Chapter 2: Her Life, My Skin

The first breath in Chloe's body tastes like coffee and the faint, powdery sweetness of her peony body spray. I feel it before I think it—the smaller lungs filling, the ribcage tighter, the heart going faster than Denise's ever did. My hand is still on the table. On Chloe's hand. My hand now. Small, with the dainty silver ring warm against the wood grain.

Across from me, Denise is looking at me with her soft, worried face. "Chloe? Honey, you zoned out there for a second. Are you feeling okay?"

I blink. Chloe's lashes are longer; I can feel them brush the skin under my brows. "I'm fine." And there it is—her voice, my voice, light and clear, a little breathy, coming out of a throat that's narrower than Denise's was. "Just tired from the early shift."

The lie lands without effort. Denise nods and sips her coffee. She has no idea. She's sitting in the body I lived in last week, her own body, and she's got my old consciousness running the show without a flicker of awareness. I know, because I'm the one who left it there.

I pick up Chloe's mug. My thumb smudges the lipstick print. Her lipstick. Mine now. The coffee is still warm.

"Did you eat?" Denise asks.

"I'll grab something at the café." I stand. The chair scrapes back. My skirt—Chloe's pale pink wrap dress—moves against my thighs, and the air in the kitchen hits a strip of bare leg between the hem and my knee. The body knows how to stand in this dress. I let it.

Upstairs, Chloe's bedroom is at the end of the hall. The door is half open. I step inside and close it behind me, and the click is the first truly private sound I've heard in this body. The room smells like clean laundry and peony body spray and the faint, sweet dust of a room that belongs to a girl who keeps things tidy. The walls are pale pink, covered with framed photos and postcards. The white canopy bed is made, floral bedding in lavender and cream. The sheer curtains glow with morning light.

I cross to the closet and open it. Dresses and skirts hang in order by color—lavender, pink, baby blue, cream. My fingers find the pale pink wrap dress without me having to search. I already know it's the one I want. Chloe wore it to a family lunch two Sundays ago. I remember how the tie sat at her hip, how the polka dots looked against her skin. Now I'm going to wear it to class and to the café, and no one will know the person inside it changed between the kitchen table and this room.

I undress from the clothes Chloe was wearing—a white eyelet blouse and a denim skirt, her clothes from the day before. I unhook the nude underwire bra from behind without having to think about it; the hooks are in a different place than Denise's, but my fingers know. The panties come down. Then I pull on the clean bra, the cups soft and light, the straps settling on shoulders that are smaller and narrower than they were an hour ago. The pale pink panties slide up over smooth, hairless legs. The wrap dress goes over my head, and I tie it at the side, the bow landing exactly where I remember it. The cream cardigan buttons over it. The white sneakers slip on, and my feet are smaller in them—Chloe's feet, slim and light.

I sit at the white desk for a second. The corkboard above it holds a calendar, the café schedule, and a postcard of the university—brick buildings, a green quad, a clock tower. The postcard is curling at one corner. The thumbtack is loose. I reach up and press it flat. The pin pricks my thumb. A tiny drop of blood wells up, and I stick it in my mouth without thinking. The taste is metallic and warm. Her blood. My blood.

I look at the calendar. May 1st is circled in pink pen. Transfer app due. Three weeks away. Chloe has been filling out the application in secret, saving money. I know this the way I know her passcode and her coffee order. I don't know what I'm going to do about it yet.

The day comes at me in the rhythm Chloe's body already knows. Class from eight to noon. I sit in the back of a lecture hall with ninety other students, taking notes in Chloe's neat handwriting. The pen is a blue gel, and the barrel is dented where she's chewed on it. The professor says something about the French Revolution, and I write it down, and the girl next to me leans over and whispers, "Can I borrow a pen?" and I hand her the chewed one without thinking. She smiles. I smile back. We're both just girls in a lecture hall.

After class, I catch the bus to The Daily Grind. The bus is crowded, and I have to stand, holding the overhead strap. The straps in this body's hands feel different—my grip is lighter, and the bus's lurch pulls at my shoulder. I'm shorter now; the heads in front of me block the view. The air smells like rain and exhaust and somebody's vanilla lotion.

The café is warm and loud, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of cups. Ava is behind the counter, her curly black hair pinned back with two clips, her apron tied in a bow. She sees me and grins.

"Chloe! Finally. I was starting to think you'd been abducted."

"By the bus," I say, and my voice comes out light and breathy, Chloe's voice. "It was so slow."

"That's a thing." Ava rolls her eyes. "Okay, you're on bar. The new cold brew special is called Lavender Cloud. Marco wants us to upsell it. It's actually pretty good."

I step behind the counter and tie Chloe's apron on. The strings pull at my waist—narrow, the body's waist, different from Denise's. I fit behind the espresso machine at a different height, and the portafilter feels heavier in these smaller hands. But the movements are there. The tamp, the pull, the steam wand. Chloe's muscles remember.

