My Mother and Our New Beginning

Another car sliced through the predawn darkness, its lights briefly painting the interior of the bus before disappearing. I blinked, my eyes adjusting as I pulled my wrist closer, the faint glow of my watch revealing the hour: just past one in the morning. A soft tremor ran through the vehicle, a slight jolt as we traversed some unseen bump in the road. Around me, the hushed breathing of slumbering passengers filled the air, a rhythmic lullaby. I edged the curtain back, a sliver of darkness all that met my gaze outside, punctuated only by the fleeting blurs of passing vehicles. A chill snaked up my spine, and I drew the thin blanket higher, tucking it snugly beneath my chin. Beside me, my mother’s head was tilted back, her features softened by sleep, a picture of quiet repose.

We had been on the road for what felt like an eternity, nearly two days melting into one long, weary stretch. The familiar knot of apprehension tightened in my stomach. A new city. A new school. The new kid, all over again. The thought chafed, a raw abrasion against my skin. I’d just begun to unfurl myself in Seattle’s vibrant sprawl, losing myself in its bright lights and bustling anonymity. Now, another uprooting, another transplantation to a place I’d never even heard of until my mother mentioned her new position last week: Duluth, Minnesota. My mother, a butler’s right-hand, a meticulous architect of domestic order, overseeing staff, anticipating every need. She was a quiet force, a woman who made beauty out of necessity.

I had never felt shame for her work, or for our modest means. My mother had always provided, her love a fierce, unyielding shield, even through the leanest times. Mockery had been a constant companion in my younger years, hurled like stones for our poverty or for my mother’s profession. My father was an enigma, a ghost in our past, a name never spoken. “He left when you were a baby,” was all she’d ever say. It had always been just us. A soft rustle beside me as my mother stirred, shifting to find a more comfortable position. The passing sweep of headlights caught a strand of silver glinting in her dark hair. Even now, in the dim light, she was beautiful, her face etched with a quiet strength.

My grandmother, fair-skinned and spirited, had fallen for my Latino grandad during her early nursing days. My mother had told me my father was white, making me one-third Latino, a blend that manifested in my light caramel skin, my unruly semi-curly brown hair, and my five-foot-seven frame. What set me apart, truly, were my eyes—a startling, piercing blue-green, like fragments of a stormy sea. I was athletic, too, my body toned from countless runs through Seattle’s sprawling parks. Sports were never a focus, not with the constant churn of new schools. Now, my senior year loomed, a final hurdle before college. My passion was art, the canvas a boundless world where my imagination could truly breathe.

My mother had been meticulously stashing away money, a secret hoard for my dream of studying at an art school in New York. But the dream felt distant, fragile, a whisper against the hum of the bus as it devoured the miles. Duluth, if memory served, would greet us with the morning sun. I pulled my legs closer, hugging my jumper tighter to my chest. This bus, chosen for its affordability, offered little warmth beyond its front seats. I fumbled in my small travel bag, retrieving a flask of coffee my mother had brewed hours ago. Its warmth seeped into my hands, then down my throat, a comforting heat spreading through me. I tucked it back away, pulling the blanket even higher, before turning to the window, closing my eyes, and willing sleep to return.

“Lucian, honey… Wake up. We’re here.” My mother’s gentle touch on my shoulder roused me.

My eyes fluttered open. Morning light streamed through the windows, muted by the bus’s interior. The vehicle was still, its engines quiet. Around us, passengers stirred, gathering their belongings from the overhead racks. My mother smiled, her face bright, as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asked, folding the blanket she’d been using.

“A bit sore,” I mumbled, stretching. “Is this the last stop?”

“Yup. We’ll grab a cab from here to the Robertsons’.”

I picked up my bag, tucking my blanket inside. For a fleeting second, the cover of my sketchbook flashed into view before I zipped it shut. It was my constant companion, a silent witness to the world, ever ready for inspiration to strike.

We waited, letting the other passengers disembark from the rear of the bus. Stepping out, the air was a crisp slap to my face, promising winter’s imminent arrival. My mother and I made our way to a small stand near the stop. The metal seat was shockingly cold, the chill seeping through my sweatpants. I checked my phone: nine-ten.

Thirty minutes later, a cab pulled up. My mother greeted the driver warmly as he loaded our luggage. Ten minutes after that, we were moving again, my backside still smarting from the frozen bus seat, a lingering reminder of the journey.

Chapter Two

The drive was mercifully short, though the winding approach suggested the Robertsons valued their privacy. “House” felt an inadequate word for the edifice that rose before us, a sprawling mansion nestled against a gentle hill, gazing out over the vast expanse of Lake Superior. Not another dwelling marred the pristine vista. The cab glided through an open gate, following the curved driveway to the grand entrance. A man in a crisp black suit stood waiting on the steps, a figure of impeccable formality. My gaze swept upwards, tracing the three stories, trying to fathom the number of rooms contained within its opulent shell.

These people were beyond rich, I thought, my eyes lingering on the windows, imagining the lives unfolding inside. The cab came to a smooth halt. I reached for the door handle, eager to escape the confines of the backseat.

“Good Morning, Miss Bardon.” The suited man’s voice was smooth, his hand extended towards my mother.

“Morning, Mr. Robertson,” she replied, her tone polite, respectful.

“Oh, no, my dear. My name is Mr. Berkley. I am the Butler of this fine estate. Mr. Robertson and his wife will arrive this evening, returning from Spain.” He offered a small, amused smile, gesturing for my mother to ascend the steps.

