Chapter 4: Olivia's Month

The music is low in my ears—something acoustic, a girl with a guitar singing about the ocean. I'm not really listening. I'm staring at the laptop screen, at the empty portfolio template, at the blinking cursor in the corner of the blank page. The cursor blinks. It keeps blinking. It's been blinking for twenty minutes.

I shift on the bed. The sketchbook digs into my thigh—the corner of it, the hard cardboard cover—and I push it aside. The pages fan open. A half-finished figure. A girl standing at a window. I drew her yesterday, or the day before. I can't remember. The lines are good. Confident. Olivia's hand. My hand now.

My phone buzzes. I pick it up. Maya.

"Hey. So sorry about tomorrow. I'm freaking out about the gallery thing and I just—I can't. Rain check?"

I type back. "No worries. Take care of yourself."

Three dots. Then: "You're the best. Love you."

"Love you too."

I set the phone down. The screen goes dark. The room is quiet except for the music and the hum of the laptop fan. The salt lamp glows orange on the nightstand—Olivia's salt lamp, the one she bought at a flea market last summer. It casts a soft, warm light over the tangled sheets, the clothes on the chair, the sketchbooks stacked on the floor.

I look at the laptop again. The cursor is still blinking. The portfolio review is in a week. Olivia's portfolio review. Her future, her internship, her career. And I'm sitting here, in her body, in her pajamas—an old band t-shirt, soft pajama pants—and I don't care. I don't care about the portfolio. I care about the way the t-shirt feels against my skin. I care about the way my hair falls over my shoulder. I care about the fact that Maya just cancelled, and I feel—what? Relieved? Annoyed?

I close the laptop. The screen goes black. I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling—the glow-in-the-dark stars Olivia put up when she moved in. They're faint in the lamplight. I trace them with my eyes. A constellation. Orion. Maybe. I don't know.

I've been Olivia for three weeks.

Three weeks of waking up in her bed, her body, her life. Three weeks of her classes, her friends, her sisters. Three weeks of paint under my nails—under her nails—and the weight of her breasts, lower and heavier than Emma's, and the way her hips sway when she walks. Three weeks of being the messy one, the creative one, the one who laughs too loud and forgets to do her laundry.

I roll onto my side. The mattress creaks. I can hear something downstairs—Emma, probably. The soft sound of the kettle. She's making tea. She always makes tea when she's stressed about her MFA application. I know this because I was her. I was her three weeks ago, standing in her kitchen, making her coffee, being her sister. And now I'm Olivia. And Emma is Emma again—herself—and she has no idea that her sister is me.

The thought sends a small pulse through me. Not guilt. Not exactly. Just—awareness. The gap. The secret. The thing that's mine.

I reach for my phone again. Not Maya. Dev.

There are three messages from him. Unread.

"Hey. You up?"

"I can't stop thinking about last weekend."

"Can I call you?"

I stare at the messages. Last weekend. I know what happened last weekend—Olivia knows, which means I know. They met for coffee. They talked for three hours. He walked her home. They kissed on the porch, under the streetlamp, and she felt something she thought she'd buried. She hasn't told anyone. Not Maya. Not Emma. Not Sophia.

I type: "Can't talk tonight. Tomorrow?"

He replies instantly. "Yeah. Tomorrow. I miss you."

I don't respond. I set the phone face-down on the nightstand. The screen glows faintly through the case—a little square of light in the dark.

I sit up. The sketchbook is still on the bed. I pick it up and flip through it. Pages and pages of drawings—figures, faces, hands, abstract shapes. Some are finished. Some are just lines. I stop on a page near the back. A self-portrait. Olivia's face, drawn from memory. Dark hair. Dimples. The tiny star tattoo behind her ear. She drew this last week, late at night, after everyone else was asleep.

I look at the drawing. Then I look at my reflection in the dark window. Olivia looks back at me. Dark hair. Dimples. The star tattoo. She's beautiful. She's me.

I close the sketchbook. I get out of bed. The floor is cold under my bare feet—Olivia's feet, small and pale, toenails painted a chipped plum. I walk to the closet. The door is already ajar. I pull it open and just stand there, looking at the clothes.

They're crammed onto hangers. Mustard yellow sweaters, plum skirts, teal dresses, a paint-stained denim jacket. The colors are bolder than Emma's—warmer, louder. I reach for the teal velvet dress. The one Olivia wore to the art gallery opening. The one she felt beautiful in.

