She’s not who she says she is. The woman sitting next to me—her head resting on my shoulder, nuzzling up to my jaw. She’s not my wife. Her usual scent of vanilla and roses does not fill my nose. I can’t tell if she’s trying something new—something her sister gave her. It smells spicy—mixed with something else. Something metallic. I’m worried she can feel my tense body.

Before I speak, I swallow. “Remember that trip?” I say, stroking her hair lovingly as I would with my actual wife. Even her hair feels off, stiff, not soft. “To Maine? It rained all weekend.” She nodded, not looking up. “Of course I remember.” I look down at her, and now I know she’s not my wife.

_We’ve never been to Maine._

__

__

My hand stills in her hair, but she doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does—and pretends not to. “I loved that little cabin.” She murmured. “The one with the green shutters.” I stay silent.

“You fell in the lake,” she added with a soft laughter. “Remember that?” I laugh too, hollow. Cold. My stomach twists.

“Yeah.” I cough out a fake laugh. “Freezing.”

My wife and I went to California. This all happened in California. She must’ve just gotten the places mixed up. How does she know what my wife and I have done?

She shifted, pressing a small kiss just below my jaw. Even her lips feel wrong, too dry. Too deliberate. Like someone who’s read about affection but has never felt it. Like the woman who stood at our wedding in a blue dress, smiling, _watching_. Like…

_Her twin._