back and forth is pointless. A part of me knows that Lucy won’t stop until she has some sort of answer to scratch that itchy curiosity of hers. So, I decide to give her something.
“I met him at the Amtrak station.” I finally crack. “Then all of the sudden, out of nowhere, he shows up at that conference center, and I watch him propose to some girl that looks exactly like me.”
Lucy’s eyes widen and her lips part as she listens. She’s clearly intrigued. I’m not surprised at all to the fact that she’s instantly formulated a plan . . . for me.
“You know what this means, right?”
“No. But, I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“We have to follow him! Like spies.”
This makes no sense, but I’ll play along. Whatever she is plotting might just get me some sort of answers too. Her motive could be rooted from her nosy tendencies, or even boredom, who knows. Either way, I could use the help in getting my own itch scratched. Plus, it’ll give Lucy a project outside of trying to talk me into dinner dates that I can’t afford with random guys I’ve never met and have no interest in holding conversations with.
So the plan sets in motion. Lucy and I agree that we have to find out why Mac has recently moved his business from Florida to Michigan, as the website states. We also have to find out why his fiancé looks so much like me, and why he’s so interested in this particular bakery. More importantly, why exactly can’t I stop obsessing over him? Lucy is animated, wanting me to follow him around like some sneaky fool. I insist on a more practical approach. Something a little less obvious, and a little more productive.
“Why don’t I just come here a little earlier than usual? You said he’s been stopping in every morning, right?”
“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes.
“So can’t I just casually run into him and have a normal conversation? Like a normal human?”
Lucy sighs. She’s let down but compliant nonetheless.
“You’re boring, but I guess you’re right.”
“How is being normal boring?” I ask with a chuckle.
“For one, you’re not normal. For two, don’t you think he’s going to lie anyway? I mean, I don’t know about you, but I really think spying will be much more productive.”
“Why would he lie?” I ask.
Lucy always thinks people are hiding things, and she’s completely fascinated by it. She’s the only person who knows about my daydreams and murder notes who doesn’t judge me for it. Aside from Tim, that is. Her energy is buzzing, and she leans forward for a more intense effect on our conversation. Her eyes are wide, both hands are cupping her coffee as if she prays to it, and her knee bounces ever so slightly from her nervous foot on the floor.
“There has to be something you’re not telling me. And just look at his girl. She’s your double, Ahnia! This whole thing is sketchy. I can feel it.”
“Just like you could feel the Trump and Clinton conspiracy, right?”
“Hey, that shit is real.”
Lucy’s eyes grow even wider, and she playfully looks over her shoulder. I sense my own eyes smiling from my cheeks, and I purse my lips together to stifle my reaction to her ridiculousness.
“Okay, okay. He did compliment my features and mention having a thing for faces. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“I knew it!” She huffs. “I told you, he’s hiding something. Who says that kind of shit to a woman who looks exactly like his wife-to-be?”
“He also said he went to a writing conference years ago, yet he’s in marketing.”
We’re both buried in our own thoughts, overthinking things. Lucy tends to have that effect. Talk about the ultimate over-analyzer. The sound of Lucy’s oven timer snaps us back. She jumps to her feet, takes one more sip of her coffee, and then shoots me a seriously penetrating stare.
“Tomorrow morning, seven o’clock.”
“Seven, really?”
I groan at the thought of it. I never roll my lazy ass out of bed before ten, ever. I don’t have a job or kids to force such an action. Chirpy, morning people drive me batty, and it seems Lucy is the leader of the morning person pack.
“Seven!” Lucy repeats the time while pointing a finger in my personal space, again.
“Fine,” I mumble.
I watch Lucy disappear into the kitchen, leaving me to my thoughts. If she were ever to kill someone, she’d probably tie them up and torture them, demanding some sort of answers to a conspiracy before finishing them off.
&nbs
p; As usual, she’s managed to change everything with a single conversation. I force myself to close out the tab on my computer. I suppose she’s right. It’s time to stop obsessing, and take action. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.
I scarf down the rest of my donut and gulp the last of my beverage in one swallow before aimlessly flipping through the pages in my notebook for the thousandth time. Much like before Lucy’s intrusion, I have no inspiration. No worthwhile storyline comes to my immediate attention.
It doesn’t do me any more good today than it did yesterday, or even the day before to flip through these worthless notes. I have to get out of this place and away from Lucy before she’s officially off the clock. Lord knows what will happen if she makes a second attempt at talking me into a trip to the mall.
My phone comes to life with a call. It moves across the table like an inchworm with its vibration. I continue shoving my notebook into my pack. I don’t need to look at the screen to know who’s calling. Douglas, my financial advisor, is the only person I’ve set with a ring tone of such doom and gloom as Beethoven's finest.
He was a friend of my mom’s as a kid, which is the only reason he’s stuck with me for this long. Guilt can be milked out much further than practically any other emotion. Or so I’ve learned over the years of dragging Douglas along.
“Shit,” I mumble loud enough for only myself to hear.
Douglas has been trying to get ahold of me for weeks, and I’ve blown him off. He even went as far as to stop by my apartment. I’m sure he heard me walking around inside, but when I saw it was him out the peephole of the door, I held my breath and froze in place. I waited there like a statue, imagining my feet as being a concrete block on the floor. I even tried not to breathe until he gave up and left. It worked, but I can only avoid the persistent old number-cruncher for so long. His calls have progressed from once every couple of weeks to just about every day now.
