Free Into My Arms by Lia Riley

night.
    No point squandering time on hope. None of that exists for the likes of me.

Beth
    I jerk awake. The sudden movement sends black dots cascading past my eyes. The time isn’t yet dawn and the bed is empty. Somewhere close comes the sound of water splashing tile. Z must be showering in the master bathroom. Reaching to the nightstand, I grapple for the lamp switch and illuminate the room. Holy shit, the bedding is destroyed, pillows and sheets scattered everywhere. After sex, I fell into a hard dreamless sleep, with no discussion of what passed between us. My chest tightens and my next breath is shallow, barely enough to draw air. We’re going to have to talk, and soon.
    As much as this weekend seems to exist beyond the space–time continuum, real life starts again Monday. At least for me. Z might have cleared his schedule but I’m scheduled to be back in the Fishbowl, at my desk.
    Shit. I grind the heels of my palms into my eyes. I can’t go back to how things were, door closed, having him PM me terse commands while Koroleva stares through the aquarium glass. But I can’t afford to quit either. And what about being taken seriously, getting funding for an app, having a project of my own? Did I just blow my best hope for a real future? A place of my own? No credit agencies sending threatening letters?
    Shit. Shit. Shit.
    Last night the idea of trouble sounded good, fun, a way to step outside the sterility of my day-to-day life. But now…everything is changed. And I’m not sure I like that. Screw change.
    Except would I give up what I have now to go back in a time machine and refuse to enter that helicopter? Erase the hot taste of Z on my skin? The way he looks at me as if I’m a puzzle that will reveal its secret answer if he watches long enough?
    Gah.
    No.
    I climb to the edge of the bed and find my pajamas crumpled in a ball. Slipping them on, I make the bed, at least that small nod to order is in my control. Then I pick up Z’s shirt, fold it on the bed, and reach for his slacks. His black leather wallet falls out, hits the floor, and scatters contents. I bend down with a muffled curse, picking up a special black American Express credit card, some crisp folded bills, and what appears to be a bent photograph.
    I shouldn’t look. Z’s wallet is private. I didn’t mean to toss his contents on the floor, but that doesn’t mean a peek is okay.
    Still, the man is an enigma.
    Who would he keep in his wallet? An image of his dead parents? I open it with hitched breath, and horror and confusion spiral through me as the image falls from my fingers. I sink after it, dropping limply to the ground.
    *  *  *
    I rock back and forth. Move! He’s going to be out any second. He can’t find you down here, not like this.
    But I can’t get up—my legs are shaking too damn hard.
    Even after everything that has happened in the past twelve or so hours, the discovery of that photograph takes the cake on strange and unsettling reveals. The shower is still going, so I pick up the image and stare again. It’s Z, younger, skinnier, and whoa, definitely nerdier. The kind of kid who looks like he was harassed by peers. You can see the bone structure that he’ll eventually grow into, the handsome man waiting in the wings to fill out, but however old he is here, fifteen or sixteen, he’s not there yet. This must have been the kid that Bran knew at the exclusive Australian boarding school where they were roommates for just over a year.
    But that’s not what sends my heart up to clog my throat. No. That would be the girl next to him in the image, the one he’s slung his wiry arm around, the one who looks as if she wants to smile, as if it will appear genuine if she tries hard enough.
    The girl who looks exactly like me.
    We’re talking a total freaky doppelgänger. This is clearly the “someone” I had reminded him of.
    When I stare closer, I can decipher tiny differences. This girl has a mole dotting the left corner of her