Page 51 of What's in a Kiss?

I type inZombie Hospital. The familiar TV still image pops up, and I scroll past a few actors I know are in the show, but I don’t scroll very far before I see a headshot I do—and do not—recognize. Because it’s me. Looking like I’m trying to seduce the glass off my iPhone screen.

It seems I’ve played the role of Dr. Josslyn Munro for seven seasons. The role Selena Gomez plays in real life.

There’s a world in which this news would have made me feel elated, sending a triumphant trumpet blast through my soul. But standing alone in this strange bathroom, IMDb’ing myself, a wall away from a stranger who thinks he’s my husband... I don’t feel elated. I feel confused and fraudulent. On edge. Alone.

I think back to last night’s wedding, to the guest who got my autograph, the valet who asked for a selfie. It does seem that I’m famous.

I open YouTube, type “Josslyn Munro” into the search bar. The hits are endless. The frames all show my face. I watch myself contort in outrage. I watch myself say Dr. Munro’s catchphrase—“The Hippocratic oath applies to zombies, too”—in eighteen different ways.

It’s cringey. It’s shameless. It’s... utterly absorbing. Most helpfully, it tells me what to wear. In each of the episodes I’m either wearing scrubs or some variation of a black T-shirt, leather jacket, and jeans. I grab the latter outfit from my closet. There’s no time to shower, so I have to hope I’ll get my hair done on the set. The thought makes me laugh. How in the world am I going to convince the people who work on this show that I have any clue what I’m doing?

One thing reassures me: Jake seems to think I can do this in my sleep. Maybe I can muddle through. It’ll get me out of this house, at least. And on my breaks, I’ll find out how to reach my mom and Masha. I’ll sort out how I got here. I’ll find my way back home.

And don’t these Hollywood productions have huge spreads of elaborate snacks?

I swig the coffee, neglect the water, and stuff the pills into my pocket. Philippe texts he’s three minutes away. I slink back through the kitchen, hoping to bypass Jake.

No such luck. He’s on his laptop at the kitchen table, untangling the cords of what appears to be... a brand-new RØDECaster Pro 4 podcasting bundle.

Four microphones, four headsets, and a state-of-the-art production console... I’ve had this model in my online cart for over a year. It would have been a dream to record Lorena on such a machine. But even on Cyber Monday, the price tag was too big of a swing for me. Looking at Jake now, casually plugging jacks into holes, I feel covetous—until I remember that by California law, half of that console is mine. Besides, judging from my bank account, the Olivia and Jake who live here can afford a dozen RØDECasters. Jake probably got this model for free, a gift from the brand, because we live in a country where it’s cheaper to be rich than to be poor.

But economics aside, what is hedoingwith it? IsEverything’s Jakegetting a podcast spinoff? The sight of this gear is making me homesick. Where is my mom? If only I could put those headphones on and hear Lorena’s voice coming through...

“What’s all this?” I ask.

“I told you, right?” Jake says. “Ben’s coming over this morning to cut the new teaser.”

“Right,” I say vaguely, not wanting to reveal that I have no idea whether Ben is some assistant or, like, Affleck. With Jake, these things could go many ways.

He drops the mess of wires, rises from the table, and swoops me in yet another hug. It’s strange how natural it feels to have Jake’s arms around the small of my back. Without my knowing how, my own arms have found their way around his neck. For a moment I breathe him in and hold him back. Then he tries to kiss me.

I turn my head away so his lips land on my jaw.

Again—that shiver. Imagine if he’d hit his target.

“Great. Well. You cut that teaser,” I say, pressing back to arm’s length so we’re holding each other like kids at a middle school dance, “and I’ll just go out there and, you know, do my thing...”

“Knock ’em undead,” Jake says.

I groan.

“See, that joke never gets old,” he says with a wink that somehow makes my cheeks flush. “See you tonight, Dusk.”

••••••

Sitting in themiddle row of Philippe’s Escalade, I see we have thirty-five minutes before we make it to the set. I open the sides from Ivy, who I’m realizing must be my assistant, and read through what must be my lines.

My character is the BFF to main character Dr. Summerlyn Mountjoy. I flip through the sides anxiously, trying to absorb my part. I haven’t acted outside of a middle school classroom in almost ten years. Now, I’m going to fake it in a TV production. I will never be able to pull this off.

I wonder if Shraddha Kapoor plays Mountjoy in this realm, like she does in real life, because I always thought she seemed pretty cool. Maybe she’ll take pity on me. Maybe we’re already friends. I could really use a friend—

Lines, Olivia. Memorize them.

Luckily, there isn’t all that much to my scene. I get a lot of haughty facial expressions, several one-word scoffs, and two places where I say, “I need to feel more undead inside.”

As I practice committing to such a line, I find myself making a motion—one hand over my heart, one hand over my lips.It’s the old sign I used to make with my mom, right after my dad died.Hold me when I don’t have the words.

I haven’t needed to use that sign with my mom in years, but it’s the second time I’ve reached for it since I got to this world last night.

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