The first hour passes in a blur of orders and milk steaming. Ava works beside me, chattering about her roommate, about a guy in her psych class, about a party this weekend. I nod and laugh at the right moments. Chloe's memories fill in the gaps—Ava's roommate is named Jordan, the guy is Ben, the party is at a house off Maple. I know all of it. But the words come out of my mouth in Chloe's voice, shaped by her smile, and Ava doesn't look at me twice.

At three, there's a lull. Ava leans against the counter and looks at me.

"Okay, what's up with you today? You're being weird."

My heart does a small, quick jump. "Weird how?"

"I don't know. Quieter. And you keep touching your face."

I lower my hand from my cheek. The beauty mark. I didn't even realize I was doing it. Chloe's nervous habit, surfacing because Ava's scrutiny is making my pulse spike. That's the gap, live and dangerous for the first time since I got in this body. I could cover it. I do.

"I'm just tired," I say. "I was up late working on the transfer stuff."

Ava's face softens. "Did you tell your mom yet?"

"No."

"Chloe." She says it like a sigh. "You have to. You can't just send it in and hope she doesn't notice when you move two hours away."

"I know."

"Do you? Because you keep saying you will and then you don't."

I look down at the portafilter. The metal is cool. The grounds are dark and used. Chloe would apologize now, probably. She'd say I'm sorry, I know, I'll do it soon. But I don't want to say that. I want to feel the weight of it—the secret, the pressure, the way Ava loves her enough to push.

"I'll figure it out," I say, and the words come out in Chloe's voice, a little too soft, and I know I'm not done with this.

The shift ends at six. I change out of my apron, and Ava and I walk out together into the cool April evening. The sky is pale blue, the streetlights just coming on. Ava links her arm through mine.

"Seriously though. You're allowed to want things, Chloe. Even if your mom doesn't get it."

Her arm is warm and solid against mine. I feel the shape of her shoulder, her elbow, the easy way she leans into me as we walk. My male body never had this—this casual, unquestioned closeness. It's not romantic. It's just the way girls walk together. I could get used to it.

"I know," I say, and this time I mean it a little more.

At home, dinner is chicken and rice. The kitchen smells like garlic and lemon. Denise has set the table, and Sophie, Mia, and Lily are already in their chairs. I sit in Chloe's usual spot.

"Hey, Mom," I say as I sit. The word comes out automatically. Chloe's word for Denise. My voice says it without me having to choose.

"Hi, sweetheart." Denise smiles at me across the table. "How was work?"

"Fine. Busy."

Sophie snorts. "Busy is code for Marco made her clean the bathroom again."

"It was a sink," I say, and it's Chloe's voice saying it, quick and bright. "And no."

Lily bounces in her chair. "Chloe! Guess what? I got the part of the sun!"

"The play?" I ask. "The sun's a big deal, Lily-bug."

She beams. The gap in her teeth shows. "I get to wear a yellow costume and stand on a box and say my line."

"That's amazing," I say, and I mean it. Chloe's love for Lily is a warm, steady thing in my chest, and it comes out of my mouth as easy as breathing. I'm proud of her. Not pretending to be proud. Proud.

After dinner, I do the dishes. Denise hovers, drying. She keeps glancing at me.

"You seem different this week," she says quietly.

I keep my hands in the soapy water. "Different how?"

"More settled, maybe. Less like you're waiting for something."

The words land in the space between us. I could say something sharp. I could reassure her. I don't do either. I just hand her a wet plate and let the silence sit.

The night is warm enough to leave the window open. In Chloe's room, I lock the door. The fairy lights on the dresser cast a soft gold glow on the walls. I sit on the bed and look at the corkboard. The postcard. May 1st.

I get up and go to the mirror on the closet door. The girl looking back at me has dark blonde hair falling past her shoulders, loose waves, a small beauty mark on her left cheekbone. Her eyes are hazel and bright. Her lips are parted a little. She's pretty. She's me.

I lift the hem of the wrap dress and watch the girl in the mirror do it too. The skirt rises, and I see the pale pink panties, the smooth stretch of thigh. My thigh. I turn to the side. The dress pulls across my chest—small, round, high-set. I press my hand flat against my stomach, over the fabric. The body is warm and soft.

I don't rush. I let my hands learn the shape of Chloe's waist, the curve of her hip, the way her collarbone dips. The air from the window moves across the back of my neck. My own breathing is the only sound in the room.

Later, when the dress is puddled on the floor and the bra is unhooked and my own pulse is loud, the peak comes sharp and soft at the same time. My hand is still on my chest. The room smells like peony and clean laundry. Outside, a car passes.

The rest of the week settles into a rhythm. Class, shift, dinner, study. Ava and I meet at the café on Tuesday for a study session. We sit at a corner table with our textbooks spread out. I wear the white eyelet blouse and denim skirt, the pearl necklace cool against my throat. Ava is in a yellow sweater and jeans, her curls escaping from a clip.

"Okay, so for the psych exam, just memorize the stages," she says, tapping the page. "Like, literally just the order. Professor Ray never asks anything else."

