Chapter 2: Stepping Into Someone Else’s Life

The first time I met Mason Callahan was at the old Callahan house.

I can still picture the driveway lined with blue hydrangeas and the way the porch light glowed in the early twilight. Everything about that place felt grand—almost intimidating—compared to what I was used to back home.

I was fifteen, fresh out of middle school, still raw from loss. My parents had died in a car accident three months earlier, and the world hadn’t felt right since.

Grief clung to me like a second skin. Even now, the memory of that summer feels heavy—like I was moving underwater, every step weighed down by sorrow.

Mr. Callahan, my father’s old friend, was the one who brought me home.

He was gentle but firm, the kind of man whose steady presence made you feel safe. I remember the reassuring weight of his hand on my shoulder as we walked up to the house—a small anchor in a sea of change.

Clutching my backpack, I nervously followed Mr. Callahan out of the car, stepping onto the unfamiliar streets of Maple Heights. Everything smelled different here—crisper, with the sweetness of fresh-cut grass and a hint of someone grilling down the block. My sneakers squeaked on the walkway, and I prayed I wouldn’t trip and embarrass myself.

The Callahan family lived in a beautiful two-story house, complete with a basketball hoop over the garage and a porch swing that creaked in the breeze. There was even a small man-made pond in the backyard.

The windows sparkled in the sunlight, and wind chimes tinkled softly by the front door. Koi swam lazily in the pond, their scales flashing gold and orange beneath the surface.

In my hometown back in Mississippi, houses were small, clapboard, and close to the river—rarely more than one story. I missed the creak of old floorboards, the scent of honeysuckle drifting through open windows, and the steady song of cicadas at dusk.

The front door was wide open, and before I even stepped inside, I heard loud shouts coming from within—voices that sounded like kids my age.

Laughter echoed down the hallway, the kind of easy banter that told me these boys had known each other forever. My palms went clammy as I hovered on the porch, wishing I could disappear.

I licked my dry lips, trying to calm my nerves.

I tried to steady my breathing, counting silently—one, two, three—hoping it would help keep my anxiety in check.

Mr. Callahan went in first, giving the door a heavy knock. "You boys trying to shake the roof loose?" His voice had a kind of authority, but there was a smile in it too—a playful energy that made the chaos inside settle just a bit.

The group of boys, still grinning and joking, all stood up at once, scrambling to look innocent. One even tucked his shirt in, like that would erase the mess they’d made.

"Mr. Callahan, you’re back! How was your trip to Toledo?" Chris, the ringleader, flashed a crooked grin, while Sam waved from the armchair, his sneakers propped up on the coffee table.

Mr. Callahan pushed up his glasses, smiling kindly. "I went to pick someone up." He looked over the crowd, his eyes softening just a touch when he spotted me.

As he spoke, his gaze landed on a boy curled up on the sofa, barefoot. There was something different about him—a kind of quiet confidence. He didn’t rush to stand, just lifted his head and watched the room with lazy curiosity.

His expression turned stern. "Mason, come meet your new sister."

The air in the room changed instantly—everyone straightened up, eyes wide, whispering behind their hands. It was like someone had dropped a secret in the middle of the room.

At the mention of Mason’s sister, the boys immediately perked up.

"Let me see!" Chris elbowed Sam, both craning their necks for a better look.

"Is she pretty?"

"Where’s she from? I’m Chris Wallace—just call me Chris." Chris’s Southern twang was unmistakable, and he grinned like he was welcoming me to a tailgate party.

"I’m Sam Harper—Sam for short." Sam gave a little salute, his freckles popping against his sunburned cheeks.

"And me, I’m Eli Carter—Eli for short. We’re probably all a bit older than you." Eli’s handshake was firm, and he winked, trying to put me at ease.

I lowered my head, unsure how to respond. Was everyone in Maple Heights this friendly—or just this nosy?

My cheeks burned, and I wished I could melt into the floor. Back home, people were warm, but never this direct.

Mr. Callahan put his arm around my shoulders and led me inside. His touch was steady, grounding me as we stepped over the threshold into my new life.

Then he called sharply to the boy on the sofa: "Are you getting up, you slacker?" There was a teasing edge to his voice, but I could tell he expected to be obeyed.

"Coming, coming," came the reply—a lazy, musical drawl that sounded like it belonged on late-night radio.

He sat up, and the first thing I noticed was his slender, upright back and thick dark hair. Even slouched, he had an athletic grace, like he was always ready to spring into action.

He slipped on his sneakers and stood—taller than the others, his presence filling the room without effort.

He walked around the sofa, yawning as he came, moving with a kind of lazy ease. He stretched, arms over his head, bones cracking in the quiet. The others parted to let him through.

"Where’s the sister?" His tone was teasing, but there was curiosity in his eyes.

Finally, I saw his face clearly. It was clean, delicate—very fair skin, very dark eyes, and a small mole on the left side of his high nose bridge. His hair fell over his forehead, tousled by his own hands. His oversized white T-shirt was wrinkled from lying on the sofa.

He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, but somehow made it look intentional—the kind of effortless cool that made girls whisper and boys jealous.

After finishing his yawn, as if unused to the bright sunlight, he squinted before fully opening his eyes.

He blinked, rubbing at his lashes, and I wondered if he ever really woke up all the way.

Standing less than a yard away, he looked straight at me. His gaze was steady, almost challenging, as if daring me to look away first.

He smacked his lips, both hands in his pockets, and leaned closer to get a better look. I could smell a hint of mint gum and fabric softener, his presence suddenly overwhelming.

His dark, bright eyes swept over me. I felt exposed, like he could see every thought in my head.

"This is my sister?" His teenage voice was hoarse, tired, and a little skeptical.

The question hung in the air, and I felt every pair of eyes in the room on me.

Outside, the cicadas buzzed endlessly, the central air hummed, and I could hear the sound of my own heartbeat. I wondered if there would be thermostat wars here, like in every other American house. The moment felt suspended, like the world was waiting for me to answer, to claim my place in this new family.