Jessica Joyce

Twins separated by fifty or so years. Soulmates born in different decades.

I punch in the number of the last bakery, my gaze pinned on Eli while the line rings. He’s off his phone now, so he’s either beat me to this one or didn’t find it. His attention is fixed on something neon pinched between his fingers—a Post-it note, folded into one of his paper rings.

It’s a moment of familiarity, but since we got to Blue Yonder twenty-six hours ago, there’s little else that’s been familiar about him. Bodysnatched Eli Mora is thriving.

And he’s messing with my head.

Though I have plenty of legitimate things to think about, I’ve instead spent the past day trying to figure out what’s with him. Alien abduction? Demon possession? Some of it fits the profile, among it that moment in the car yesterday and the way he called me Peach, like I was still that person to him.

But I don’t think demonically possessed people have weekly therapy appointments, or go on what I’m starting to think of as The Adam Apology Tour, or throw therapy-speak at their ex-girlfriends about their hyper-independence issues when they’ve spent the past five years not talking about anything that mattered to or hurt them.