"Got it." I make a note in Chloe's handwriting.

Ava studies me for a second. "You're chewing that pen again."

I look down. The blue gel pen is between my teeth, dented from a week of Chloe's habit and now mine. I set it down. "Habit."

She grins. "You've had that same pen since freshman year. It's disgusting."

"It's lucky," I say, and the words come out in Chloe's voice, light and quick, and I feel the truth of them—she's had this pen for a year, and I'm holding it now, and it's mine.

The days blur. I learn the exact weight of the café's portafilter in Chloe's hand. I learn how her hair falls in her face when she leans over a textbook. I learn the way Denise's eyes follow me at dinner, full of love and worry. I learn the way Sophie rolls her eyes and then helps Lily with her homework without being asked. I learn the way Mia hums while she draws, a soft off-key tune.

And every night, in Chloe's room, I sit at the white desk and look at the corkboard. The postcard. The pink-circled date.

By Thursday, the application is finished. It's saved in Chloe's laptop, ready to submit. All I have to do is click the button. But I don't. Not yet.

I go for a walk instead. The neighborhood is quiet, the lilacs in full bloom. The air smells like cut grass and flowers. I walk in Chloe's body, in her white sneakers and a lavender floral sundress, and I feel the cool air on my legs and the sun on my shoulders. A man walking his dog nods at me. I smile. He sees a girl in a sundress, nothing more.

That night, after dinner, Lily finds me in my room. She's in her pink pajamas, holding a piece of paper.

"Chloe, can I show you my drawing for the play?"

"Of course." I pat the bed beside me.

She climbs up and shows me the drawing: a yellow sun with a smiling face, rays like thick lines of crayon. Her name is written in the corner in her careful eight-year-old handwriting.

"This is me," she says. "On the box."

"It's beautiful, Lily-bug. You're going to be the best sun up there."

She leans her head against my arm. Her hair smells like strawberry shampoo. I smooth it back, and she sighs, content, like this is all she needed.

"Chloe?"

"Mm?"

"I wish you didn't have to go to college far away."

My hand stills on her head. "Who said I'm going far away?"

Her face tips up. "I heard Sophie talking to Mom about it. She said you want to go to a big school. Is that true?"

The question sits in my chest, warm and sharp. Chloe's love for Lily is a real, living thing, and right now it's tangled up with the secret of the transfer application and the choice I haven't made. I could lie. I could soften it. But I'm in Chloe's body, and Chloe is the one who loves this kid, and I can feel it.

"I don't know yet," I say. "But whatever happens, I'll always be your big sister."

She buries her face in my side. "Promise?"

"Promise."

The week ends. Friday dinner is the last one in Chloe's body. I wear the pale blue fit-and-flare dress, the thin belt at the waist. Denise made meatloaf, and the kitchen smells like ketchup and brown sugar. Sophie is talking about the volleyball qualifier, Mia is drawing at the table, and Lily is telling a long, tangled story about a bug she found at recess.

I look around the table. These people have no idea. Not one of them. Denise the clone, thinking she's the real Denise. Sophie, sharp and watchful but blind to what's sitting next to her. Mia, dreamy and oblivious. Lily, pure and trusting. And Chloe, asleep somewhere deep inside me, not knowing I've spent a week in her skin, wearing her clothes, loving her family.

I reach for my water glass. The ice clinks. My hand is Chloe's hand—slim, with the dainty silver ring.

I look at Sophie. She's mid-sentence, gesturing with her fork. The transfer can happen now, at the table, just like the one from Denise to Chloe. A touch on her hand, focused intent, and I'll be Sophie.

But I don't do it yet. I finish dinner first. I help clear the plates. I kiss Lily's head when she goes up to bed. I stand in the kitchen with Denise for a moment, and she looks at me with that soft, worried face.

"I'm proud of you, you know," she says.

"I know, Mom."

I go upstairs to Chloe's room one more time. The corkboard is still there. The postcard. The application, waiting on the laptop.

I sit down. I open the laptop. The screen glows. The application is complete. The submit button is right there.

I think about Ava's arm linked through mine. I think about Lily's head on my arm. I think about Denise's face at the table. I think about the MC—me—who wanted this body, this life, these clothes, this family.

I click submit.

The confirmation page loads. Application received. Deadline met.

I close the laptop. It's done. Whatever happens to Chloe's future now, I made the choice.

The week is over. I stand up and go back downstairs. Sophie is on the couch, scrolling on her phone. Her auburn hair is in a high ponytail, and she's wearing a green volleyball t-shirt and gray shorts. Her feet are bare on the coffee table.

I sit down next to her. The couch dips. She glances at me.

"What's up, Chlo?"

"Nothing." I look at her hand, resting on her thigh. "Hey, Soph."

"Yeah?"

I reach over and cover her hand with mine. Skin to skin. Warm and dry. The contact point tingles.

The transfer begins. The compression, bright and sharp at the point of contact, folding the world down into that single inch of skin. Chloe's body goes slack and far away. I feel myself pulled through—