Wrong Room

Evan sat on the edge of his bed and tried not to hyperventilate.

Stacy drank the potion! Not almost. Not maybe. She drank it. Casually. Like it was vitamin water.

What was he supposed to do now?

It's potent. Permanent. And unpredictable.

Madame Ruth's voice replayed in his head, calm and cheerful in a way that now felt borderline criminal.

Permanent.

Unpredictable.

His foot bounced against the carpet. He pressed his palms into the mattress, grounding himself, staring at the floor like it might offer instructions.

What was going to happen? Was Stacy, his stepmother, going to fall in love with him?

The thought made his stomach twist in a way that wasn't excitement so much as horror. Sure, she was hot. Objectively. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But Evan couldn't stand her. She was a walking reminder that his dad had moved on. Upgraded. Replaced.

Was he going to fall in love with her?

Jesus.

How would he explain that? To his dad? To his friends? To anyone?

"Hey guys, funny story, my stepmom and I accidentally became soulmates"?

He dragged a hand through his hair.

He missed his mom. She hadn't been perfect, but she'd been his. She'd belonged in the family in a way Stacy never quite did. At least she'd been the same age as his dad. At least that hadn't been embarrassing.

Everyone knew what kind of relationship his dad and Stacy had. Everyone knew what kind of woman she was.

The door opened.

Evan barely registered it.

"Hey, uh... what are you doing in my room?"

Evan looked up. His dad stood in the doorway, tie loosened, brow furrowed in mild confusion. Not angry. Just... puzzled.

Evan blinked.

"...Your room?"

"Yeah," his dad said, scratching the back of his neck. "Not that I mind. It's just, you know, you have your own room."

Evan opened his mouth. Closed it again.

He looked around.

Really looked.

The bedspread wasn't his. The walls were bare; no posters, no band flyers, no half-ironic movie prints. His dresser was empty except for a neat watch stand and a folded belt. His figurines were gone. Every last one.

His chest tightened.

He turned slowly toward the closet. The door was ajar.

Inside: button-downs. Polos. Jackets. His dad's clothes.

"But..." Evan said faintly. "I thought this was..."

"Must be something in the air," his dad said easily, stepping fully into the room. He loosened his tie, tugged it free, and tossed it into the laundry hamper. "Downstairs Stacy called me 'babe.' What's the deal with that?"

Evan's brain snagged on the word.

"Babe?" he echoed.

She always called his dad that.

"I figured she thought I was you," his dad went on, already unbuttoning his shirt. "But then she said you were upstairs. Must've been a brain fart."

"...Brain fart?"

His dad chuckled, slipping his shirt off and pulling a polo from the closet like this was the most natural thing in the world. "Not that I mind," he said, grinning as he headed for the dresser. "It's not every day an old guy like me gets a girl like Stacy calling him 'babe.'"

He paused, amused, catching his own reflection.

"Even if it is my son's wife."

The word landed like a dropped plate.

"...Wife?!" Evan croaked.

His dad turned, finally really looking at him. "You okay, kiddo?"

Evan stared at his father. At the room. At the clothes that weren't his. At the reality that had apparently slipped sideways while he wasn't paying attention.

Permanent.

Unpredictable.

Somewhere downstairs, a pan sizzled.

And Evan realized, cold, clear, and absolute, that whatever he had been worrying about had already happened.

And it wasn't asking for his permission.