I pull it off the hanger. The fabric is soft, rich, slightly cool. I hold it against my body. The V-neck. The wrap waist. The way it would cinch in, show off my curves. I want to try it on. I want to feel it against my skin.

But first—the t-shirt. I pull it over my head. The air hits my skin. I unhook my bra—black lace, different from Emma's plain white—and let it fall. I look at myself in the mirror on the back of the closet door. Olivia. Full breasts, round and heavy, sitting lower than Emma's. A defined waist that dips in before flaring out to full hips. The tiny star tattoo. The soft curve of my stomach. The dark hair between my legs.

I stand there for a long time. Just looking. Just breathing.

Then I reach for the dress. I step into it. I pull it up over my hips, over my waist, over my breasts. I tie the wrap. The fabric settles against my body like it was made for me. It was made for me.

I look at myself in the mirror. Olivia in a teal velvet dress. Her hair loose. Her cheeks flushed. She's beautiful. She's me.

I twirl. The skirt flares out. The velvet catches the lamplight. I laugh—Olivia's laugh, bright, unguarded—and I don't cover my mouth.

I try on more clothes. A plum pleated skirt—the fabric swishes around my thighs when I walk. A mustard sweater—oversized, the sleeves too long, covering my hands. A silk blouse—teal, with small buttons down the front. The paint-stained denim jacket—soft and worn, covered in pins and patches. I pose in front of the mirror. I take selfies—no, I don't take selfies. I just look. I just be.

After a while, I stop. I'm out of breath. The bed is covered in discarded clothes. I'm standing in the teal dress, my hair a mess, my cheeks flushed.

I hear a door open down the hall. Sophia's door. Footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. She's going to the bathroom, maybe. Or getting a glass of water. She doesn't know I'm here, trying on clothes. She doesn't know I'm me.

I wait. The footsteps fade. A door closes. The house is quiet again.

I take off the dress. I hang it back up. I put on the t-shirt and pajama pants. I wash my face in the bathroom down the hall—Olivia's face, my face—and brush my teeth. The mirror shows me a girl with tired eyes and messy hair. She looks real. She looks alive.

I go back to my room. I lie on the bed. The sketchbook is still there. I pick it up. I find a blank page. I pick up a pencil—Olivia's pencil, the one with the teeth marks on the end—and I start to draw.

I don't think about the portfolio. I don't think about Dev. I don't think about Emma or Sophia or Maya. I just draw. The lines come out confident, sweeping. Olivia's hand. My hand. I draw a girl standing at a window. She's looking out at the rain. She's alone, but she's not lonely. She's just—waiting.

When I'm done, I look at the page. It's good. It's really good. Olivia's talent, flowing through my fingers.

I close the sketchbook. I set it on the nightstand. I turn off the lamp. The room goes dark except for the salt lamp's orange glow. I pull the covers up to my chin.

The house is quiet. The rain has stopped. The stars on the ceiling are faint.

I close my eyes.

---

The next morning, I wake up before the alarm.

The room is gray—early light through the window. The rain has started again—a soft drizzle, barely audible. I lie still for a minute, feeling Olivia's body around me. The weight of her breasts. The ache in her shoulders. The slight grime of not having showered yesterday.

I get up. I shower. The water is hot, and it runs over my shoulders, my back, my breasts. I wash my hair with Olivia's shampoo—something floral, bright. I stand in the steam for a long time.

When I get out, I dry off. I put on underwear—black cotton, simple—and a bra. I choose an outfit: jeans, a soft mustard sweater, ankle boots. I look at myself in the mirror. Olivia. Ready for the day.

I go downstairs.

Emma is in the kitchen. She's standing at the counter with a mug of tea, looking out the window. She's wearing a cream sweater and gray pants. Her hair is loose. She looks peaceful.

"Morning," I say.

Olivia's voice. Bright. Animated.

Emma turns. She smiles. "Morning, Liv. You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." I shrug. Olivia's shrug—quick, casual. "I have a lot to do today."

"The portfolio?"

"Yeah." I pour myself a cup of coffee. I add milk. "Maya cancelled yesterday. So I'm on my own."

"That's too bad. She's been really stressed about her gallery thing."

