The Blonde Identity: A Novel

As Zoe drew a deep breath and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, she couldn’t help but think about Paris. She remembered staring through that darkened window, watching Alex on TV—the way their faces had overlapped and all she’d seen were the ways they were alike. But three days later, she was acutely, terribly, overwhelmingly aware of how much they were different.

So she was more than a little nervous as she tucked a strand of too-red hair behind her ear and opened the door.

“Hey!” Sawyer called from the kitchen. “I was thinking, since we don’t know what kind of cover Alex was using, we should . . .”

He trailed off.

He looked.

He stared.

He seemed at risk of maybe—possibly—swallowing his own tongue.

Or at least that was how it felt to Zoe as she stood in those skintight clothes, wondering, Is he dumbfounded in the good way or is he dumbfounded in the bad way and how will I ever know and does it even matter and—

“That’s . . . um . . . you’re . . .” Eventually, he crossed his arms and made a noise she hadn’t heard since she’d come out in Mrs. Michaelson’s unzipped dress. “Yeah. No one is going to think you’re pregnant in that.”

He had a point. Tight black leather. A top that barely reached her waistband so she really wanted to slouch but #38 on the HOW TO BE LIKE ALEX list was “be inferior to no one” so that kind of seemed posture-specific and Zoe didn’t want to risk it.

So she threw her shoulders back. She tried to walk, but her pants were ridiculously tight. And her boots were ridiculously tall. And she felt . . . well . . . ridiculous.

“How does Alex walk in these things?” She looked down at her new boots. “And does she always wear her pants this tight?”

He tensed. “Why do I feel like this is a trick question?” he asked but Zoe was already stretching and bending and . . .

“I have a feeling they’re too tight? Does Alex really fight like . . .” She tried to kick but almost fell as she twisted, looking. “Did my pants split open? How does Alex do this? How does she fight and walk and stay alive in pants that are constantly on the verge of splitting . . .”

Zoe stuck her butt out and tried to touch her toes and Sawyer turned a deeper shade of crimson.

“Please don’t bend . . .”

“Seriously. Are my pants splitting open?” She craned her neck and looked over her shoulder as her heart started pounding. “I feel like I’m . . .”

I’m not strong enough. I’m not brave enough. I’m not Alex enough and the whole world is going to see it and you’re going to see it and how am I supposed to be someone else when I can’t even be me and—

The pressure seemed to break then—not in her pants—but in Zoe herself. She felt like she might split right down the middle. Her hand reached up and traced the scar that ran between her breasts. She didn’t know why. She had forgotten it was there until she felt it through the fabric of her shirt. It was like the real her was trying to claw to the surface—take the wheel—remind her of the thing she should never forget: I’m not as good as Alex. I’m not as strong as Alex. I’m not as brave as Alex.

It wasn’t something that she thought. It was something that she knew. Like the alphabet or the names of the states or the fact that she didn’t have the skin tone to wear yellow. She knew that she was less than Alex in the same way she knew that ten was less than twenty. In the way she knew—

“Hey.” His hands were on her arms and his gaze was like an anchor, the only thing that could keep her from floating away on that vicious current of self-doubt.

“Hey, where’d you go, lady?” Sawyer pulled Zoe closer, and she breathed in the clean, fresh smell of him and wanted to curl up and sleep for a thousand years. She wanted to pretend they were the only two people in the world, but she couldn’t do that—she had to pretend to be Alex.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was gentle.

It had seemed so easy. In theory. So basic and sensible. In theory. She could walk in, be her sister, grab the drive, and ride into the sunset with the really hot, really broody, really deceptively kind man. In theory!

But in practice, her pants were too tight and her palms were too wet and her heart was pounding way too hard in her chest. The whole world was full of shadows, and she had no idea what was going to jump out at her.

“I’m not like Alex,” Zoe said, finally looking up at Sawyer. “I thought I could do this. It sounded like such a good idea—like shampoo with conditioner but what you get is hair that’s not really shampooed and also not really conditioned and I don’t know how I know that! I just know that I’m in these ridiculous clothes, trying to pull off this ridiculous plan, and . . . No one is ever going to believe I’m Alex!”

“I know. You’re nothing like her.” She might have been insulted if it weren’t for the kindness in his eyes—the wicked gleam as he said, “You’re better.”

“But these pants . . .”

“And hotter. Did I mention hotter?”

“But—”

“And kinder. And smarter. And funnier. And . . . Who jumped off the bridge, Zoe? Who got us out of Paris? Who hot-wired the car?”

For a moment, she actually thought it might be a trick question, but she couldn’t help looking up at him, admitting, “I don’t know how I did those things. I wasn’t even thinking when I did them. But I’m thinking about this, and what I know is no one will ever believe that I am—”

He stopped her with a kiss. It was quick and soft and gentle, and for a moment Zoe forgot about her pants and her sister and the bank. Zoe forgot about everything except that man and that moment and that feeling. But, too soon, he was pulling back and tipping her face up.

“I worked with Alex for five years. Now guess how many times I wanted to kiss her.”

She really didn’t want to guess, though. And she really, really didn’t want to know. “You don’t have to—”

“Never, Zoe. Not once.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “I thought she was beautiful and smart and cunning. I thought she was a great operative. And I was glad she was on my side, but I never wanted to kiss her.”

“You probably say that to all your danger bangs.” It was a joke. It was. But he wasn’t laughing and neither was she and when he pressed against her, looked into her eyes, she knew—she knew even before he said—

“It wasn’t a danger bang.”

And then she wanted to cry—emotion springing out through her eyes because she was just so full she couldn’t hold it in as she shook her head and her voice got all wobbly and her cheeks got all wet. “It wasn’t a danger bang.”

His hands cradled her face, pushing the too-red strands of the wig away from her eyes—like he couldn’t take the chance she might not see. “And that’s why I’m telling you, you don’t have to do this.”

“No.” She kissed him quickly. And she knew it—in her gut and in her bones and in her soul. “That’s why I do.”