Sand, Sun, and Revisionist History

Stacy stood in the kitchen for a long time after David disappeared upstairs.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the empty patch of air where he'd been standing, like if she stared hard enough he might flicker back into place and explain himself. What the hell had that been?

You probably thought I was Evan.

She pressed her lips together and took a slow breath. Maybe she was overtired. Maybe she'd had too much coffee. Maybe she'd just... misunderstood. People mishear things all the time. Fill in gaps. Brains were stupid that way.

Yes. That had to be it.

She turned back to the counter and picked up the knife. Supper still had to be made. Vegetables weren't going to chop themselves.

Then she noticed the photo wall.

It was subtle at first, just a sense that something was off. A tilt in her perception, like a crooked painting you don't consciously see until you do. Stacy frowned and wiped her hands on a towel, then crossed the room.

Front and center was her wedding photo.

She smiled automatically.

She remembered that day vividly. The Mexican beach. The folding chairs set up crooked in the sand. Friends, acquaintances, and hotel guests they'd met the night before at the bar, all sunburned and tipsy and smiling. David standing at the front of the aisle, tan and relaxed, waiting for her like the world had finally arranged itself correctly.

She remembered walking barefoot, sand warm between her toes. Her dress, white, but barely traditional. Short enough to show off her legs. Cut low enough to show exactly what she'd been blessed with and worked hard to maintain. David was a chest man. She'd wanted to give him a present.

She remembered Evan in the front row, scowling like the whole thing personally offended him.

She leaned closer.

The man at the altar wasn't David.

Stacy couldn't believe what she was seeing.

It was Evan.

Younger than his father. Leaner. Shorter. Dressed in a button-up shirt and tie, paired absurdly with shorts and flip-flops. His hair slightly messy, like he'd tried and given up halfway through. His expression earnest and a little overwhelmed.

They was facing each other. They were holding each other.

They were both wearing rings.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

"No," she whispered.

Her eyes darted to the next frame.

Stacy and Evan, dancing. His hand at her waist. Both of them laughing.

Another.

Stacy and Evan at sunset, fingers laced, silhouettes against the ocean.

Another.

Stacy and Evan kissing.

She staggered back a step, her heel catching on the rug.

"What the fuck is going on?" she demanded aloud.

This had to be fake.

It had to be.

AI could do anything now. Deepfakes. Photo manipulation. Entire histories invented from scratch. She'd seen articles. Videos. This was exactly the kind of creepy, elaborate prank Evan would pull if he were twisted enough.

And he was twisted enough.

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, anger cutting through the shock like a blade.

Of course it was him. Brooding, resentful, always lurking. Always watching. This was some kind of **** fantasy, projected outward. A sick joke meant to humiliate her. To unsettle her.

Well.

She wasn't going to stand here spiraling while her stepson played mind games with her reality.

Supper forgotten, Stacy turned toward the stairs, jaw set.

It was time she had a word with that boy.