A distinct impression settled over me: he hadn’t even noticed me, or perhaps he’d mistaken me for some forgotten piece of baggage. A blush crept up my cheeks, a sudden warmth. My mother, however, wouldn’t allow it.

“Wait… My son, Lucian.” She turned, her gaze finding mine, drawing his attention with her. His eyes, sharp and assessing, landed on me, lingering for a moment on my curly brown hair that likely defied any single direction.

“Hi,” was all I managed, retrieving my bag from where the driver had placed it. His scrutiny made me feel both exposed and oddly intrigued.

“Mmm… Yes, Good Morning, Mr. Lucian.” His acknowledgement was swift, almost dismissive, as he turned back towards the imposing house. “Please follow me.” He began his ascent, each step imbued with a self-important grace.

We followed in silence, climbing the broad steps to a massive wooden door. It was a masterpiece of carving, spirals and intricate shapes swirling across its dark, lustrous surface, polished to a deep sheen. As we stepped through the threshold, my jaw slackened. The main entrance hall was a breathtaking expanse of white marble—floors, walls, even the grand staircase that swept upwards. A colossal crystal chandelier hung suspended from the ceiling, a thousand diamonds showering light across the pristine space.

“It’s a beautiful house,” my mother whispered, her gaze fixed on the shimmering chandelier.

“Indeed. Mrs. Robertson takes immense pride in it. She designed it herself, you know. Fourteen bedrooms, seven bathrooms, and two kitchens.” Mr. Berkley’s announcement was delivered with the gravitas of a royal decree. The words echoed, lingering in the vast space, as if anticipating a symphony.

“You will both be staying in the servant’s quarters at the back of the house. Mr. Randall will show you.” Almost on cue, a shorter, older man with kind grey eyes emerged from a door at the rear of the hall.

“Good morning, Miss Bardon. If you will please follow me.” Mr. Randall offered my mother a small, warm bow.

We greeted the much friendlier Mr. Randall, following him through the door he’d just exited, which led to a long, unassuming hallway. A pang of something akin to shame, or perhaps just a keen awareness of our place, pricked at me when Mr. Berkley had announced our destination.

“You can call me Bill. I’m the caretaker of the yard and pretty much the handyman around here,” Bill offered as we walked.

“I’m Miranda, and this is Lucian,” my mother replied, gesturing towards me.

“Pleasure to meet you both. You’ll have to excuse Mr. Berkley. He thinks rather highly of himself. Very good at what he does, though.” Bill opened a door at the end of the passage, ushering us through.

We entered what was clearly the main kitchen, a cavernous space where vast slabs of marble adorned wooden cabinets, and white marble gleamed underfoot. For a moment, I was unsure where he was leading us, but he gestured towards the kitchen’s back door.

“Your rooms are at the back of the yard, not connected to the main house,” he explained, leading us outside.

A sprawling yard unfolded before us, a manicured expanse of green lawn that any athlete would covet. Towering trees, planted in precise rows, formed a natural barrier, shielding the grounds from any prying eyes. To one side, an Olympic-sized swimming pool shimmered, framed by colossal, artfully arranged rock formations.

As we approached our quarters, I realized it was less a mere room and more a diminutive house, tucked away. A majestic tree stood sentinel in front, its generous canopy obscuring our dwelling from the mansion’s view. A sense of quiet contentment settled over me, a feeling of almost being home.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Randall… I mean, Bill,” my mother said, her smile genuine.

Bill offered another small bow, then turned, walking back towards the gardens.

“Well… What do you think?” My mother turned to me, her eyes twinkling.

I looked back at the small house, its cozy charm enhanced by its secluded spot.

“Looks really cozy,” I replied, a warmth spreading through me as we walked towards the door of our new, private sanctuary.

Chapter Three

The following morning, I awoke to the soft chorus of birdsong outside my window, a gentle serenade. I pushed myself up, my gaze sweeping around the small room. I’d claimed the smallest, leaving my mother the larger, despite her protests. A cool nip in the air met my bare chest as I swung my legs out of bed, pulling socks onto my feet. The ceiling was low, and my single window offered a discreet view of the side garden, the mansion completely hidden. It was Saturday, a day of reprieve.

I could hear my mother moving about in the main part of our small house. As I reached for a sweatshirt, pulling it over my naked chest, the comforting scent of toast wafted towards me. Breakfast. I slipped on a pair of black slippers and left my room.

“Morning,” I said, entering the lounge.

Our new home was simple, two small rooms flowing into an open-plan kitchen and lounge, intimate and unpretentious.

“Hi, sweetie. Are you hungry?” My mother greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, her warmth a welcome comfort.

“Not really. But I’d kill for some water.” I pulled a glass from the cupboard, eager for a cool drink.

“Listen, I have to go to the main house. Mr. Berkley wants to introduce me to the Robertsons, show me around, and go over the house rules.” My mother placed two slices of golden toast on a plate and handed it to me.

“Oh, okay,” I replied, taking a bite of the warm, buttery toast.

Minutes later, I found myself alone on the couch, the quiet settling around me. No TV, no radio, just the distant drone of a leaf blower and the persistent chirping of birds outside. A strange sense of aimlessness washed over me. I was in a completely new place, a new environment, and I wasn’t even sure if I was allowed to wander the expansive garden. In Seattle, our small apartment had offered the freedom of the city; here, the rules were unspoken, yet palpable. I decided a walk under the massive tree, to simply observe, couldn’t hurt.

