leather furnishings, neutral color palette, and geometric planters, and this place seems better suited for a Manhattan high-rise than some hidden, sleepy town in the Loess Hills of Western Iowa.
“Hi there. How can I help you today?” the bubbly receptionist asks from behind a glass desk. A headset rests on her ear, and she adjusts the reflective red frames on her face as she devotes her full attention my way. But her perky demeanor fades once she examines me.
Her jaw sets. Her eyes dart. She clears her throat.
It’s almost as though I’m making her nervous.
Maybe I look too much like my doppelgänger?
“I’m here to see Brienne Dougray,” I say. It’s so strange, saying my name in reference to another person. It feels unnatural. Familiar in my mind but foreign on my tongue.
“You must be Laurelin,” she says, eyes scanning her computer screen.
I nod. I’d given her my middle name when I called this morning.
“Perfect. Let me get you checked in,” she says, clicking her mouse. “Would you like something to drink while you wait?”
“I’m all right, but thank you.”
A second later, the receptionist rises. “Okay, I’m going to take you back to her office. She’s running just a bit late, but she’ll be with you shortly if you want to follow me.”
My grip on my bag tightens, and I swallow the bulge that’s forming in my throat. This place feels like a sauna, and I’m thinking this fitted sheath dress wasn’t the most comfortable choice for this moment, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
The young woman leads me down a long hallway, past offices that look like carbon copies of one another with frosted glass doors and lacquered white desks and matching potted plants, and when we get to the fifth door on the right, she stops.
“Here we are. Go on ahead and have a seat. Brienne will be with you shortly.” Her gaze is fixed on me for half a second before she returns to her desk, and I take the guest seat in “Brienne Dougray’s” office.
Her desktop is situated much like I used to have mine. Minimalist. Marble and rose quartz accents. Shiny silver-handled scissors. Cupstocked full of matching silver pens. Monitor screen so spotless you could use it as a mirror.
A silver nameplate on her desk all but stares at me, taunting almost. And I’m half-tempted to turn it away, but instead I cross my legs, fold my hands in my lap, and maintain my patience.
The faint scent of Lancôme Miracle—one of my signature scents that I’ve worn since my sophomore year at college—fills the room, only serving to strengthen my resolve.
This whole thing is absurd.
Beyond disturbing.
My head throbs, and I check the marble and quartz clock on the wall.
It’s twenty past two already. How have I been sitting here this long? And where the hell is she? Did the receptionist tip her off?
The room begins to spin, the walls seemingly closing in on me.
Nothing made sense before, but somehow over the course of the past twenty minutes, I’ve just leveled up to a whole other realm of insanity.
I cross and recross my legs.
I gaze out the window for a moment, to the smattering of passing cars on an otherwise empty afternoon street.
Digging my nails into my thigh, I sit up straight and check the clock once more.
It’s only been three more minutes, but it feels like it’s been another hour. The knots in my stomach are almost urging me to go. To pack up. To abort this mission because something is obviously amiss.
The receptionist said “Brienne” would be with me shortly. And no professional in their right mind makes a new client wait almost a half hour to be seen.
I clear my throat and reach for my bag, digging out my phone to help keep me occupied while I wait. I’m hopeful that a distractionmight quell the nerves and nausea that are digging their claws in me deeper by the second.
I swipe the screen and tap in my passcode, bringing the apps to life. And then I tap my messages—the last one to
“Hi there. How can I help you today?” the bubbly receptionist asks from behind a glass desk. A headset rests on her ear, and she adjusts the reflective red frames on her face as she devotes her full attention my way. But her perky demeanor fades once she examines me.
Her jaw sets. Her eyes dart. She clears her throat.
It’s almost as though I’m making her nervous.
Maybe I look too much like my doppelgänger?
“I’m here to see Brienne Dougray,” I say. It’s so strange, saying my name in reference to another person. It feels unnatural. Familiar in my mind but foreign on my tongue.
“You must be Laurelin,” she says, eyes scanning her computer screen.
I nod. I’d given her my middle name when I called this morning.
“Perfect. Let me get you checked in,” she says, clicking her mouse. “Would you like something to drink while you wait?”
“I’m all right, but thank you.”
A second later, the receptionist rises. “Okay, I’m going to take you back to her office. She’s running just a bit late, but she’ll be with you shortly if you want to follow me.”
My grip on my bag tightens, and I swallow the bulge that’s forming in my throat. This place feels like a sauna, and I’m thinking this fitted sheath dress wasn’t the most comfortable choice for this moment, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
The young woman leads me down a long hallway, past offices that look like carbon copies of one another with frosted glass doors and lacquered white desks and matching potted plants, and when we get to the fifth door on the right, she stops.
“Here we are. Go on ahead and have a seat. Brienne will be with you shortly.” Her gaze is fixed on me for half a second before she returns to her desk, and I take the guest seat in “Brienne Dougray’s” office.
Her desktop is situated much like I used to have mine. Minimalist. Marble and rose quartz accents. Shiny silver-handled scissors. Cupstocked full of matching silver pens. Monitor screen so spotless you could use it as a mirror.
A silver nameplate on her desk all but stares at me, taunting almost. And I’m half-tempted to turn it away, but instead I cross my legs, fold my hands in my lap, and maintain my patience.
The faint scent of Lancôme Miracle—one of my signature scents that I’ve worn since my sophomore year at college—fills the room, only serving to strengthen my resolve.
This whole thing is absurd.
Beyond disturbing.
My head throbs, and I check the marble and quartz clock on the wall.
It’s twenty past two already. How have I been sitting here this long? And where the hell is she? Did the receptionist tip her off?
The room begins to spin, the walls seemingly closing in on me.
Nothing made sense before, but somehow over the course of the past twenty minutes, I’ve just leveled up to a whole other realm of insanity.
I cross and recross my legs.
I gaze out the window for a moment, to the smattering of passing cars on an otherwise empty afternoon street.
Digging my nails into my thigh, I sit up straight and check the clock once more.
It’s only been three more minutes, but it feels like it’s been another hour. The knots in my stomach are almost urging me to go. To pack up. To abort this mission because something is obviously amiss.
The receptionist said “Brienne” would be with me shortly. And no professional in their right mind makes a new client wait almost a half hour to be seen.
I clear my throat and reach for my bag, digging out my phone to help keep me occupied while I wait. I’m hopeful that a distractionmight quell the nerves and nausea that are digging their claws in me deeper by the second.
I swipe the screen and tap in my passcode, bringing the apps to life. And then I tap my messages—the last one to
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