Jessica Joyce

Twins separated by fifty or so years. Soulmates born in different decades.

“All right, Eli,” I say, looking him up and down. He’s wearing scuffed Nikes, gym shorts, and a T-shirt with a tear near the
neck. I can see a sliver of collarbone pressing sharply against his golden skin, the glint of a fragile gold chain. “I guess I’m kind of adopting you, too.”

His eyes move over my face. “Probably a good idea, since I’ve already got a nickname picked out for you and everything.”