I brushed my teeth, pulled on a pair of sneakers, and stepped outside. The sun, though weak, felt pleasant on my skin as I rounded the house towards the colossal tree. My sketchbook was clutched in my hand, my favorite pencil tucked inside its spiral binding. I wanted to capture the mansion, to see it through an artist’s eye.

I settled with my back against the rough bark, opened a fresh page, and began to draw. The back of the mansion was every bit as impressive as the front, its walls adorned with grand windows and elegant statues, its roofline a study in architectural splendor. I must have been lost in my work for nearly two hours when a sudden voice, startlingly close, ripped me from my focus.

“Wow, that’s really good.” A young man, close to my age, stood behind me, his gaze fixed on my sketch.

“Jesus!” I yelped, leaping to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Sorry, man!” The apology was quick, accompanied by an outstretched hand.

“My name’s Brandon. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He offered a smile that softened his features.

“Lucian,” I managed, feeling a blush creep up my neck. “And you didn’t scare me.”

“Okay.” His gaze drifted to my sketchbook. “I really like your drawing, by the way. You seem incredibly talented.” He leaned in, trying to get a better look at the half-finished mansion sketch.

My heart thrummed against my ribs as I instinctively held out the book, offering it for his inspection.

“Sorry,” I said, looking up at him. “I’m not entirely sure who you are.”

He was a vision: dark golden-blonde hair framing a deeply tanned face, eyes a captivating blue-green, startlingly similar to my own. Taller than me by a few inches, his build was broad and athletic, hinting at a life of sports, perhaps football.

“Oh, sorry. I’m Brandon Robertson. My parents own this place.” He flashed another toothy smile, gesturing vaguely towards the sprawling mansion.

“Oh. Erm… Hi.” An immediate wave of awkwardness washed over me. The familiar sting of shame, tied to who I was and my mother’s position, tightened in my gut.

I was accustomed to guys like him—wealthy, privileged—using their status to belittle me. He must have sensed my sudden withdrawal.

“Your mom seems really nice, though. I like her already,” he said, his smile unwavering as he met my eyes.

“Thanks. She is a nice person, yeah.” My face grew hot, the blush deepening.

“You should come see my secret hobby. Nobody else knows about it.” His eyes, intense and direct, held mine.

A strange sensation bloomed in my chest. I’d never really had friends, let alone someone who looked at me with such open invitation.

“Erm, okay… But I’m not sure if I’m allowed inside the house?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“You’re kidding, right?” Brandon’s shock was evident, his brow furrowed.

“Of course, you are! Why wouldn’t you be?” He practically shouted, but I recognized the subtle shift. He’d never had “the help’s children” inside before. A familiar anger, directed at myself for even thinking that way, began to simmer.

“Come on! I’ll show you my room, and we can play some PlayStation. You like Devil May Cry?” His excitement was infectious, as if he’d never had a friend over in his life.

Five minutes later, I found myself stepping into a room that every boy would dream of. Shelves overflowed with action figures, many still in their sealed boxes. A massive plasma TV dominated one wall, flanked by an extensive library of PlayStation games. Another shelf groaned under the weight of countless comic books. In a corner, a desk held the most beautiful gaming PC I’d ever laid eyes on. Brandon, the rich, good-looking jock, was also a hardcore gamer. It was a contradiction I hadn’t anticipated.

“What do you think?” he asked, beaming.

“Wow,” I breathed, my eyes scanning his vast PS4 collection. “I’ve never seen so many games in one place before.”

“Really? I always feel like I need more, like I barely have anything to play.” He pulled a thoughtful face, a slight pout on his lips.

“Oh well! We can definitely play some if you want. Or are you hungry? I haven’t had breakfast yet, now that I think about it.” He answered his own question before I could even formulate a reply.

He strode over to a small white intercom box on the wall.

“Berkley. I’m hungry, and I’d like some breakfast brought up to my room, please,” Brandon said, his tone friendly but firm into the speaker.

“Very well, Mr. Brandon. I will bring some immediately,” a crisp voice replied through the intercom.

“Actually, wait. I have a friend over, and we’ll come down to eat.” Brandon glanced at me, then quickly amended his request into the speaker.

A strange knot of apprehension tightened in my stomach. What would Mr. Berkley say when he saw me with Brandon?

“Very well,” Berkley’s voice echoed again.

“Come on. Let’s go get some food.” Brandon beckoned, already heading for the door.

We made our way downstairs to a sprawling dining room, featuring a table grand enough to seat twenty. As we entered, Mr. Berkley, flanked by two kitchen staff I hadn’t seen before, was meticulously setting the table. He lifted his head as we approached.

“Good morning, Mr. Brandon. Ah… I see you’ve met Mr. Lucian as well. How nice of you two to get along.” His tone was flat, devoid of warmth, as we settled into chairs opposite each other.

“Yeah. Think I made a new best buddy, actually.” Brandon replied, winking at me across the gleaming table.

A weird flutter stirred in my stomach, but I remained silent.

Breakfast arrived in large, steaming bowls: bacon, ham, toast, eggs, and sausages. The strangest detail, though, was the cutlery. It was all solid silver. I’d never held silverware before, the sheer weight of such wealth a stark reminder of our different worlds.

After breakfast, we ascended back to Brandon’s room to explore his PlayStation games. We started with his favorite, Devil May Cry. Never having played on a PlayStation, I was terrible. After a few hours and about a dozen different games, we decided to just relax and talk.

