I think back to Ivy’s email. It said something about trying to get off at six. Do Jake and I have dinner plans? Where do we like to eat? The way he’s looking at me makes me think it must be something more concrete than slurping noodles on the couch. Does he drag me to functions and red-carpet stuff? Does the Juilliard-pedigreed me know how to act at those things? Can I make that cocked-hip, half-akimbo pose? Or do I lurk in the shadows, furtively scarfing down canapés? Have we ever fooled around at a premiere?

  That thought curls my toes and convulses my lower stomach. Which tells me I can’t come back here tonight, to this man who needs to fuck his wife. Because his wife needs to figure her shit out before her husband busts out the handcuffs.

  I rise from bed and try to center myself on two feet.

  “I’m gonna need for us to have a fight!” I announce to Jake, because fighting is how we relate. Fighting with him makes me feel like me.

  “I know,” he says, and sighs.

  “Don’t agree! Fight!”

  “I mean, I know why you’re mad . . . you saw the new toothpaste I bought. But you’re murdering your enamel with that whitening stuff, and one of these days—”

  “This is what we fight about? Toothpaste?” I look at him, disgusted. “You suck at fighting. You fight like a Quaker on ecstasy.”

  “Ohhh,” Jake says, his eyes lighting up. He gives me a knowing nod. “More role-playing! Dr. Kenyon will be so proud”—he raises one eyebrow—“Mistress Cherise.”

  “What . . . no!”

  Who is Dr. Kenyon? A marriage therapist? Of course, we’d need one! But why do we pay someone who encourages the use of dom/sub pet names? And who the hell’s idea was Mistress Cherise? My stomach flips because I fear, instinctively, that it could have been mine.

  “Sorry, I misunderstood,” Jake says, crestfallen and confused.

  I’m starting to feel bad for the guy. He didn’t ask for any of this, and he seems to be genuinely trying to help. But he can’t help me. We come from two completely different realities.

  “Ohhh.” His eyes light up again. “Ivy sent revised pages—is that it?”

  Okay, so he understands me a little.

  “And you’re trying to get in the zone for a scene?” he says.

  “Bingo,” I say slowly.

  “Then let’s fight, Doctor. I’m here for it.” Jake makes a grotesque face, lifts his arms, and plods toward me. “Me sue you for malpractice.”

  A genuine laugh bursts out of me, because . . . he’s funny. The man just went all in on a disgruntled zombie bit before eight a.m., nailing all the nuances that make the zombies on the show so wonderfully campy.

  In the real world, I pretend Jake isn’t so comedically impressive. Because he hurt me. Because enough other people adore him. Because it’s easiest to mask my pain with contrarianism.

  But this morning, when Jake shines his spotlight directly on me, I can’t help but drop my walls. I dissolve into hysterics, which makes him dissolve into hysterics, and for just a moment, when we’re laughing, I forget that I don’t belong here.

  His arms come around me and his lips meet the top of my head, and he says in the gentlest voice, “Baby. You’re going to be okay.”

  I push away, gasping for breath. “I’ve got to get out of this—”

  “Show,” Jake says, letting his arms drop to his side.

  I was about to say world.

  “I know,” he says.

  I laugh darkly. “You don’t—”

  “This isn’t forever.” He gives me a sad smile. “Let’s just make it through the season.”

  He leaves the room, but his words linger in the air, reminding me of what I said to Gram Parsons when I picked up that last fateful Lyft shift. The one that led me to Jake Glasswell, the one that led me here. Whatever role I play on Zombie Hospital in this life, I don’t like it either. And Jake speaks to me like I’m Gram Parsons.

  I skim my emails for other clues and find myself clicking on the subject line of the last non-Zombie Hospital message.

  Your monthly donation to Food Forward

  I hurry to open it, because this is something that resonates with my real life. Food Forward is a charity that picks excess fruit from private properties and gives it to people in need. Mom and I have volunteered for the past ten years, picking apples and oranges in neighborhoods all over Southern California.

  But the subject line confuses me. I’ve given a hundred dollars here and there for their annual campaigns, but I’ve never had the cash to be a monthly-auto-debit giver. I scroll down to the middle and my jaw drops. I give ten thousand a month to Food Forward?

  I swipe to leave the email app and let my finger hover over my bank app. Anxiety twists my chest, as it always does when I get here. I click, let it do face recognition, and wonder why that works. How much of me have I imported across this cliff’s abyss?

  Then I see a very strange number in my balance. A feeling flows through me that I don’t recognize.

  Can this possibly be true? Just in case it is, I double my donation. Maybe I should triple it?

  I knew Jake did well, of course, though I’m not sure I ever thought specifically about his finances. Still, something about this unexpected bank balance gives me the feeling I might be crushing it professionally, too.

  A notification appears on my phone, sounding the same chime I have set in my real life for Lyft trips. But it’s not a rider summoning my LEAF. Philippe’s on his way here to chauffeur me to set. I have twenty-two minutes to get dressed and out the door.

  I scramble into my bathroom, wondering how to dress for a life I don’t understand. While I brush my teeth, I do what all Angelenos do when they find themselves in a social situation they can’t make sense of. I consult IMDb.

  I type in Zombie 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 he doing with it? Is Everything’s Jake getting 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 the middle 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.

  It comes as an instinct, from a part of me I can’t remember, but which also feels ingrained. Juilliard? Did they train me to learn lines by attaching true gestures and emotions to them? The answer ripples through me—at once reassuring and heart-wrenching.

  In real life, all my dad’s death did was break Lorena’s and my hearts. In this life, it seems I learned how to use it.

