On the old phone.
That matters.
It buzzed against the nightstand beside the twin bed I haven’t slept in properly since high school. Same pale blue walls. Same hairline crack near the ceiling from when Riley threw a tennis ball too hard and swore she didn’t.
I’m sorry about last night. I think I got caught up. You’re grieving. I shouldn’t have pushed. I hope I didn’t make things harder.
I read it twice before responding.
She thinks she took advantage.
She thinks she kissed grief.
It’s okay. We both got caught up. No hard feelings.
Neutral. Polite. Measured.
Emotionally mature of her to apologize without prompting. To assume responsibility.
Adorable.
She assumes Taylor was vulnerable.
Not feral.
That distinction feels important.
I never got rid of Taylor’s phone.
That would’ve been careless.
Two phones.
Two numbers.
Two ecosystems.
Taylor’s life lives here — family threads, hometown contacts, funeral logistics.
Tag’s life lives in the black one — Shang Java group chats, JB’s spirals, delivery notifications at 2 a.m.
Separate call logs.
Separate cloud backups.
Separate histories.
It’s easier to be two people when the hardware cooperates.
And it cooperates beautifully.
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No overlap.
No suspicious timestamps.
No crossed wires.
Compartmentalization is a love language.
JB was more than happy to cover my shifts.
“Think of them as an extra Christmas gift,” he said. “And extra money.”
He gets paid. He gets hours. He gets something to rant about while pulling shots.
Four days at Shang Java.
No questions.
No suspicion.
No one wondered where I was.
No one ever does.
The goodbye with my parents was brief.
Mom hugged me longer than necessary.
Dad patted my shoulder.
“Call when you get in.”
“Drive safe.”
That was it.
No plea to stay.
No emotional breakthrough.
Just civility.
Distance disguised as maturity.
They think Taylor is stabilizing.
They think she’s regrouping.
They think I’m coming back.
On the plane, I replayed the bleachers.
Fireworks splitting the sky.
Her weight settling into my lap like she belonged there.
The way she didn’t hesitate when I grabbed her ass.
The way she pressed back.
The way she moaned.
I can still feel it in my hands.
Bodies aren’t interchangeable.
If this works —
if Tag gets her —
what then?
The breasts are the same.
The faint birthmark near my hip is the same.
The way my breath catches when someone kisses the right side of my neck?
Identical.
Intimacy is forensic.
Close enough, and people notice patterns.
Can I actually have the best of both worlds?
Let Taylor close the door.
Let Tag open another.
Or does one eventually expose the other?
That’s the only flaw in the design.
It should scare me.
It doesn’t.
It excites me.
Because if I succeed —
I don’t just get her.
I take her.
From a version of myself she thinks she understands.
Possession hums differently than lust.
Lust is heat.
Possession is gravity.
And I felt both when she moved against me.
Seattle smells like coffee and wet pavement.
The blonde already feels wrong.
Temporary.
I stand in the bathroom and mix the dye slowly.
Black spreads through pale strands like ink through water.
The rinse runs dark into the sink.
Shedding.
Restoring.
Taylor fades in stages.
Her restraint.
Her careful tone.
Her civility.
I don’t love the smell of dye.
Black suits me better anyway.
I scrunch the curls back into place.
The face in the mirror sharpens.
The jawline looks different framed in black.
The eyes look less apologetic.
More amused.
Taylor closes doors.
Tag prefers open ones.
If Taylor ends things cleanly —
with maturity and distance —
Tag gets a fresh field.
And I remember the way Auré reacted when I pulled her closer.
The way she didn’t pull away.
The way she said my name.
The wrong one.
Excitement coils low and focused.
Not chaotic.
Intentional.
She wanted me.
And I want her wanting me again.
On my terms.
The risk is exposure.
The reward is ownership.
If I play this right —
she won’t even realize the difference.
Provided no one looks too closely at the hinges.
I tilt my head at the mirror.
The curls fall exactly where they should.
Taylor Agnes Keene dissolves easily.
She always does.
Tag Urich smiles back.
And I feel much more like myself already this new year.