I learned a lot about Brandon. He truly was one of the most laid-back guys I’d ever met. Popular at school due to his parents’ immense wealth, he was, surprisingly, unlike any other popular kid I’d encountered. He carried his privilege lightly, always striving for humility. No one, however, knew about his secret gaming passion, and no one was allowed in his room. It was a part of his life he kept hidden from even his closest friends. He’d recently broken up with a girlfriend, but he was vague about the reasons, hinting only that she wasn’t the right fit.

I’d never had a relationship, or even a girl approach me out of the blue. It was midday when he asked me.

“Want to go see what Duluth looks like?” he offered.

“Erm, okay. Yeah… Maybe you can show me where I’ll be going to school from Monday.” We both rose from the plush couch in his room.

Brandon led me down to the garage. My mouth fell open, and he simply watched my reaction. Before me sat the most beautiful Chevrolet Camaro I’d ever seen, an immediate sense of familiarity washing over me.

“Is this…” I started, but he cut me off.

“Yup! I loved the movies so much, I just had to have the car. So, I asked my parents for it on my eighteenth birthday.”

“Wow! Can’t say I’ve ever seen Bumblebee in real life before. Does it transform too?” I laughed.

“I wish! Ha ha!” He laughed with me.

We drove for hours. He showed me all the local hangout spots, the school, the mall, and all his favorite places. Later, sitting by the pier, gazing out at the water, he spoke again.

“Thanks for coming with me today, Lucian.”

“Wait? What?” I quickly retorted.

“I’m the one who should be saying thank you! This was truly a fun day; I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much.”

He gave me a sly smile.

“Don’t worry about it! I had just as much fun. It’s really cool to be myself with someone who doesn’t judge me or expect anything from me. You really are an awesome guy.” Brandon’s gaze held mine, sending that strange, familiar feeling through my stomach again.

“Do you want to go back?” he asked, rising from the bench.

“Er, sure,” I replied.

Chapter Four

We pulled back into the mansion’s driveway about thirty minutes later. I noticed a sleek black Mercedes, a new addition since we’d left.

“I think my parents are home. Do you want to meet them?” Brandon asked, closing his car door and looking at me.

I wasn’t sure what to say. A knot of awkwardness, mixed with a touch of fear, tightened in my stomach at the prospect. But there was no time to process my emotions. The side door connecting the house to the garage swung open, and a tall man with light hair and a stern face stepped out.

“Hi, Dad, welcome back,” Brandon said, his face lighting up with genuine affection.

“Who is this?” Mr. Robertson’s gaze landed on me, unblinking, sharp.

“Oh… This is Lucian. His mom is Mr. Berkley’s new head maid.” Brandon replied, his eyes now on me as well.

“Okay, but can you explain to me what he is doing in the house?” Mr. Robertson’s eyes tore away from me, fixing on his son.

My insides clenched into a painful knot. I recognized that look, that tone. I’d seen it countless times before. Brandon, however, seemed genuinely confused.

“I showed him the town, and we hung out…” Brandon’s voice trailed off, taken aback.

“MY son will not be ‘hanging out’ with a servant’s child. Show him out, or he and his mother can find a new place to stay!” Mr. Robertson spun on his heel and slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the garage.

The familiar ache of humiliation clawed at my throat. I didn’t even look at Brandon. I simply turned and walked towards the main garage door. Skirting the mansion, I started down the small path leading to the humble house my mom and I occupied. A single tear escaped, and I quickly wiped it away with my sleeve.

I went straight to my room, collapsing onto my bed. Why did he hate me so much? What had I ever done? Were we only good enough for the menial tasks they disdained? More tears streamed down my face as my thoughts spiraled.

It was dark when I woke. My face felt stiff, my eyes blurry from sleep and tears. I listened for my mom, but the house remained silent. Still alone. I went to the bathroom and started running a bath.

I decided then: I would stay away from the Robertsons. I couldn’t risk running into Mr. Robertson again, and I certainly couldn’t risk my mom losing her job. Where would we go? No. It was best to keep my distance.

I was sitting on the lounge couch, sketching in my book, trying to recall the pier, when my mom finally entered.

“Hi,” she said, glancing at me.

“Mr. Brandon would like to speak to you.” She continued towards the bathroom.

My body tensed instantly. Why was he here? Had he come to tell me to stay away?

I looked up, and there he stood in the doorway, wearing a black sweatshirt and blue shorts. That strange feeling, a mix of nerves and something else, stirred in my stomach again.

“Is it okay if we go sit outside?” he asked softly, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Brandon… Please… I really don’t want to cause problems for my mom, and I honestly think you should just leave.”

He just looked at me, saying nothing. After a long minute of silence, he spoke again.

“Please…”

I was ready to yell, to scream for him to just go, when I felt my legs move. I stood up. *What am I doing?* I thought, bewildered.

I reached the door, and he stepped aside for me to pass. He closed it behind us, following me towards the old oak tree. The evening air was growing cold, and I silently cursed myself for not grabbing a jacket.

“Today, I experienced two things I’ve never seen or done before,” Brandon began, his voice low.

“I met a guy who made me feel like I could truly be myself, and I saw a side of my father I never knew existed.”

“I would never speak to you like that, and I really want us to be friends. My father doesn’t understand, and I think he’s scared you will…”

Brandon’s voice trailed off, his gaze dropping to the ground. He was about to say something he knew would hurt me.

“Scared I’ll steal from you? Corrupt you in some way? Make his son seem weak and caring?” I snapped, the words hot and angry.

My insides burned. I was furious at Brandon, at his father, at this entire situation. If only he had just left me alone under this damn tree.

