His adopted mom. His mom who is nothing close to his mom.

She watched the way they talked, easily and always smiling. Gloria Baxter was a petite woman with narrow hips. She wore corduroy pants in different colors and kept her hair dyed golden blond, the same shade as her adopted son. She worked as a bookkeeper for a lawyer’s office in town, and Cassandra had known her longer than she’d known Aidan.

Gloria put her hand on Aidan’s shoulder and kissed his cheek. He said something that made her laugh. It looked so natural. She’d seen them act that way countless times. She’d seen them argue too. All of those exchanges flickered through her mind as she watched this one. It was all playacting. None of it was real.

Aidan saw her through the window and waved. Gloria turned and waved too, and moments later, Aidan walked her up the driveway to the door. Inside smelled like marinara sauce and Parmesan cheese; the kitchen and dining room windows were still slightly fogged from the steam of boiling water.

“Hi, Cassandra.” Gloria smiled. “You just missed Aidan’s spaghetti. But there are plenty of leftovers. Are you hungry?”

“There really is a lot left,” said Aidan. “Too much for my dad to eat.”

“No, thanks.” Cassandra smiled a little weakly. Aidan slipped his hand beneath her hair onto the back of her neck.

“You okay with dishes, Mom?” he asked.

“Sure. You cooked.”

Aidan led Cassandra up the carpeted stairs to his bedroom and closed the door behind them.

“Hey,” Aidan said. “I saw the way you were watching us.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She skinned out of her jacket and tossed it on the bed.

“Sure you do. And I get it. But she is my mom, Cassandra. She didn’t raise me, but I love her just the same.”

Cassandra nodded. Just the same. What did he know? But he had lived a hundred lives. He might have had a hundred parents. So maybe he did know. Maybe he knew even better than she did.

She looked around the room like she’d never been there before. The green quilt on Aidan’s bed always smelled like Tide. His laptop sat closed on his desk, the top covered with stickers. Some of them were ones she’d given him. On the back of the door hung a vintage movie poster for Vertigo. Beside it on the wall was one of Radiohead and, next to that, a closet full of hooded sweatshirts. She gestured to the movie poster.

“You always did like vintage stuff.”

He nodded.

“Were you there for the filming? Spend a lot of time with Hitchcock?”

“Cassandra.”

“Or maybe you hung out with The Doors.” She looked over her shoulder at a poster of Jim Morrison. “Any of their songs about you?”

“Don’t do that. If you want to know anything about who I was, I’ll tell you.”

“Not about who you were. About who you are. I’m trying really hard not to feel like this room is one big prop. Even the messiness.” She toed a pile of dirty clothes lying by the foot of the bed. “It all feels very … quintessential teenager.”

“You still know me, Cassandra.”

“I know. I know you, and I don’t.” This was shaky ground. Until very recently, she’d thought her life was only just a little strange. Aidan sat on the bed and touched her cheek. He pushed his fingers into her hair. The feel of his hands was so familiar. How many times had he laid her back on this bed? How many times had he told her he loved her? She didn’t want anything to change. No matter how strange it was, he still made her feel so safe.

“I’m sorry I lied. But I think you can see why I would.”

“Would you ever have told me, if this hadn’t started happening?”

“Well, I would have had to, I guess. In about twenty years when I still wasn’t ageing.”

Cassandra smirked and pushed him. “Jerk.”

“I’m sorry! I don’t know when I would have told you. I was scared to.” He looked away, shoulders slumped. “I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”

Cassandra frowned. He was still Aidan. He’d never been anything different than what he was. She just hadn’t known. And she did understand why he would lie. It wasn’t the sort of thing you printed up on a t-shirt. There wasn’t really anything to forgive. “I just … have to get used to it.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “What about Andie and Henry? Will they get used to it?”

Andie and Henry. They talked to him, but with strange looks on their faces. Sometimes there was so much sheer concentration on Henry’s face, she thought he was going to pop something.