Chapter 1: The Package of Fate
The first thing I noticed was the cold. Not air-conditioning cold, but a deep, ceramic chill seeping into my… lower back? I was lying on tile. I never lie on the deck. My head throbbed, a low, insistent drumming behind my eyes that had nothing to do with the two beers I’d drunk.
I blinked, and the world was wrong. The sky was too far away. The edge of the pool, which should have been at my thigh, was up near my shoulder. Everything was taller, sharper, drenched in a surreal clarity that made my stomach lurch.
I pushed myself up.
The movement was all wrong. My center of gravity was too high, unstable. As I sat, a heavy, unfamiliar weight pulled against my chest, a soft, anchoring pressure that made my breath catch. I looked down.
A white, ribbed cotton tank top stretched over a curve that was impossible. My brain stuttered, trying to reconcile the visual with a lifetime of muscle memory. Beneath the thin fabric, two distinct weights shifted, settling with a gentle, undeniable jiggle. I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I was wearing this.
I lifted a hand—a small, delicate hand with slim fingers and perfectly manicured nails painted a soft, shell pink—and pressed it to my chest. The sensation was foreign. Not just the softness, but the structure underneath, the swell that filled my palm. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird in a strange cage.
“What the fuck.”
The voice that came out of my mouth wasn’t mine. It was higher, melodic, laced with a breathy panic that sounded like a scared girl. It was a scared girl. It was me.
I scrambled to get my feet under me, a maneuver that was now a precarious ballet. My legs were too light, my feet too small. The sandals—strappy, stupid things—skidded on the tile. I grabbed the arm of the lounge chair for balance, and the world spun. I was so short. The chair seat came up to my hip. I used to sprawl over this thing.
A groan came from my left.
I turned, my new hair—a long, heavy curtain of blonde—swishing over my shoulder and sticking to the sunscreen on my neck. There, on the deck, was me. My body. Six feet of familiar, bearded, tattooed me, wearing my old swim trunks, pushing itself up on elbows that looked massive and hairy and wrong from this angle.
My own face, my own blue eyes, stared back at me with a horror that mirrored my own.
“Justin?” my voice—his voice—said. It sounded rough, confused. “What… what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” My new voice squeaked. I took a step toward my body, my old body, and a wave of sensations assaulted me. The jean skirt, rough against the tops of my thighs, swished with a sound I’d only ever heard from the outside. The tiny red thong between my legs was a presence, a narrow strip of fabric existing in a place that felt entirely different, a silent, unsettling awareness. Every step made my chest move independently, a soft, bouncing rhythm that was impossible to ignore.
I stopped in front of him. Her. Sabrina. She was in my body. She looked utterly ridiculous, my large hands clasping the sides of my head, my bearded mouth hanging open.
“Sabrina?” I asked.
She—he?—nodded slowly, the gesture looking unnervingly masculine. “Yeah. I think so. What is this?”
“I don’t know.” I hugged my arms around myself, a defensive gesture that felt entirely new because my arms didn’t go the same way around my torso. They hit the soft outer curves of my breasts first. I dropped them. “The box. When we touched.”
We both looked at the small cardboard box, now lying on its side near the pool. It was just a delivery, a replacement charging cable from some online store.
My phone, my old phone, buzzed from the pocket of my swim trunks. Sabrina, in my body, fumbled for it with clumsy fingers. She held it up, and even from a few feet away, I could see the text notification on the screen.
It was from Mark. Be there in 30, bring the whiskey.
A fresh, cold dread poured down my spine. “Mark’s coming over.”
“Who’s Mark?” Sabrina asked, my deep voice grating.
“My best friend. He’s… he’s coming to swim. Drink. Hang out.” The words tumbled out, high and frantic. “He can’t see me like this. He can’t see you like that!”
“Well, I can’t go home like this!” Sabrina gestured wildly with my arms. “I live alone! What if I’m stuck? I have a… a beard. I feel like I’m wearing a giant, meaty costume.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat, coming out as a girlish giggle. I clamped a hand over my mouth. The feeling of full, soft lips under my fingers was another small shock.
“Okay. Okay, think,” I said, forcing my new voice lower, trying to sound like I used to. It didn’t work. “He’s coming here. You look like me. So you have to be me.”
Sabrina stared at me, my own face pale beneath the summer tan. “How? I don’t know anything about you!”
“Just… just act normal. Quiet. Nod a lot. Drink beer. You drink, right?”
“Champagne. Sometimes.”
“Close enough.” I was pacing now, the small, quick steps feeling alien. Every shift in balance sent a corresponding shift through my hips and chest. The red push-up bra was a marvel of engineering, lifting and separating in a way that was both fascinating and deeply unsettling. I could feel the band snug around my ribcage, the straps digging slightly into my shoulders. “I’ll be… a friend. Your neighbor.”
“You sound insane,” Sabrina said, struggling to her feet. She—he—was towering over me. I had to crane my neck to look up at my own face. The power dynamic had not just shifted; it had been inverted and thrown off a cliff. The physical presence I’d taken for granted was gone. I felt insubstantial, breakable.
“Do you have a better idea?” I shot back.
The sound of a key turning in the front door lock echoed through the open sliding glass wall. We both froze.
“Justin?” Mark’s voice boomed from inside the house, followed by the clink of glass bottles. “Got the good stuff! You out back?”
Sabrina looked at me, pure panic in my old eyes. I made a frantic shoving motion toward the lounge chair. “Sit! Act normal!”
She shuffled to the chair and sat down stiffly, my large body looking awkward and uncomfortable. I stood there, rooted, as Mark emerged from the house.
He filled the doorway, six-four of solid muscle earned from actual work, not a gym. He had a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his phone in the other, wearing board shorts and a faded tee. His smile was easy, relaxed, until his gaze slid past his best friend and landed on me.
His smile didn’t fade. It just… changed. Settled. The casual friendliness refined into something warmer, more focused. His eyes, a rich brown, did a quick, appreciative sweep from my sandals up my bare legs, over the skirt and tank top, lingering for a half-second on my chest before meeting my eyes. A spark ignited in his gaze, one I’d seen him direct at women in bars a hundred times. Never at me.
“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping into a smoother, deeper register. He nodded at Sabrina. “J.” Then he looked back at me, the spark turning into a genuine, interested smile. “I didn’t know you had company. I’m Mark.”