“No… He’s scared I might fall in… love with you…” Brandon replied slowly, his eyes still fixed on the ground, avoiding mine for the first time.

“Wait… What?” I asked, disbelief flooding me. Had I just heard him say ‘fall in love’?

What the hell? I wasn’t even gay! And I certainly didn’t know Brandon was!

“Please… I came out to my parents about two weeks ago. My dad didn’t take it well, and we’ve had a weird relationship ever since. It’s like a piece of us was lost.” Brandon’s voice was barely a whisper.

“So, you’re gay? As in, fully fledged gay?” I asked, still reeling from the shock.

“Yup!” he confirmed, finally meeting my gaze again.

“Er… Okay… But why would your dad think you would fall in love with *me*?” I still couldn’t grasp what was happening.

“Not necessarily fall for you… more in the sense of, any guy, really. I take it you’re not gay?” He asked, a peculiar, knowing curve to his lips.

“No. Sorry, man. I know I’ve never been with a girl, but I don’t think I like guys either.” I replied, pulling myself tighter against the sturdy trunk of the tree.

I slid down, my body settling with a soft thud onto the cool grass. Brandon knelt beside me, crossing his legs with an easy grace. We sat in comfortable silence, our gazes drawn upwards to the distant mansion, a constellation of warm lights against the deepening twilight.

The swimming pool below us lay like a sheet of obsidian, mirroring the grand house with perfect, unblemished clarity. Above, a million stars glittered, unmarred by the moon’s absent glow.

“Listen, Lucian…” Brandon’s voice was soft, his eyes still fixed on the mansion. “I really would like us to be friends. You’re funny, smart, and… very good looking. I’d love to be your friend.”

A strange flutter stirred deep in my belly at his words, a sensation I couldn’t quite place. “You won’t make any moves on me, right?” I asked, the question escaping before I could censor it.

Brandon barked a laugh, the sound surprisingly loud in the quiet night. “HAHA! No, I won’t! I’ve only been gay for two weeks anyway. What do I know about making moves on guys?”

I couldn’t help but join him, a genuine laugh bubbling up from my chest. Brandon was undeniably good company, his easy humor having lifted my spirits more than I cared to admit. We lingered there for what felt like a long, peaceful hour before he spoke again.

“You know what? Screw my dad. If I want to spend time with you, then so be it! He can shove his fears into a well for all I care. I do what I want!” He declared, his voice ringing with a fierce conviction.

I could only gape at him, caught off guard by his sudden defiance.

“Come on! We can go chill in my room or play some games again.” He said, rising to his feet.

I started to push myself up, a part of me eager to follow, when Mr. Robertson’s harsh words echoed in my mind. A cold dread settled over me. I couldn’t risk this. My mother’s job, our precarious stability, everything hinged on my discretion.

“Sorry, Brandon. I think… I’m just going to call it a night. Thanks for the awesome day, though. I really had fun.” I forced a smile, getting to my feet.

I saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes, but I couldn’t waver. No matter how much I enjoyed his company, the stakes were too high. I turned, walking back towards the small staff house. The lights were off, indicating my mother was likely asleep. As I cast one last glance back at the mansion, I saw Brandon slowly making his way up the path, hands tucked deep into his hoodie.

Brandon Robertson… What a guy, I thought, a sigh escaping me.

A light suddenly flared in our kitchen, pulling me back to reality. My mother stood there, her gaze fixed on me. What was I even thinking?

“Everything okay, sweetie?” My mom asked as I closed the door softly behind me.

“Yeah… I guess so…” I replied, walking over to embrace her.

“I’m off to bed, Mom. See you in the morning.” I murmured, moving past her towards my room.

“Night.”

***

Chapter Five

Brandon was edging closer, his eyes a dark, bottomless blue, reflecting my own startled face. His breath, warm and sweet, ghosted across my lips. I couldn’t help it. My body, a traitor, leaned in, drawn by an invisible force. We stood outside on the soft grass, the mansion lights extinguished, swallowed by the night.

Then, his fingers brushed mine, a fleeting, electric current, just before his lips made contact. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against the silence. Closer. Closer…

“Lucian!”

My eyes snapped open, the dream shattering into a million shimmering fragments.

My mother stood in my doorway, a basket of laundry cradled in her arms.

“Wake up, honey. Breakfast is ready.” She smiled, her voice a gentle anchor, before moving on.

What the hell was that dream? Why Brandon? Why a kiss? I pushed myself up, my small room feeling suddenly cramped and unfamiliar. My mom had already been in, the laundry gone from the floor. I rubbed my eyes, trying to recapture the vivid images, but they receded, dissolving like mist. Only the ghost of his lips on mine remained, a phantom warmth.

“What the hell, man?!” I muttered aloud, the question a desperate plea to the empty air.

I scrambled out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants against the morning chill. Sunday. A new school awaited me tomorrow in Duluth. I quickly made my bed and headed for the kitchen, where the aroma of sizzling bacon greeted me. My mother was plating it as I entered.

“How’d you sleep?” she asked, her tone light and friendly.

“Okay.” I lied, the memory of Brandon’s dream-kiss still a haunting presence.

“I’m going to clean the house a bit today. Why don’t you get your stuff ready for tomorrow and maybe spend some time outside?” She suggested, handing me a plate piled high with bacon.

“Err, sure…” I wasn’t sure at all. The thought of stepping outside filled me with a strange mix of dread and anticipation.

