Page 16 of What If It's You?

I moved over to the large gold-rimmed circle, eyes narrowing and mouth hanging open as I confirmed that yes, this was my face. I pressed a hand to my cheek, turning back and forth to really take myself in. I looked mostly the same—the pale skin of an inveterate indoor kid, the hooded blue eyes so like my mother’s—except for the severe dark bob framing my face.

And I hadbangs. I hadn’t had bangs since the third grade, when I’d had to beg my mom to let me grow my hair out, desperately jealous of the girls who could pull their hair up into what I’d then felt were moresophisticatedstyles.

I tugged at the ends of my hair—sharp along my jaw, even just after waking up—half expecting it to come off like a wig. For years I’d worn my hair the same way—long layers, leaning into my natural waves with a carefully curated array of products, highlighting the caramel color in summer and lowlighting it in fall. This haircut wasn’t bad—it was flattering, actually, in atakes no prisonerskind of way. But it was so much moreintensethan what I was used to, not least in its uniform near-black hue. Blinking a few times, I forced myself to look away from my reflection. I only had so much time before Drew emerged from the bathroom, after all.

I pulled open one of the dresser drawers at random—boxer briefs and men’s socks. The one next to it was stuffed with silky panties and bras, many of them clearly sets, the sort of thing I theoretically aspired to owning but never bothered to spend my ample paychecks on.

Except apparently Idid. In this world, at least.

The other drawers were similarly split, the majority filled with clothes that must belong to me but weren’t familiar—silk blousesand delicate cashmere sweaters, luxury-brand jeans and well-tailored…really, the only word for them wasslacks. It looked sort of like my current work wardrobe, but marginally more adult, and significantly more expensive.

“What was it about?” Drew’s voice was muffled by the bathroom door. I slammed the drawer I’d been sifting through—one of his, filled with neatly folded identical T-shirts in a range of neutral tones. Was it possible that Drew wasalsodifferent in this world? In my mind he wore a lot more logo shirts than this, his wardrobe generally hewing to the “hoodies and jeans” vibe that seemed to be de rigueur in coding circles. This waslikethat, but again…a little fancier, a little more streamlined. But then…look at where helived. Clearly this Drew, different or not, had his shit together in a serious way.

“What was what about?” I said, turning over a gigantic jack on the dresser, apparently solid metal, given the heft of it.What was this for?

I moved back to my underwear drawer and tugged it open just before his face appeared around the edge of the bathroom door.

“The dream. You said you had a really vivid dream?”

“Oh, umm…” Well, shit. Did I just…make something up? Mention one of the recurring “shoeless for some reason in a really gross public bathroom” dreams that had been my anxiety staple since high school? It didn’t seem like that would disorient me enough that I’d need to know thedate.

Might as well go with the truth.Or at least a version of it. The longer I stayed here, examining my underwear options, the harder it was to believe this life wasn’t fullyreal.

“I had like…a whole other life.” I glanced over my shoulder at him, flashing a pained smile. He was wearing the focused look I knew so well. The familiarity of it reassured me somehow. “Different apartment, different clothes, different…person,” I said, worried that even this slim reference to another partner would set something off—Ollie had never been particularly jealous, but Drewmight be. Maybe even a sex dream would bother him. The fact that the “dream” was in fact myentire actual lifewasn’t something I planned to mention—that might shift the needle on anyone’s overall jealousy levels. Luckily, Drew’s apparently fell somewhere below the “I feel threatened by what I reasonably believe to be your subconscious” threshold, as he just nodded, thoughtful.

“It all felt so real, when I woke up it was almost like I was in the wrong place for a minute,” I finished with a shrug.

“I’ve had dreams like that,” he said, gaze going distant, then shrugged and exhaled audibly. “Probably all that talk about AltR last night put it in your head.”

“Sorry?” My hand was suspended over the underwear drawer, breath held, my entire being trapped in amber.

“My project at work? The one I’ve been killing myself over for upwards of a year? Youwerepaying attention, weren’t you?” Drew’s voice had tightened slightly, not quite annoyed yet, but staring over the precipice of it, ready to jump.