"I know. It's fine." I lean against the counter. "What about you? Big plans?"

"Library. Then Chloe at two."

"Tell her I said hi."

"I will."

We stand in comfortable silence. The kitchen is warm. The coffee is good. Emma is my sister now—not by blood, but by being. I'm Olivia. Olivia is Emma's sister. So Emma is mine.

Sophia comes downstairs. She's in a lavender sweater and jeans, her hair in a messy ponytail. She looks sleepy. She grabs a granola bar and kisses the top of my head.

"Bye, Liv. Bye, Em."

"Bye, Soph."

She's out the door. The screen door slams. Emma finishes her tea and rinses her mug.

"I should go," she says. "Library opens at nine."

"See you tonight?"

"See you."

She leaves. The house is quiet. I'm alone.

I finish my coffee. I rinse the mug. I grab my bag and head out the door.

The air outside is cold and wet. The rain is soft—a drizzle that soaks into everything. I open Olivia's umbrella—the one with the broken spoke—and start walking. The sidewalk is slick. The trees are budding—small green nodes on bare branches. The air smells like wet earth and new growth.

I walk to campus. The streets are quiet. A few students are out, heads down, hurrying to class. I go to the art building. Olivia has a studio class in the morning. I have a few hours to kill before then.

I go to The Grind. I order a vanilla latte—Olivia's favorite—and find a seat by the window. The café is busy—students studying, talking, arguing about group projects. I sip my latte and watch the rain.

I think about Dev. About his messages. I miss you. What does that mean? Olivia knows—she knows what it means. She's been texting him for weeks. She kissed him on the porch. She hasn't told anyone.

I think about what I should do. I could text him back. I could meet him. I could be Olivia for him—the Olivia he remembers, the one he wants. Or I could pull back. I could ignore the messages. I could let Olivia's life continue without me interfering.

I don't know what I want. I don't know what Olivia would want. I have her memories, but memories aren't the same as desires. Memories are facts. Desires are—I don't know. Something else.

I finish my latte. I leave the café. I walk to the art building.

The studio is loud, busy. Students are working on their projects. I find Olivia's easel—the half-finished canvas. I pick up a brush. I don't know what I'm doing, but my hand does. Olivia's hand. I mix colors. I paint. Time slips away.

At the end of class, the professor stops by my easel. She's a woman in her fifties, gray hair, kind eyes. "Good work today, Olivia. You seem more focused."

"Thanks. I'm feeling better."

"Good. Keep it up."

I walk home. The rain has stopped. The sun is trying to break through the clouds—pale, watery light. I stop at the corner and look at the Sutton house—the warm yellow light in the windows, the porch light on, the faint sound of music from inside. Sophia's music. Something soft and acoustic.

I go inside.

Emma is in the living room, reading. Sophia is in the kitchen, making dinner. I can smell pasta, garlic, tomatoes.

"Hey, Liv," Sophia says. "Dinner's almost ready."

"Smells good."

I sit at the table. Emma joins us. We eat together—the three of us, the Sutton sisters. We talk about our days. Emma's library shift. Sophia's photography class. My studio time.

Sophia tells a story about a boy in her class who spilled paint on his pants. Emma laughs. I laugh—Olivia's bright laugh. The kitchen is warm. The food is good. The night is quiet.

After dinner, I go upstairs. I take a shower. The water runs over my body—my full breasts, my curved hips, the softness of my skin. I wash my hair with Olivia's shampoo. I stand in the steam and just breathe.

I get out. I dry off. I put on pajama pants and a soft t-shirt. I look at myself in the mirror. Olivia. Just Olivia. A girl getting ready for bed.

I go to my room. I sit on the bed. The salt lamp glows orange. The stars on the ceiling are faint. The rain has stopped. The house is quiet.

I lie back. I stare at the ceiling. I think about the day. The coffee. Maya's cancellation. The studio. The dinner. The shower.

I think about Emma. About how easy it was to be her. About how different it is to be Olivia. Emma was quiet, neat, controlled. Olivia is loud, messy, warm. Both are mine now.

I think about Sophia. The way she kissed the top of my head. The way she smiled. She's the youngest. The shy one. She has a photography contest in two weeks—no, one week now. She's been procrastinating. She's afraid her work isn't good enough.

I think about what it would be like to be her. To be the quiet one. The one who watches. The one who takes photos instead of drawing. To feel what she feels. To know what she knows.

