«Master Jace, your mother has strictly ordered not to let her leave the house until you’ve finished tidying up her room,» Mrs. Morales — the cleaning lady — informs in an authoritative voice.
By now, I no longer sleep — well, I pretend to sleep — in my own room. But as everyone knows, a teenager’s bedroom isn’t just a place to sleep; it’s a refuge where the passions of the person who lives there are gathered. And just like Kimberly’s room, overflowing with ancient books, mine too is full of the things I like — and no, it’s not what one might think.
There are no posters of naked won on the walls, nor a well-stocked supply of adult movies. You might not believe it, but my room is cramd full of video gas — especially fighting gas.
Having had the luck of being adopted by a super-rich woman who always spoiled , I was the only one among my friends who always had the latest console or the most anticipated ga of the mont on day one — sotis even before.
For this reason, back then, my room was the eting point of my group of friends — friends of whom today I have no idea what beca of them.
Well... no point in brooding over the past.
Tidying up, for , ans taking everything that’s on the floor and stuffing it into the first drawer I can find — basically moving the ss from the floor to a less visible place. Thanks to this little trick, I manage to tidy up my room in record ti.
Only one thing remains to be put away: a pink scrapbook with a big red heart on the cover, with our nas — mine and Veronica’s — written inside the heart.
It’s been under the bed for who knows how long, so much so that it’s practically beco one with the dust.
God... I had completely forgotten about this album — it must have been at least three years since the last ti I saw it.
I sit down on the floor, my back resting against the side of the bed and the album on my knees, opening that chest of mories.
The first photo dates back to just a few days after the adoption. We were on a roller coaster in an amusent park — the classic shot they take while you’re on the ride and then sell to you at the exit.
Lost in nostalgia, I keep flipping through the pages one after another.
There’s a photo of my eleventh birthday, with my friends from back then and a gigantic cake in front of us. A shot with so Roman centurions during a sumr vacation in Italy. One with the Eiffel Tower behind us. Another of us riding a cal in the middle of the Egyptian desert. And besides these, there are many, many others, taken truly all over the world.
And to think that I don’t even rember having been to most of these places — so much ti has really passed. Well, that’s what photo albums are for, right?
Dozens and dozens of photos, and Veronica, in completely different places and situations, yet all sharing one thing: a sincere happiness, clearly visible in the genuine smile stamped on my face. It may seem obvious, especially when you’re lucky enough to grow up in a family where money is the least of your problems, but believe — it’s not everything.
It wasn’t money or travel that filled the void in my heart or lit up the darkness of the loneliness I was subrged in when she pulled out of that orphanage eight years ago. It was Veronica’s affection and love, which she never failed to give , not even for a single day — sothing I never thought I would receive in my life before eting her.
Even if I’m not her biological son, Veronica is without a doubt the best mother in the world.
As I turn the pages, it feels as if ti has stopped, and without realizing it, I reach the last photo, lingering on it far longer than on the others.
We were in the bedroom of the Royal Palace Hotel & Spa, about an hour’s drive from Ashiya, in Japan. In the photo — a selfie she took — we’re hugging each other in the private jacuzzi inside the room.
It was a week before my thirteenth birthday, and yet, unlike the previous photos, I rember that mont perfectly, as if we had taken that photo just a minute ago.
After all, they say the first ti is unforgettable, right? That was the night when we stopped being mother and son and beca friends, and I suppose that’s why Veronica never added any other photos to this album.
That night of sex is still so vivid in my mind that just looking at that photo is enough to unleash a whirlwind of sounds and images, instantly hurling back into that jacuzzi, with the woman I love.
With that photo still clenched between my fingers, I let myself fall back onto my bed, eyes closed, completely cut off from the world, letting my mind relive that magical night.
■Five years earlier■
«Jacey, give a nice smile and... wait, co closer or you’ll be cut out of the photo!» Veronica exclaid, holding a large Polaroid in her left hand while, with her right arm, she wrapped herself around my shoulders, pulling close to her.
That evening she was wearing a burgundy swimsuit so tight that her ample breasts were slightly spilling out from the sides, while I had on a pair of black swim boxers.
When she pulled closer — maybe with a bit too much enthusiasm — my head ended up pressed straight against her chest at the exact mont the photo was taken.
«Oh, this one ca out really well!» she comnted enthusiastically, setting the cara and the photo down in a safe spot, far from the jacuzzi, to keep them from getting wet.
Even though the photo had already been taken, I stayed there, motionless, my head tilted toward her and my cheek pressed against the soft, warm skin of her chest.
«What’s wrong, Jacey? Do you want a nice head massage?» she asked, running her fingers through my hair.
I nodded, and, as she always did when she gave head massages, she made sit between her legs — with my back turned toward her.
I leaned back again, resting the back of my head against her chest, and an instant later I began to feel her long nails gently scratching my scalp.
It was so... relaxing. The soft gurgling of the water in the background, the warmth of the jacuzzi, her massage... my eyes were growing so heavy that I thought I might fall asleep at any mont.
But sothing was keeping awake — a strange yet equally pleasant sensation that, at the ti, I was obviously unable to understand.
A sensation whose result was a noticeable bulge beneath my swimsuit, clearly visible both to and to Veronica behind .
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