Page 2 of The Holiday Fakers
“Hey! This gonna take all day?”
I whip around at the biting tone of the woman standing behind me.
“Sorry. I—I’m sorry,” I say, then turn back to my favorite barista as I fumble in my purse for my wallet.
She leans in, folds her hand over mine, and gives me a sympathetic smile.
“It’s on the house,” she says quietly, then yells over her shoulder, “don’t forget the extra cinnamon!”
“Thank you,” I manage, my eyes prickling at her kindness, then push a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar before she can stop me.
It’s lunchtime, and the place is filled with worker bees. They jostle one another like they’re in a roller derby as they hurry inside, stand impatiently in line, then rush back out into the cold with steaming coffee and the panini of the day. Pigeons flap and fight over dropped crumbs on the icy sidewalk.
Grabbing my gingerbread latte, I weave through the press of bodies and find a free booth at the back. I slide to the far end, facing the wall, and pull out my phone. No one can see me, yet I still cup my free hand over the screen as I stare at the images.
A photo of me exiting Espresso Yourself, smiling. I know exactly when this picture was taken. My fantasy drawing of an elvish warrior had just gone viral last week. Well, fifty-seven likes and ten commentsispretty memorable to me.
But who snapped it? And why? Do I have a stalker?
In the next photo, Brody is going into the shop. He’s got a baseball cap pulled low over his face, but I would recognize his mouth and the line of his jaw anywhere. And then there’s one of the two of “us” embracing right outside.
Which didn’t happen. Not inthisuniverse, anyway.
My heart is still pounding in my chest, but I’m seated, so it doesn’t matter how jelly-like my legs are. I gaze at the pictures playingspot the difference. The woman he’s hugging is dressed in a red coat and brown hat and boots, my exact clothes.
Hold the front door.
I run my fingers through my wavy blonde hair, checking where it ends, then consider the length of my coat. The one the girl’s wearing definitely falls an inch lower on her legs, and her hair is a fraction shorter than mine.
Now that I’ve started analyzing, I can’t stop. The woman’s standing on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around Brody’s neck, and he’s bending down. Unless he’s grown since I last saw him, she’s definitely smaller than I am.
My breath rushes out, and I sag into the banquette seat like a deflated red balloon. It’s just a coincidence that Brody came in to my favorite coffee shop with his latest squeeze, who happens to have blonde hair and almost the same clothes and bag as I do.
And because the photographer didn’t get a good shot of her, he hung around, saw me and thought we were the same person.
See? Perfect sense.
I close my eyes with relief and take a sip of my latte, letting the flavors transport me to my happy place—my family home in Hideaway Harbor, Maine. Mom’s cinnamon cookies are cooling on a rack, and Dad has just brewed a pot of coffee.
Sighing happily at the memory, I gulp my drink, then choke as it goes down the wrong pipe. I slap a hand over my mouth, dropping the cup, and cough violently, coffee spraying through my splayed fingers and splattering across the table.
My eyes are streaming, my lungs heaving as I struggle to suck in air before coughing again. My chest burns, my cheeks are on fire, and I’m wheezing and hacking like a donkey.
A hand appears, holding a pile of napkins, each finger weighed down with massive gold rings. I snatch a couple of napkins and cover my mouth as I take in my rescuer. He’s a short man in his sixties, with thinning hair dyed a reddish-black and slicked back over his head. I clock his camel-colored coat and brown silk scarf as he pats the surface of the table. He looks like he’s just stepped out of a 1970s mafia movie.
“Thank you,” I manage, finally getting control of myself.
“No problem,” he replies in a nasal accent, then slides into the seat across from me and extends a hand. “Marvin DeVille. You can call me Marv.”
I take it, wondering again if I’ve dropped into a parallel world where weird shit just keeps on happening. “Uh … Piper.”
He nods, not looking the least bit surprised. “You’re perfect. Even cuter IRL. And let’s stick with the minimal makeup. Right on brand.” He grins, revealing four gold teeth, two of which have diamonds embedded in them. “This is gonna be great!”
I blink. “What’s going to be great?”
He glances over my shoulder, toward the entrance of the coffee shop, and his eyes light up. “Right on time!”
Marv stands again, his arm outstretched, a smile so wide it looks almost painful.
