Page 119 of Dream a Little Dream

She would.

He knew that much about her, at least.

What he didn’t understand was why he was playing up to it.

The doors swung open, and he froze. The scuffle of feet scraped against the floor, and a figure stepped through. His pulse quickened, a pounding echoing in his chest as the footsteps grew closer. When the chair opposite him dragged out, the sound scraped across his senses like nails down a chalkboard. He couldn’t look yet. He wondered if he ever should.

Eventually, he lifted his gaze, and a heavy breath caught in his chest. Because there she was.

Roisin.

His mother.

Her smile took time to form, slowly, almost reluctantly, as though she were piecing together his face from memory. She knew he was coming. But he was here under a different name. Another alias. Another bunch of paperwork gone missing. Her expression was full of a shock, though. One he’d rarely seen in her photographs. In his memories. He doubted she had many people on this side of the visitor’s table, either. Maybe she expected that one day, he might be curious enough to evade the authorities to be here.

As usual, she’d beenright.

Lifting a hand to her chest, her fingers trembled over the thin fabric of her worn T-shirt. The soft, knitted cardigan hung from her shoulders, a strange sight on a woman he rememberedas powerful, poised, someone who had moved through his childhood like a force of nature. Now she resembled a faded version of herself, the elegant frame swallowed by clothes too plain, too small for her presence. But that glint in her eye—that was the same. And it lingered, assessing him.

He checked his hair again.

“You are simply beautiful,” she said, then waved to the woman on the table next to her. “Helen, look at him. Isn’t he the moststrikingthing you’ve ever seen?”

Helen, in her drab grey joggers and jumper stating HMP Ashbridge, grimaced over at Roisin, as if she’d never spoken to her in her life. Roisin didn’t notice, nor, Aaron suspected, care that her inmate hadn’t agreed to her assessment of him wholeheartedly and returned to her monthly conversation with her visitor. Roisinwouldn’tcare. The world outside her perceptions rarely mattered.

She slid her gaze back to Aaron, intense and unblinking, as if she were trying to memorise every line of his face. He shifted under her stare, feeling like a specimen under glass, her approval laced with a touch of hunger. As though he reflected her own design, a creation she could mould to her whims. He certainly wouldn’t be launching into a reunited embrace, though. Even if the little boy inside him urged him to do just that.

Ask her to sing!

“Tell me,” she said, voice dipping lower, almost conspiratorial, “do the girls adore you?”

Interesting choice of question. She would know he didn’t care for the girls. But that wasn’t what she was asking. Nor the intent of her question. She wanted to know if he worked his charm across the genders. As she did. “I don’t notice.”

“Oh, don’t be coy.” She leaned in, the glint in her eyes sharp, probing. “You’re brighter than the sun, and they must see it. Butthe pink hair?” She clucked her tongue, eyes narrowing. “And the diamond in your nose? Defacing your natural perfection is quite the insult.”

He fought not to flinch under her scrutiny. He knew, in some deep, unspoken way, this was a test. A measured game in which her words were weapons, probing for weakness.

“And what about this?” She pointed at his neck, to the small Mars symbol peeking out from under his hoodie. “A tattoo?”

Aaron touched the ink, covering his fingers over it protectively. “I like it.”

She cocked her head, scrunching her nose in distaste. “It means male, doesn’t it?”

“It means I’m my own person.”

Roisin laughed. “Your own person?”

Aaron clenched his jaw.

“Oh, darling! How eccentric. Iloveit!” Her voice spoke otherwise. As if it was lip service. And it made Aaron wonder if it wasalllip service. If she meant any of her endearments, or she simply used them to her advantage. “A symbol is only as powerful as the meaning behind it. And don’t shrug like that. Don’t let anyone tell you who you are. Only you can decide. Or…” She leaned back, her eyes glinting with something unsettling. “Or those who made you.”

Aaron seemed to sit up straighter, as if reprimanded.

Roisin smiled. “What am I to call you?”

“Aaron.”

“Aaron…” She rolled the name around her tongue as if tasting it. “Hmm. We’ll see if it suits.” She then glanced over to another table, where she waved at yet another woman. “Tracy? What do we think ofAaron?”

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