Chapter 1: The Truth Beneath Maple Heights

Evan Carter and I grew up together in Maple Heights, the kind of close-knit Midwestern town where everyone’s business is everybody else’s. Maple Heights was the sort of place with Fourth of July parades down Main Street, Little League games every Saturday, and the high school marching band practicing until dusk in the fall. The elders always joked I’d end up marrying Evan someday, their voices full of that familiar Maple Heights certainty.

Growing up, I remember the way folks at the corner diner would wink at us, nudging each other with that small-town confidence, as if our futures were already announced over the loudspeaker at the Friday night football game or scribbled on the sign-up sheet for the church potluck. The Carters’ backyard always buzzed with summer barbecues, the smell of burgers and corn on the cob in the air, and my mom would squeeze my hand and whisper, “Maybe one day, honey.”

That was, until Mason Reyes—the boy whose leg my father broke after he confessed his feelings to me—showed up at our door.

I can still see the way my father’s jaw tightened, the porch light flickering over Mason’s face, and how the past rolled in like a thunderstorm on a July afternoon. It’s strange how a single moment can change the air in a house you thought you knew by heart.

He was the Carter family’s real son. Eighteen years ago, he and Evan had been switched at birth in the hospital.

It sounded like something out of Days of Our Lives or a segment on Channel 7 News—except this time, it was our family, our lives, that had been scrambled by fate and a hospital’s careless mistake.

1

The first time I met Mason was at the start of high school.

I remember the nervous flutter in my stomach that first day—the crisp, leaf-scented fall air, our stiff new uniforms, and the electric promise of something bigger than Maple Heights. The school’s old brick buildings looked straight out of a John Hughes movie, ivy crawling up the walls, and the distant shimmer of the city skyline reminding us we were just outside Chicago.

It was an elite private academy on the edge of the city, with only two kinds of students: those from old-money or powerful families, and those from working-class backgrounds with records so impressive they couldn’t be ignored.

Walking through those marble halls, you could feel the invisible lines between us—the kids who rolled up in SUVs or pickup trucks with drivers, and the ones who took the bus from the city, gripping their backpacks a little tighter.

Mason was the latter. His grades were nothing short of legendary—he’d won first prize in the American Mathematics Competition in middle school and had a wide range of interests: debate, robotics, coding. Rumor was, he’d even done Model UN and aced every AP class he could get his hands on.

He was the kind of student teachers whispered about in the faculty lounge, the one who made you feel inspired and just a little bit threatened, all at once.

Word was, our principal spent a fortune to recruit him, since Mason actually preferred a regular public school with a better learning environment. But the principal offered him a full-ride scholarship, and he seemed to really need the money, so he accepted.

Some of the parents gossiped about him at PTA meetings, wondering if he’d shake up the school’s traditions, but Principal Thompson just smiled and said, “Every school needs a star.”

At the entrance ceremony, he gave the speech for the freshmen. Everyone wore the same navy blazer and khaki pants, so you couldn’t tell who was rich or poor. He was tall and striking, with sharp features. For a high school freshman, he had a calm steadiness, like an old oak tree—solid, unshakable, and reaching for the sky.

I remember the way his voice echoed in the gym, clear and strong, his hands steady on the podium. He didn’t fidget or glance at his notes—he just spoke, and it felt like he belonged up there, as if he’d done this a hundred times before.

He spoke with confidence and composure, his deep voice never betraying a hint of nerves. He carried himself in a way that set him apart from every other kid in that gym.