What if Brandon came down again? I needed him to leave me alone. He was clearly affecting me in ways I couldn’t comprehend. I took a piece of bacon and walked to the window. I could just make out Mr. Randall, the caretaker, meticulously pruning rose bushes in the distance. The mansion, however, seemed eerily still, a silent sentinel.

I devoured my breakfast, then retreated to my room. An hour later, I stood by my bedroom door, surveying the tidy space. How had I cleaned so quickly, organized all my school supplies in a mere sixty minutes? I ran a hand through my curly hair, suddenly at a loss.

Perhaps I should sit at the back of the house? The hill offered a beautiful view, and drawing always cleared my head. I grabbed my pencil case and sketchbook, stepping outside. The sun was bright, but a crisp nip hung in the air. As I turned the corner of the house, I collided directly with Brandon.

Our bodies slammed together, and his hands instinctively shot out, gripping my waist to steady me before I could fall.

“Ouch! You okay?” He asked, rubbing his chin where our heads had met.

His touch, warm and firm, lingered just above my hips, sending a bizarre tingle spiraling down my spine.

“Are you everywhere?!” I snapped, rubbing my throbbing head.

“Err… I try not to be.” He replied, a sarcastic grin spreading across his face.

“Wait! Where are you going?!” He called out loudly as I spun on my heel and stomped away.

I ignored him, rounding the house to find myself facing a breathtaking vista of rolling grassland and ancient trees. I dropped onto the grass, determinedly looking upwards, trying with all my might to ignore the fact that he had followed, now settling beside me. I pulled out a pencil, opened my sketchbook. All I wanted was a moment of normal, silent solitude to draw. Was that too much to ask, I wondered, a knot of frustration tightening in my chest.

“Everything okay, Lucian?” Brandon’s voice was soft, his gaze fixed intently on my face.

He was dressed simply in light blue jeans and a white t-shirt, the fabric stretching taut across his broad shoulders. He looked incredibly fit, suggesting hours spent at the gym. The observation only irritated me further, yet his voice, low and resonant, compelled me to meet his eyes. Dark blue, they held mine, unwavering. God, why was I feeling this way?

“Do you want to be alone?” He asked, his gaze never breaking.

“I… I don’t know.” I replied, the words slow and hesitant.

A part of me desperately craved solitude, yet another, more insistent part, wanted him right here. It felt as if he had somehow gained control of my emotions. He turned his head forward, leaning back against the wall of the house.

“Fine. Tell you what. I’ll just sit here and watch you draw. I won’t say anything.” He said, stretching his legs out and folding his arms across his chest. I watched the play of muscles beneath his shirt, flexing with the movement.

I turned to a fresh page in my book, fixed my gaze on the distant trees, and lowered my hand. As my pencil began the first tentative line of a majestic pine, I felt Brandon shift his legs, and his knee, ever so lightly, made contact with mine. He kept it there, a subtle, unwavering pressure.

Move your legs away, I commanded myself. Don’t let him touch you. But the thought was useless. The simple, accidental contact sent a jolt of confusion through me, deepening the unwelcome warmth already stirring within. He was doing it on purpose, I realized, as he subtly adjusted his leg every few minutes, a silent dare.

I considered getting up, retreating into the safe confines of the house. My heart was a frantic drum, questioning every certainty I thought I held about myself. I’d never felt these emotions before, not even with a girl. Yet, here it was: a strange, undeniable pleasure in the warmth of Brandon’s leg against mine. Shame burned hot in my cheeks. I had never given a serious thought to gay people, or what it meant to be gay, and now I was sitting on the grass, experiencing sensations that any sane person would label as just that. Was Brandon unearthing something within me, something that had always been there, dormant and untouched?

Slowly, hesitantly, I lifted my knee a fraction, then settled it higher on his leg. My heart began to race, a frantic flutter in my chest. I could barely focus on the blades of grass I was attempting to draw around the distant pine. “Stop,” a voice screamed in my head. What are you doing?

I pulled my knee back, straightening my legs. Why did Brandon make me feel this way?

“I can’t concentrate on my drawing with you watching me.” I said, looking up at him.

“Oh. You seem fine, and that tree looks incredibly realistic.” He replied, his hand moving towards my sketch.

I held out the book, allowing him to take it. Our fingers brushed, a brief, charged contact. He leaned closer, his face inches from the drawing, his dark eyes scrutinizing my work. He traced a finger along the lines of the tree, his touch surprisingly delicate. His hands were so large, I noted, a flicker of something unbidden passing through me.

“You really are talented, Lucian.” He said, handing the book back.

“Tell you what. Why don’t we go do something else?” He suggested, getting up and dusting bits of grass from his jeans.

“Like what?” I asked, rising to my feet as well.

“Let’s go play some games in my room?” His face lit up with enthusiasm.

“Err. I’m not allowed in your house. Remember?” I replied, meeting his gaze.

“My parents are out, and we can sneak in past Mr. Berkley.” He said, turning as if to lead the way.

“No! I can’t do that, Brandon. Your dad was very specific! I can’t go in there. I can’t even be seen with you!” I snapped, the words imbued with a frustration I didn’t mean for him to bear.

He looked at me, saying nothing, but the hurt in his eyes was unmistakable. It wasn’t my fault, I wanted to shout. I hadn’t asked for any of this, and I hated that I had to treat him like this.

“Okay… I guess I’ll see you around then…” he replied slowly, his voice flat, as he turned and walked away.

A wave of guilt washed over me. Why did he make me feel so bad? I wanted to call out to him, to explain, but the words caught in my throat. I sank back against the wall, wishing I could simply disappear. How was I going to endure an entire year here, constantly avoiding Brandon? I yearned for college, for escape. I closed my eyes, resting my head back against the cool stone. I missed Seattle.