  But use it to do what? Masha and I always thought Zombie Hospital was pure escapist fun, but anticipating actually saying these lines makes me wonder how I’ve done something so unchallenging for six whole years.

  The Escalade stops in traffic at La Brea and South Sixth. I look out the window and yelp at what I see. Eli and Masha are seated at a sidewalk two-top outside République. They have two carry-on suitcases by their table. They must be en route to their honeymoon! They’re adorable, sharing an apple fritter, less than ten feet from my car.

  Bliss fills my heart at the sight of my best friend. Then it’s replaced by fervor. This is my last chance to clear the air with Mash before she leaves the country for a week.

  I try to roll down the window. “Hey!” I tell Philippe, “can you please roll my window down?”

  He shakes his head. “Your allergies, Miss O. Natural air not allowed until June.”

  “What?” I mean, I do get hay fever, but who gives a shit? I sigh and pick up my phone, relieved to find Masha’s number in my Contacts. I dial, put it on speaker, and watch her. She sees the phone ringing, leans forward to see who it is.

  “Pick up!” I shout, banging on the tinted glass. “It’s Olivia! I’m right next to you!”

  Contempt crosses Masha’s face. My heart sinks as she shows her phone to Eli, who shakes his head in solidarity like, Can you believe the nerve.

  For a moment it looks like she’s going to throw the phone into the street, but Eli takes it from her, slips it into his pocket, and just like that, it’s over.

  The traffic moves. Philippe pulls away. I turn and watch through the back window as my best friend turns a new page in her life. And closes the book on me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The studio gate slides open and the Escalade drives through. After Masha dissed my call, I pleaded with Philippe to quit the GPS and take me to Santa Monica, to the site of last night’s wedding. Because what was I doing, pretending to go to work in this life? How could I do anything except return to the scene of my reality schism and beg that beach to take me back where I belong?

  Apparently, it wasn’t the first time I’d begged Philippe to take me somewhere other than to set, and he was under strict orders to deliver me straight to a grid of anonymous beige square buildings in midcity LA.

  He slows before a dark-haired early-twenties woman wearing glasses and overalls, her hair in a topknot. She doesn’t wait for the Escalade to stop before she flings open my door and hands me a key on a metal lanyard.

  “As requested, they changed the lock on your trailer,” the woman says. “And Marty has five for you now.” Her body vibrates with busy energy that will not suffer fools. She nods toward a nearby trailer.

  I look at the tattoo climbing her forearm—a tendril of poison ivy. Peace, love, and Ivy emoji Riñata. My assistant.

  I’d love to call my mom and say I’ve got an assistant, and that somehow kissing Jake Glasswell led me here.

  Who is Marty? Hair and makeup?

  “Thanks. Ivy.” I glance to make sure I’m right about her name. She’s unfazed as she raps on Marty’s trailer door.

  “Glad you survived the wedding,” Ivy says. Before I can reply, before I can question whether I did survive the wedding, Ivy’s skipping down the trailer steps and on to her next errand.

  The trailer door swings open, and the redhead dressed in black with turquoise jewelry must be Marty. She squints at me with a trained, omniscient eye. She says nothing, but I feel like she can tell something’s different.

  She points me toward the chair. I sit and feel her gaze on my face, my skin, my eyes. Brushes glide swiftly over my skin, her body blocking my view in the mirror. She leans in to do my eyes, narrows hers, purses her lips. The confession—that I’m not myself, that someone needs to do something about it—is forming on my lips when there’s a knock, and Ivy returns to the doorway.

  “Is she ready?” she asks Marty, who squints at me once more, mists a spray over my face, and spins my chair away.

  I sprint to keep up with Ivy through the lot, through stage doors, down frigid hallways, past crew members in cargo shorts and hoodies, ducking mics and lights, double-Dutching thick black cords. Finally, we stop on a set I’ve seen a hundred times on TV.

  Inner squeal, outer cool as I take in Zombie Hospital’s cafeteria. There’s a long metal table in the middle of the set, two plates of food. This is where Dr. Mountjoy and my character like to gossip and relax.

  A crew member approaches me with a surgical cap and gown. She begins to put them on me. While she’s tying the gown, a middle-aged woman huddles close.

  “I know,” she says.

  I meet her eyes, dark and intelligent. What does she know? Who is she?

  “We experimented with your lines. You saw the sides. But network wants things status quo.”

  I nod. She must be the director. There’s something I wanted changed that I’m not getting.

  “Is Olivia here yet?” an impatient—and familiar—voice slices through the set. Aurora Apple charges in and stops before me in a matching turquoise surgical gown.

  In this realm Aurora is Dr. Summerlyn Mountjoy. She’s not on Jake’s show. She’s on mine. She’s the star. I’m her sidekick. I exist to make her look good. Heat rolls up my spine like a warning, telling me that in this world as in my real world, I don’t trust this woman.

  At least, I find myself thinking, Jake doesn’t spend all day with her.

  “I need to talk to you,” she says, grabbing my wrist and pulling me away.

  I was obsessed with Aurora as a teenager. I was judgmental of her as Jake’s cohost. But now a surprising emotion tightens my chest. Am I . . . jealous?

  She moves closer to me. “What’s wrong with you? Are you still pissed about your lines? Didn’t you see my texts? I really need—”

  “Quiet on the set!” a call comes from the back of the room. There’s a flurry of activity, quiet bodies darting everywhere. Aurora and I rush to the cafeteria table. A woman who must be my body double clears out of the way and I take her place, sitting across from Aurora under two key lights, a camera inches from my face.