The time had come to return to myself. The plan was set: we’d swap back before the closing session, just enough time for Jessica to reappear in her own skin and blend back in among the sales sharks and engineers.
But when I glanced down at my borrowed hands—at how naturally they moved, how easily I’d slipped into the choreography of Jessica’s body, I was ambushed by reluctance. Even as my phone buzzed with her message (“Got the device. Meet in room 430?”), I found myself lingering in the hallway, my feet unwilling to carry me further.
I exhaled a shallow, uneven breath, feeling the message’s urgency tangle with the slow, molten ache expanding low in my gut. Every cell in my body seemed to register the same desperate, perverse craving: Don’t give this up, not yet.
I walked toward the elevators, just a few steps, then stopped myself, stalling in the broad carpeted hall as a conference-hall cleaning cart trundled past.
I should have moved briskly, made my way to the room where I’d meet Jessica and get the swap over with, but instead I let myself drift, putting more and more unnecessary carpet and wall between myself and the inevitable.
At first, I just circled the atrium, pretending to look for an outlet to charge my phone, but what I was really doing was rolling the hips and letting the body move, the sports bra digging in, the sweat beginning to gather under my arms, the way the leggings seemed to compress my thighs in a steady, proprietary grip.
I caught my own reflection in the glass wall and it made me shiver: the glossy, athletic silhouette, the way the cheeks were flushed and the lips ever so slightly parted. I paused, staring, letting myself imagine that this was me for good, no expiration date, no rental contract. It was a stupid fantasy, but it was potent. I let myself have it, just for a few more minutes.
I ducked into a side hallway and found a deserted lounge, a row of armchairs facing the lake. I sat and curled up one leg. I cupped my breasts, just to feel the weight, to convince myself they really were there.
If I had the option, would I even go back? The question hurt to think about.
But that was absurd. There was no way to stay. My time was up.
I took the elevator up, feeling my heart thud harder with every floor. The number 430 glared from the wall at the end of the corridor, and I forced each step.
I knocked. The door opened at once, as if she’d been standing right behind it.
She—Jake, in Jessica’s body—looked at me with an amicable smile.
“Ready?” she said.
“Ready.”
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