CHAPTER 27: THE TIME ISABELLE STOPPED BEING JUST MY MOM (1)

«Master Lazar, Mrs. Lazar has strictly ordered me not to let you leave the house until you tidy your room.»

That is how Mrs. Morales—the cleaning lady—delivers her decree.

I do not sleep—well, I pretend to sleep—in my room anymore.

Still, a teenager’s bedroom is not only a place to sleep.

It is a refuge.

It gathers the passions of the one who lives there.

Brianne’s room overflows with ancient books.

Mine is full of what I like—and no, it is not what people think.

There are no posters of nude MILFs on the walls or a stash of adult films.

(I have Isabelle walking around the house half-naked. Why would I need pictures?)

You will not believe it, but my room is full of video games—mostly fighting games.

Being lucky enough to be adopted by a super-rich woman who always spoiled me, I have always had the latest console.

Back then, my room was the hangout spot for my group of friends—friends I have no idea what happened to now.

Well, no point dwelling on the past.

Let’s get this over with so I can finally go to my third date with Brianne.

Yeah, and she was the one who suggested it.

Being abandoned by my only friend can really crush your mood.

Brianne must have realized I have not been in great spirits lately, and all the rumors this past week about what happened between me and Elaine certainly have not helped.

Maybe that is why she sat next to me today, making herself my new desk neighbor.

It pleased me, but it only sparked more gossip about us.

I barely even notice anymore.

In record time, I tidy almost everything.

Tidying, for me, means taking everything off the floor and shoving it into the first drawer I find—basically moving the mess from the floor to somewhere less visible.

Only one thing remains: a pink memory album with a big red heart on the cover, our names—mine and Isabelle’s—written inside the heart. It has been under the bed for who knows how long, covered in dust.

God... I had completely forgotten about it. It has been at least three years since I last opened it.

The first photo dates back to just a few days after the adoption—we were on a roller coaster at an amusement park. The classic shot they take while you are on the ride and sell to you at the exit.

Lost in nostalgia, I keep flipping through the pages.

My eleventh birthday photo, with my classmates at the time and a giant cake in front of us. A shot with Roman centurions during a summer vacation in Rome. One with the Eiffel Tower behind us. Another on a camel’s back. Many more from all over the world.

And to think I did not even remember being in most of these places—it really has been a long time.

Well, that is what photo albums are for, right?

Dozens and dozens of pictures together, in places and situations completely different from each other, yet all sharing one thing: I was genuinely happy.

It might sound obvious, especially when you are lucky enough to grow up in a family where money is the least of your problems, but it is not.

It was not the money or the trips that filled the void or lit up the darkness of the loneliness I was in when she pulled me out of that orphanage eight years ago.

It was her—her affection, her love—that she never let me miss for a single day, something I never thought I would receive in my life before meeting her.

Even though I am not her real son, Isabelle has been the best mother in the world.

As I turn the pages, it feels like time has stopped, and without realizing it, I reach the last photo, lingering on it much longer than the others.

We were in the bedroom of the Royal Palace Hotel & Spa, about an hour’s drive from Ashiya, Japan.

In the picture, a selfie she took, we are in the room’s private jacuzzi, wearing swimsuits and holding each other.

It was one week before my fourteenth birthday, yet I remember it perfectly, unlike the earlier photos—like we had taken it just a minute ago.

After all, they say the first time is unforgettable.

That night, we stopped being mother and son and became lovers, and I guess that is why Isabelle never added more photos to this album.

It might sound strange that a thirty-eight-year-old woman could feel attracted to a young man barely thirteen, but to her credit, I have always looked older than my peers, with a much more developed body. (Could it be thanks to my vampire blood?)

In that photo, I looked at least eighteen.

Now that I actually am eighteen, people who do not know me sometimes mistake me for twenty-five.

I guess that is one reason for my success with MILFs.

That night of sex is still so vivid in my mind that just looking at that photo was enough to trigger a rush of sounds and images, instantly throwing me back into that jacuzzi, with the woman I love.

Still holding the photo in my hand, I lie back on the bed, eyes closed, completely shut off from the world, letting my mind relive that magical night.

■Four years ago■

«Rennie, give me a nice smile and... wait, come closer or you’ll be cut out of the photo!» Isabelle exclaims, holding a big Polaroid camera in her left hand while her right arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close.

That night, she wore a burgundy swimsuit so slim that her large boobs spilled slightly over the sides, while I had on black swim trunks.

When she pulled me closer—maybe a bit too energetically—my head bumped right into her breats at the exact moment the photo was taken.

«Oh, this one came out really well!» she says enthusiastically, setting the camera and the picture safely away from the jacuzzi so they would not get splashed.

Even though the photo had already been taken, I stayed there, still, my head tilted toward her, my cheek pressed against the soft, warm skin of her chest.

«What is it, Rennie? Want a little head massage?»

That must have been how she interpreted the position of my head.

I nodded, and, as usual when she gave me head massages, she had me sit between her legs—facing away from her.

I leaned my head back again and rested it on her boobs, and immediately felt her long nails gently scratching my scalp.

It was so... relaxing.

The gentle bubbling of the water as background noise, the warmth of the jacuzzi, her massages... my eyes felt so heavy I thought I would fall asleep at any moment.

But something kept me awake.

A strange yet pleasant sensation that, at the time, I could not quite understand.

A sensation whose result was a clear bulge under my swim trunks, plainly visible both to me and to Isabelle, behind me.