The fact that I could see as soon as I opened my eyes should have clued me in that something was wrong. Maybe it was the fact that I had just woken up. Maybe it was the phone alarm ringing across the room. I sat for a second, and then stood up and walked across the carpeted floor to the dresser, and turned off the alarm.

That was weird. I usually charge my phone on my nightstand.

I had several missed alarms. The first one was for 7 AM. Today was Saturday. I never set my alarm for 7 AM on my days off.

Also, I didn’t own a dresser. I hung some shoe organizers in my closet, and had a fabric box for my underwear and socks. This entire room had bland gray carpet, floor-to-floor. No sign of my cozy thrift store rug. The room was too big, too. I didn’t recognize any of the pictures, nor any of the people in them.

I opened what appeared to be some closet doors. They were, indeed, closet doors, and there was a full-length mirror hanging off one of them.

I had spent the night before dying my hair purple. Now my hair was dark brown, shoulder-length instead of past my shoulder blades. I now had a prominent nose and lips. I had gone to bed in a t-shirt my aunt had given me at the reunion last year, but now I was in a tank top and booty shorts.

I looked at the pictures around the room, and could see my new face in a few of them.

Okay.

Okay.

I crossed back over to the phone and opened it up. Fortunately it just...opened. Either I hadn’t put a password on it, or it was one of those fancy face-recognition phone that I couldn’t afford (but maybe this new me could?). The background was me, another girl with sandy hair and a similar face, and a little blond toddler with the same lips.

First I opened the email. This person kept her inbox spotless. There were only three unread emails, and they had all appeared overnight. But I was still able to gather information quickly: this person had the name Rebecca Hayes. She was was a member of a gym, a yoga studio, and a recreation co-op. She received regular emails from a bicycling company. She was a State alumna, business program. The only emails from her bank were just notices that her statement was available to download.

Looking around the room, I could see a butterfly motif. The pictures all had square, flat frames, made to look like the pictures were just floating. But here and there were pictures of butterflies. The picture sitting on her nightstand was a metal frame with a butterfly in one corner. The bedspread was butterflies, the pillows had butterflies. And, now that I looked, there was a butterfly embroidered on the V of my tank top.

Rebecca Hayes also had an Instagram. I opened the app. Here I learned more about her social circle. She went on bicycling trips, did overnight camping. Her friends called her Becky and Becks, and her friends had names like Kiki, Ash, and Lex. The girl in her phone background was her older sister Brook, and the toddler was her nephew, Calder. Brook also had a husband, but Becky and Brook never mentioned the husband by name so.

So. I was currently Becky Hayes. I liked exercising, and I liked butterflies. I liked my natural hair color.

I looked back at myself, Rebecca Hayes, in the mirror.

Oh damn, I had thunder thighs.

Holy shit. I could squeeze a watermelon with those thighs of steel. I could kill a man by clenching hard enough. Good god. Girly was built. I had legs for days. My calves were amazing, too. Even standing in a relaxed pose, I could see the muscles of my calves. I lifted my arms and they weren’t quite a gun show, but there wasn’t any bat wings, and when I clenched, I could see the muscles. I lifted my tank top. No six-pack, but it was definitely a flat stomach. A decent booty, too. Rebecca Hayes was pear-shaped and sexy. Hot damn.

I left the room. I’m sure I should have been wondering how the hell I went from being Ria Vanderberg. Maybe I’ve read too many Asian webtoons to really question it. Maybe I was on some sort of new-identity high.

The carpet continued into the living room, and stopped at the kitchen. The kitchen was linoleum. There were four other doors from what I could see. One of them was probably a bathroom. Hopefully.

The kitchen had an espresso machine.

This was a GOOD espresso machine. Hardcore. Old-school. My little barista heart went pitter-pat. There was also a drip brewer. No K-cups. Becky Hayes and her roommates were coffee fanatics. I had to wipe drool from my face.

I slipped into my Barista Mode. A macchiato sounded so good right now. Here was the espresso cup, here was the tamper. There was a Brita filter in the fridge, so I was able to use filtered water. I could only find oat milk in the fridge, which I guess is better than soy, at least? I would prefer cow milk, really. But whatever, this was Becky’s house.

I didn’t see a milk warmer, but I did find a frothing wand. So I just put the oat milk in the microwave, then froth by hand. The espresso was down pouring. I marked it with the oat milk, then downed the macchiato in one gulp.

Oh fuck yeah.

I turned to rinse the shot cup in the sink, and saw there was another woman standing in the entryway to the kitchen, staring at me.

I vaguely recognized her from Becky’s Instagram photos. Yes, this was a roommate; Becky and this girl had done a few photos of their weeknights in, and had done a selfie of themselves doing face masks. This was Ash. She was wearing a polo shirt with the name of a hotel on it, her face was shiny, and her red ponytail was in disarray. She looked like she had just gotten off work. Maybe she was a night auditor for the hotel?

“Morning, Ash,” I said.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Making coffee.”

“Why aren’t you at work?”

“It’s Saturday,” I said.

Horror dawned on me. What if Becky also worked a job that had shifts on Saturday? What if this wasn’t her day off? Just because it was Ria’s day off didn’t mean it wasn’t Becky’s.

“Becks,” said Ash, “It’s Tuesday.”

I dropped the glass in the sink.