“AltR, right.” I exhaled a laugh that sounded painfully fake in my ears. “Sorry, I thought you said…potterfor some reason. I was like ‘Is he seriously suggesting ceramics classes?’ ”

Dear god there was no way he wouldn’t see through that.

“Nope! That could be fun, though. I bet you’d be good at it, too, you’re so creative.” When I turned he was grinning again. “I’m so glad we can finally talk about AltR, it’s been weird having this huge part of my life that I couldn’t discuss with you at all,” he said, moving back into the bathroom. “And we’ve just scratched the surface of what we’re hoping to achieve. Sure, right now it’s just demos, but within five years I think we’ll have a consumer-facing experience that offers a real glimpse at how different choices could have played out in each user’s life. You should have seen Jim Donovan frothing at the mouth about the go-to-market strategy.” From the change in sound, I could tell he had stepped into the shower.

He’d only told me last night.I tried to scan my brain for any memories of the conversation—if I was reallyme,and I was reallyhere,shouldn’t I be able to remember?—but it was a total blank. Actually, no, that wasn’t quite true. I did have memories from last night; they just weren’t of Drew.

But if he hadn’t told me about the project until now…why not? And was it even the same thing? Clearly he wasn’t weighed down with worry about Jim’s opinion of it in this world. I tried to run through the possibilities rapidly, the steam billowing from the bathroom in dense, humid clouds like a metaphor of imminent threat.How many times do I have to remind him to turn on the damn fan?The thought felt strangely familiar again, though I couldn’t remember having had it before. Was this-world Laurel still lingering around the edges of my brain, her annoyances with Drew seeping past whatever barrier existed between her history and my own? The thought was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.

But for now I needed to sort out the immediate issue: Who was I in this world? I couldn’t exactly ask Drew for basic life details without convincing him I reallydidneed medical attention. So what could I verify on my own?

I scanned the room, eyes catching on the phones on the nightstands, then a large purse, tucked in the same spot behind the door as in my other life. The purse was subtly different—the mouth more open, the handles thinner—but otherwise it was a near-duplicate of my current cherry leather tote. Apparently “loving a red bag going into autumn” was universal across all possible iterations of Laurel. It was just reassuring enough to give me the courage to rummage through the purse—mypurse, even if it felt like I was pawing through someone else’s life.

There was nothing revelatory in my wallet or the various pouches that held pens and lipsticks, a few “just in case” Band-Aids and a set of AirPods. My keychain seemed to have gotten the same upgrade as my wardrobe. Instead of the dingy panda bear stuffed animal I was used to—Ollie had used all his tickets to “buy” it on one of our first dates, an only semi-ironic trip to Dave and Buster’s where we’d both eminently failed at all the games, then hooked up in the backof his car in a darkened corner of the mall parking lot, as tipsy on the naughtiness of what we were doing as we were on the mudslides we’d guzzled down between rounds of Skee-Ball—this Laurel had a simple silver loop with a dog tag dangling down,Please Return to Tiffany’sinscribed on one side.

“Whoa,” I murmured, flipping it over. The other side had been engraved withIt’s More Than Just Keys, Though, Right?It sounded like some sort of inside joke between Drew and me, a moment in our shared history that he’d memorialized in sterling silver. In fact…it sounded like something I’d say, orhadsaid. That same feeling of déjà vu I’d had two times already overtook me, and I had to place a hand against the wall to overcome the vertigo that accompanied it. Once I was steady again, I kept digging.

A romance novel—one I’d read a few months prior in my other life—a laptop, a travel umbrella, and a small makeup bag that held nothing more significant than a mascara brand I didn’t recognize filled the main section of the bag.

But no Pixel ID badge.

I dug around to make sure—it wasn’t in the side pocket I’d expect it to be in, or in any of the various zippered compartments. So either I kept it somewhere totally different in this world—which didn’t really make sense, this was clearly my everyday bag—or…

“Oh, fuck…”

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