After Marcus left with promises to bring "real food" tomorrow because "hospital food is basically a war crime," Emma found herself alone with Jake's body and a growing list of things she had absolutely no idea how to do.
Okay, Emma. Priority number one: master basic bodily functions before attempting anything ambitious like walking to the cafeteria or figuring out how dating apps work.
She'd managed the toilet situation earlier with only minor catastrophe, but now she was facing a new challenge: the fact that Jake apparently had the bladder capacity of a small whale, and it was making demands.
Round two. I can do this. How hard can it be? I've got the basic concept down.
Emma made her way to the bathroom with the confidence of someone who had successfully used a toilet exactly once in this body and was therefore basically an expert.
Stand, aim, done. Easy.
Except this time, Jake's body had apparently decided to demonstrate the full complexity of male anatomy. She stood in front of the toilet, positioned herself carefully, and...
Why is nothing happening? Come on, body. We had a deal. I think happy thoughts about functioning limbs, you do basic biological processes.
She shifted position. Tried a different stance. Wondered if there was some kind of mental switch she was missing.
This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman. I mean, I'm a grown woman in a man's body, but still. How complicated can this possibly be?
Oh god, what if Jake's body is broken? What if the accident damaged something important? What if I'm stuck with a beautiful, functional body that can't perform basic—
And then it worked. With the enthusiastic reliability of a fire hose.
WHOA. Okay. That's... that's a lot more pressure than I was expecting. Is this normal? This seems like it could be a safety hazard.
She managed to hit the toilet this time, mostly, though Jake's bathroom floor was going to need some attention.
Mental note: research male anatomy. Possibly invest in better aim. Definitely apologize to Jake's cleaning lady.
After cleaning up and washing her hands, Emma caught sight of herself in the mirror again and paused. Jake's hair was doing something that could generously be called "styling" and less generously described as "what happens when you stick your finger in an electrical socket."
Right. Hair maintenance. This is probably important if I'm going to convince people I'm a functioning human being.
She ran Jake's fingers through his hair experimentally. It was thick and had a slight wave that suggested it usually looked effortlessly attractive. Right now, it looked like he'd been wrestling with hospital pillows.
How do guys do hair? There's got to be a system, right? Products? Techniques? Some kind of ancient masculine wisdom passed down through generations?
She looked around the bathroom and spotted a small bag on the counter that she hadn't noticed before. Inside: travel-sized shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, a razor, and something called "texturizing paste."
Texturizing paste. That sounds... scientific. Jake, were you a hair chemist?
Emma opened the container and sniffed it. It smelled like what she imagined confidence would smell like if confidence were a scent—clean, masculine, and slightly intimidating.
Okay, here goes nothing.
She scooped out a small amount and tried to distribute it through Jake's hair. The results were... uneven.
Why is it so sticky? And why does the left side of my head now look like I'm auditioning for a boy band while the right side looks like I'm experiencing a personal crisis?
She tried to fix it with water. This made it worse.
Come on, hair. Work with me here. We're supposed to be a team.
After several minutes of increasingly frustrated styling attempts, Emma gave up and tried to smooth everything down with her hands.
Good enough. Jake's natural attractiveness will have to compensate for my complete lack of grooming skills.
She was contemplating whether deodorant application was intuitive or if she needed to research that too when her phone—Jake's phone—started buzzing.
More dating app notifications. How popular was this guy?
Emma picked up the phone and nearly dropped it when she saw the screen. Seventeen new matches since yesterday. Twenty-three messages. And something called "Super Likes" that seemed to be very exciting to the app.
Jesus, Jake. Were you running some kind of dating empire?
She scrolled through the messages, her eyes getting wider with each one.
"Hey handsome, want to come over and help me with some... furniture moving?" Is that code for something? That sounds like code.
"I like your abs in your third photo. Want to show me more?" Direct. I can appreciate directness.
"Netflix and chill? I have wine and very comfortable furniture." Why does everyone mention furniture? Is furniture a dating thing now?
Emma sat down on the hospital bed, staring at Jake's phone with the expression of an anthropologist discovering a completely new civilization.
This is dating now? People just... say what they want? And send pictures? And apparently everyone is very interested in Jake's furniture-related activities?
She scrolled further and found Jake's profile.
"Jake, 28. Marketing exec. Enjoys hiking, good wine, and spontaneous adventures. Looking for someone who can keep up." Plus six photos that look like they were taken by a professional photographer specializing in making people look like underwear models.
No wonder everyone's messaging him. Jake, you beautiful bastard, you were basically the dating app equivalent of winning the lottery.
Emma stared at one photo in particular—Jake at what looked like a beach, mid-laugh, with the kind of smile that probably caused actual traffic accidents.
I'm going to have to learn how to be this person. How to be someone that attractive, that confident, that... smooth.
Her stomach chose that moment to remind her that Jake's body apparently required significantly more fuel than her previous one had.
Food. Right. Basic survival needs before advanced dating strategy.
She made her way to the little cafeteria menu by the bed and was scanning the options when a knock interrupted her.
"Jake? It's Dr. Peterson."
Doctor. Okay. Be normal. How hard can it be?
"Come in," Emma called, still startled by Jake's voice every time she heard it.
Dr. Peterson was a woman in her forties with the kind of brisk efficiency that suggested she'd seen everything and wasn't impressed by most of it.
"How are you feeling today? Any headaches? Dizziness? Memory issues?"
Memory issues. Well, I remember everything about my old life and nothing about Jake's, so...
"Some memory gaps," Emma said carefully. "But I feel... really good, actually. Like, better than I have in years."
Dr. Peterson made notes on her chart. "That's excellent. Brain injuries are unpredictable, but your scans look perfect. Sometimes trauma can actually reset certain neural pathways, create new connections. You might find yourself feeling different, maybe more confident or motivated."
More confident. If she only knew.
"We're going to keep you one more night for observation, but I expect you'll be discharged tomorrow morning. Do you have someone who can stay with you for the first few days? Head injuries can have delayed effects."
Someone to stay with me. Right. I'm supposed to have a life, friends, relationships.
"My friend Marcus offered," Emma said, hoping this was true.
"Good. Take it easy for the next week. No strenuous exercise, no alcohol, no... vigorous activities." Dr. Peterson paused meaningfully. "I know that might be difficult given your... active social life, but your brain needs time to heal."
Active social life. She definitely means the dating app thing. Oh god, does everyone know about Jake's dating life?
"I'll take it easy," Emma promised.
After the doctor left, Emma lay back on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling.
Okay, Emma. Status update: You're in the body of someone who was apparently Seattle's most eligible bachelor. You have no idea how to be attractive, confident, or smooth. You can barely manage basic bodily functions without minor disasters. And tomorrow, you're getting discharged into a life you know absolutely nothing about.
She picked up Jake's phone again and looked at all those dating app messages.
But on the plus side, apparently I have options.
Emma grinned at Jake's reflection in the phone screen.
This is either going to be the adventure of a lifetime or the most spectacular disaster in the history of dating. Either way, it's going to be interesting.
Her stomach rumbled again, reminding her that even the world's most attractive body needed basic maintenance.
First things first: figure out hospital food. Then maybe work up to figuring out how to be irresistible to half of Seattle.
How hard can it be?