***

Chapter Six

I didn’t see Brandon again that day. My mom finished her cleaning, then made us a simple lunch. We ate, chatting about her work, the endless tasks at the mansion. She mostly oversaw three other ladies, ensuring they cleaned, laundered, and performed every chore Mr. Berkley dictated. Apparently, Mrs. Robertson was a perfectionist, demanding everything be done in a precise, almost ritualistic manner.

“So, you and Brandon seem to be getting along well?” My mom asked, breaking the comfortable silence as we settled on the lounge couch.

“Yeah, I guess… He’s a nice guy.” I replied, staring at the ceiling from my prone position on the three-seater sofa.

I hadn’t told her about the fall, my bewildering internal struggle, or Mr. Robertson’s furious outburst. I couldn’t risk her thinking strangely of me, or worse, worrying about her job. She was already struggling to adhere to Mr. Berkley’s rigid “house law.”

“It’s good that you’re making a friend already.” She said, taking another sip of her coffee.

“Yeah…” I murmured, my gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

Sleep was elusive that night, a restless dance of anxiety. The thought of a new school, coupled with everything else, kept me on edge. When I finally dragged myself awake the next morning, dark circles hung heavy beneath my eyes. I looked like hell. I rushed through my morning routine, desperate to leave the house before anyone “else” might appear.

The bus stop was a good mile from the mansion, a walk I knew I needed to make quickly. I was ten minutes into my stride when a flash of brilliant yellow streaked past me. A Camaro, undoubtedly Brandon, heading for school. Had he not seen me, or was he deliberately avoiding me? A small part of me wished for a ride, but another, more rational part, knew it was for the best.

Thirty-five minutes later, the school gates swallowed me whole. A cacophony of youthful chatter, the weekend’s echoes still vibrant in the air, enveloped me. Familiar constellations of cliques dotted the landscape: the boisterous jocks, the quiet huddle of nerds, the preening cheerleaders, and the amorphous packs in between. A few curious glances snagged on me, the new arrival. “Here we go,” I thought, a sigh trapped in my chest as I navigated the main entrance, seeking the reception desk and my elusive schedule.

It took four minutes, and the whispered directions of three helpful students, to finally clutch my schedule. The bell shrieked, unleashing a torrent of bodies. I stood adrift, a lone island in a surging sea. English, Room Twenty-Four. Wherever that was. The day, a relentless current, pulled me through one challenging class after another. Each introduction, a fresh wave of self-consciousness. “The new kid,” I mentally groaned, trudging towards Biology, already yearning for the sanctuary of home, for this day to simply… end.

The final bell brought PE, and with it, Brandon. For the first time that day, my breath hitched.

I pushed open the heavy door to the boys’ changing room. He was there, in the back, a magnetic presence, laughing with three other guys. One, I recognized from Math, but my gaze was fixed on Brandon. He hadn’t seen me enter. My locker, thankfully, was near the door. I began to undress, my eyes, despite my best efforts, betraying me, drawn back to him again and again.

He was peeling off his blue t-shirt, his movements fluid and unhurried. My breath hitched. His abs were a sculptor’s dream, perfectly etched, a testament to hours of disciplined effort. A faint trail of dark hair descended from his navel, disappearing tantalizingly beneath the waistband of his shorts. He was about to shed his pants when a jolt of self-preservation snapped me back to my own task. I tore my eyes away, focusing on the simple act of removing my clothes.

By the time I was done, the room was empty. A few minutes later, we were out on the baseball court, the gym teacher—who doubled as the football coach, judging by the jocks’ casual familiarity—bellowing instructions for our fitness assessment.

“Alright everyone! This is Lucian Bardon. He transferred from Seattle. Let’s make him feel welcome!” the coach boomed once the initial chaos subsided.

A scattered murmur of “hellos” and “his” rippled through the group before the coach launched into the details of our workout.

We ran, climbed, and crunched, the coach’s relentless shouts pushing us harder, faster. My eyes, ever searching, darted through the churning mass of bodies, desperate to catch Brandon’s gaze, but the movement was too frenetic. I breathed a silent sigh of relief when, thirty minutes later, the coach called out, “Last lap!”

“Seems Seattle’s training isn’t too shabby, comparing you to this lot,” the coach remarked, a rare compliment, as I finished my final sprint, gasping for air.

“Thanks,” I managed, inhaling deeply, my lungs burning.

I glanced over my shoulder, just in time to see Brandon quickly avert his eyes, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. A sudden, hot wave of anger surged through me. Was he pretending not to know me? Was he afraid of what people might say if they knew I was his maid’s son? The thought stung. I spun around, retreating to the changing room, dressing with furious haste. I’d shower at home, away from his indifferent gaze.

The final bell echoed as I grabbed my bag and headed for the exit. A bruised, dark sky greeted me, pregnant with rain. I found my bus, and thirty minutes later, I was stepping off near the mansion. Barely ten feet from the stop, the first cold drop splattered on my face. I quickened my pace, but within two minutes, the heavens opened, drenching me to the bone.

A loud engine roar made me whirl around just as Brandon’s sleek Camaro screeched to a halt beside me. Now he recognized me? “Screw this!” I fumed, pushing forward, refusing to acknowledge him. The car door opened.

“Lucian! Wait!” he yelled, his voice struggling against the downpour.

I ignored him, my stride unwavering. I heard his frantic footsteps closing in.