The thought sits in my chest. Small. Warm. A possibility.

I close my eyes.

---

The art show is on Saturday.

I spend the morning getting ready. I take a shower. I wash my hair. I dry it carefully—Olivia's hair, wavy and dark. I put on makeup—winged eyeliner, bright lipstick. Olivia's style.

I choose an outfit. The teal velvet dress. The one I tried on earlier this week. The one she wore to the gallery opening. I step into it. I tie the wrap. I look at myself in the mirror. Olivia. Beautiful. Alive.

I put on statement earrings—large hoops, gold. I slide my feet into ankle boots. I grab my leather crossbody bag.

I go downstairs. Emma is in the living room, reading. Sophia is on the couch, editing photos on her laptop.

"You look nice," Emma says.

"Thanks." I smile. Olivia's smile. "Art show. Maya's meeting me there."

"Have fun."

"I will."

I walk to the art show. It's at a gallery downtown—a small space with white walls and track lighting. The rain has stopped. The air is cold but clean. I can smell coffee and wine and something faintly floral.

Maya is there. She's wearing a rust maxi dress and a denim jacket. Her hair is in a messy bun. She waves when she sees me.

"Liv! You made it!"

"I said I would."

She hugs me. Her arms are warm. She smells like patchouli and bergamot. "I'm so sorry about cancelling. I was just—I was freaking out."

"It's fine. Really."

We walk through the gallery. The art is good—abstract paintings, photographs, sculptures. Maya talks about the artists. She knows everyone. She introduces me to a few people—friends from her program, a gallery owner, a guy with a beard who paints landscapes.

I'm Olivia. The artsy girl. The one who laughs too loud and knows about art. I fit in here. I belong here.

After the show, Maya and I go to a café. We order lattes and sit by the window. She talks about her gallery submission—she's still stressed, but she's feeling better. She asks about my portfolio.

"It's coming," I say. "Slowly."

"You'll get there. You always do."

I smile. "Thanks."

We finish our lattes. We say goodbye. I walk home.

The house is quiet when I get there. Emma is in her room. Sophia is in hers. I go to my room. I take off the dress. I hang it up. I put on pajamas.

I lie on the bed. The salt lamp glows orange. The stars on the ceiling are faint.

I think about the night. The art. The people. The way it felt to be Olivia—really Olivia—in a room full of people who saw her as herself.

I think about Sophia. The quiet one. The one who takes photos. The one who's afraid.

I think about what it would be like to be her.

---

The decision comes on Sunday night.

I'm alone in Olivia's room. Emma is out—she's at Chloe's, studying. Sophia is in her room, listening to music. The house is quiet.

I'm sitting on the bed, sketching. Not for the portfolio—just for me. A figure. A girl. She's standing at a window, looking out. I don't know who she is. She might be Olivia. She might be Emma. She might be Sophia.

I stop drawing. I look at the sketch. Then I look at the window. My reflection. Olivia. Dark hair. Dimples. The star tattoo.

I think about the past three weeks. The coffee. The classes. The studio. The dinners. The texts with Dev. The art show. The way it felt to be her—to be the messy, creative, warm one. To be the sister who laughs too loud and forgets her laundry. To be alive in a way that Emma wasn't.

But I also think about Sophia. The quiet one. The one who watches. The one who takes photos instead of drawing. She's different. She's softer. She's—I don't know. She's a possibility.

I set the sketchbook aside. I stand up. I walk to the mirror.

Olivia looks back at me. She's beautiful. She's me. But I know I can't stay. Not forever. The portfolio review is in a week. The Dev situation is getting complicated. And there's something else—something I can't name. A restlessness. A hunger. The need to see what else is out there.

I touch the mirror. My reflection touches back. I smile. It's not Olivia's smile. It's my smile. The one that's just for me.

I turn away. I go to the bed. I lie down. I close my eyes.

Tomorrow, I'll leave. I'll dissolve into goo and flow out of Olivia's body. I'll find Sophia. I'll enter her. I'll be her.

But tonight—tonight I just want to lie here. In this body. In this life. For one more night.

The rain starts again. Soft. Steady. I listen to it. I feel Olivia's heartbeat. I feel her breath.

I'm still here. I'm still her.

Tomorrow, I'll be someone else.