I stand there dumbfounded as I’m carried down the escalator and Ethan is carried up. Then he jumps into action, scuttling down the up escalator, dodging past a Kingdom Hearts cosplayer and a sexy Dalek, taking the steps two at a time to meet me at the bottom, where he straightens himself, patting down the wrinkles on his airplane-patterned button-down and fixing his glasses.

We stand there, me holding my breath, him trying to catch his, and we are two sides of the same coin. Opposite and hopeless and—

“I think I might like you,” he says again, breathless.

My mind is reeling. “Me? That’s just because I look like Jess—”

“No, I like you as you are—as Imogen Lovelace. Not as Jessica Stone. I like that you chew on your thumb when you’re nervous, and that you know how to braid even though you have short hair, and that sometimes you slip into strange accents when you don’t mean to, and that you’re bold, and you’re courageous, and you’re good, and—Look, what I said in the pool, I meant that, too. That you aren’t nothing.” He swallows and says, more softly, “Like Amara, you’re going to be amazing.”

“I’m not already?”

“Starflame, you’re insufferable.”

I take his face in my hands and pull him down to kiss me. He tastes like Cheerwine, his hands rising to cup the sides of my face. The mass exodus from the con bends around us like spacetime around the Prospero at lightspeed. He smells so nice, like sandalwood cologne and crisply ironed shirts, and as I lean into him my heart flutters. Because he is kissing me. The disapproving, insufferable, maddeningly hot Ethan Tanaka is kissing me, Imogen Lovelace.

The best version of me. The only version. Kissing the best, dorkiest, most tall and wonderful version of him.

When we finally break apart, he takes out his phone and asks, “May I get your phone number? Your real one this time?”

“I think you’ve earned it,” I reply, plucking his phone out of his hand, and kiss him again.

Jess

“IHM-OH-GEN-NE!” THE BARISTA CALLS.

I duck between two Sailor Scouts to snag my and Harper’s orders and carry them to our table. My hair is pulled up into a beanie, but slivers of brilliant blood red escape and twist across my neck. People aren’t really looking at us, probably because everyone is too tired to confront us, or my disguise is finally working, or because I told the barista Imogen’s name at the cash register. Hey, we promised that we would switch back, not that I would stop using her name.

Although, it’s hard to fool the paparazza sitting in her black SUV outside the café, but a girl can dream.

“Do you think Ethan found her?” Harper asks, taking a sip of her iced latte.