The painting looks like it belongs in a museum, and I definitely would have noticed it if the first time I came into this room had I not been investigating a noisy intruder, i.e., Mason. The painting is moody and dramatic, encased in a braided gold-flecked frame. And it’s large, taking up most of the space over the bed. It’s one of those paintings that pulls you in, forcing you to pay attention. The waves are swirling and tempestuous, the mermaid staring like she can see into your soul.

It’s honestly very intense. Even more intense, because I can literally feel Mason’s enthusiasm for it. He’d been so upset outside, but the second we stepped into the room, he lit up again.

“See?” Mason says, his voice full of excitement.

The mermaid’s hair is red, true, but that’s where the comparison ends. She has a prominent nose and smooth freckleless skin, and her arms are thin and delicate-looking. But most importantly, the mermaid’s expression couldn’t be farther from mine. Three seconds into staring at the painting, I know this: the mermaid knows exactly where she belongs. She is wild and confident, and the entire ocean is her home. I’ll bet she’s never once bobbed around wondering which waves she belongs to, or wondered if another part of the ocean might offer her belonging. She simply is.

I don’t point out the differences to Mason. He’s uber committed to the idea of me looking like the painting. Why?

“What do you think?” Mason asks, and I can tell he’s holding back his excitement.

I’m not sure what to think. Honestly, I’m starting to feel a little exhausted from everything that has happened so far tonight: the moon ceremony, the aunts telling me about Sage’s plan for my mom, and now Mason. Part of me wants to curl up on the bed below the mermaid and take a good, long nap. “I’m not sure.”

Mason points to a small swirl of letters near the bottom. “There’s his signature. And look, there’s another name too. Maybe a word? I didn’t notice it before.”

He’s standing on the opposite side of the bed, but he leans in close enough that I can smell his slightly sweaty boy smell. He also has a smear of glitter across his right temple that I’ve been trying not to stare at since I saw him on the street. Every time I see Mason, I struggle with not staring at him. There’s something about him that instantly draws you in. He’s open and engaging, but I get the feeling he has all these other layers no one can see.

Maybe that’s the notebook talking. And yes, I feel terrible about reading it. He clearly had to use a lot of self-control to not panic when I confessed.