“Charlie, please come in. We can talk about this. Maybe there’s another show I can get you an audition for.”

“I’m done. I’m not coming in today because I don’t want to, not because I’m sick. You can shoot your B-roll and take your production stills of your next big star. And, you can all see how well Bake My Day goes with Austin at the helm. I want no part of it. Goodbye, Sasha.”

She hung up the phone and stood, heart racing. Her sister had told her to come here and keep her job secure, and she had just done the opposite. Because she knew what her sister didn’t: the job had never really been hers. Cass also knew, deep in her heart, that the things she had just said to Sasha were exactly the things Charlie would have said, if she had been here. She put her phone away and walked into the café.

“One latte and one Americano please,” Cass said, once she got to the front of the line, adding, “double for both.”

She had done one hard thing today, and now it was time to do another.

• • •

When Miguel entered the examination room, where Cass was waiting for him, the coffee she’d brought for him had long since gone cold. Cass jumped to her feet, holding it up, and realized Miguel’s expression looked anything but pleased to see her. She tossed the cold, useless coffee into a trashcan.

“Good morning,” he said, stiff and formal. He was wearing his scrubs and looked like he belonged on Grey’s Anatomy, somehow handsomer than ever. She struggled to focus. “You’ve finally decided to deal with your concussion symptoms? I can book a CT, most likely this morning, let me just call down to—”

“Miguel. I’m not here about my concussion. I don’t have a concussion.”

“Charlie. Please. You need to stop denying this and deal with what’s really happening.”

“You’re absolutely right, Miguel.”

“Okay, so I’m going to book that CT.” He glanced down at her chart. “There’s been a mistake, though. This chart says Cassandra Goodwin, not Charlotte. Isn’t that your sister’s name? I can’t book you a scan without—”

“No,” Cass said. “That’s definitely my chart. I’m Cassandra.”

Miguel looked up, puzzled. “So, is Charlie a stage name?”

“No. Miguel, there’s something I have to tell you. I’m not Charlie. I’m Cass.”

It felt good to say it, and it felt terrible to say it—like she was a bottle of soda, shaken up, and now finally someone was releasing the top. Miguel’s expression had gone from one of deep concern to one of alarmed confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“I have a twin. She’s me and I’m . . . her.” Cass shook her head. “This is not coming out right. I’m Cass is what I’m trying to say.”

“This is worse than I thought,” he said. “Sit down, okay? I’m going to go get—”

“Miguel. I’m fine. I don’t have a concussion because I’m not Charlie. I’m her identical twin sister, Cass. The day Charlie got her concussion and came here to see you and get treated, she also called me for help.” She paused to take a breath. “You’re right that the concussion was serious. Charlie lost her sense of taste and smell, and she didn’t think she could do her job properly. So, she called me. She asked if I would switch places with her until Sweet and Salty wrapped for the season. I came to L.A. and . . . pretended to be her.”