“Lucian, please! I need to talk to you!” he pleaded, his voice closer now.

“What?! What do you want?!” I spun around, finding him mere inches away, his dark blue eyes wide and earnest, his hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. He was breathing heavily.

“You ignored me the whole day, and now you want to talk?” I demanded, my hands beginning to tremble with suppressed fury.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to talk to you… I didn’t know what to do…” he stammered, his expression crumbling, a hint of pain in his eyes.

The rain streamed down his face, blurring the line between water and tears. Another sharp pang pierced my gut. He was gazing at me with an intensity that mirrored my own, our eyes, so alike, locking. I felt myself losing control, a tempest of emotions raging within. I wanted to hit him, to lash out at the anger festering inside me—anger at his silence, at his father’s contempt, at his maddening perfection. And then, the crushing realization: anger at him for making me love him. It hit me, a sudden, brutal clarity.

I lunged forward, pressing my lips against his. His eyes widened in shock for a fleeting moment, then closed as he immediately reciprocated, a desperate urgency in his kiss. His hands cupped my face, pulling me closer still, as my own arms wrapped around his chest, drawing him into me. “This feels incredible,” I thought, every cell in my body ablaze, wanting to lose myself in this moment forever, just to kiss him.

We stood there, locked in a kiss that stretched into what felt like an eternity. Finally, I pulled back, my entire body shivering from the cold rain, but my lips still tingling. He looked at me, breathing deeply, his eyes still locked on mine.

“I’ve really wanted to do that for a while now…” he confessed, his voice a low murmur.

“I think I wanted to, too…” was all I could manage, a hot flush rising to my cheeks.

“Let’s get out of the rain,” he said, his fingers intertwining with mine, leading me back towards the car.

My head spun. Not only had I just had my first kiss, but it was with a guy. A bewildering kaleidoscope of emotions—joy, fear, confusion, and a potent, unfamiliar lust—swirled within me. Brandon opened the passenger door, and I slipped inside. We drove in silence, the short journey to the mansion feeling surreal. Five minutes later, I was stepping out into the garage. The black Mercedes was parked inside. His parents were home. A wave of regret washed over me, a familiar fear of his father tightening its grip on my chest.

“Listen. Thanks for the lift. I’m freezing, and a warm bath sounds amazing right now,” I mumbled, snatching my soaked bag from the seat.

“Can we talk later?” he asked slowly, his voice laced with a quiet intensity, as he began to peel off his wet shirt.

“Err… Sure…” I replied, my eyes lingering on the taut muscles of his back as he shed the fabric.

“See you,” I blurted, practically bolting from the garage as he pulled his shirt over his head, his gaze following me.

The rain still hammered down as I stumbled towards our small house at the back, my feet numb. I stripped off my soaking clothes at the door and darted inside, clad only in my underwear.

The warm water of the bath was a balm. I sank back, submerging myself completely, my head dipping beneath the surface, trying to drown out the whirlwind of thoughts. Was I gay now? My feelings for Brandon had been growing, undeniable, but what would Mom say if I told her I liked guys? She’d always spoken of grandchildren, of a better life for my future kids.

After twenty minutes of soaking and churning thoughts, I made myself some lunch. I knew I had to talk to Brandon, but the “when” and “what to say” remained elusive.

Hours later, Mom arrived, eager for details about my day. I expertly sidestepped any mention of Brandon, focusing solely on school. We chatted as she prepared dinner, me perched at the kitchen table. Her next question, as she peeled potatoes, made my heart skip.

“Did your new friend show you the school and classes today?”

“Err… No…” I managed, my voice thin. I braced myself for the inevitable follow-up, scrambling for an excuse. Should I tell her the truth?

“Oh, okay then. Want to help me cut these up?” she asked, gesturing to the peeled potatoes. A wave of relief washed over me. Mom, ever perceptive, had sensed my reluctance to discuss it and wisely dropped the subject.

Two hours later, we were in the lounge, eating, as she recounted a dramatic incident involving one of the mansion staff and Mr. Berkley’s explosive temper. My mind, however, was elsewhere, a pleasant drowsiness creeping in as we finished our meal.

Around ten, Mom retired, reminding me not to stay up late. I sat sketching a fantastical boat in my sketchbook, my thoughts drifting. When would Brandon want to talk? I half-expected him to appear, but he didn’t. Perhaps his parents being home made it impossible. I finally gave in to sleep, heading to bed.

Chapter Seven

Tap. What was that? Tap. Again. A soft, persistent noise at my window. Half-asleep, I glanced at my phone. Just past two AM. Tap.

I rose from bed, clad only in my favorite boxer briefs, and padded towards the window. The curtains were drawn. I nudged them open just a crack, peering into the inky darkness. Brandon stood outside, tapping lightly on the glass. I pulled the curtains wide, and his face instantly lit up.

“Dude. It’s like two AM,” I whispered-shouted, fumbling with the window latch.

“I wanted to see you. Get back,” he replied, and with surprising agility, he lunged, pulling himself through the window opening.

“Shhh! Mom will kill me if she hears you! We have school tomorrow,” I hissed, wincing as his shoes clunked softly on the floor.

“How did you even get out? Doesn’t Mr. Berkley set the alarm downstairs?” I asked, watching him straighten up.

He was wearing a black hoodie again, paired with blue shorts that clung a little too snugly to his thighs.

“I climbed down the ivy ladder by my window. Besides… I really wanted to see you,” he murmured, his gaze dropping, lingering pointedly on my boxer briefs. A sudden flush of exposure heated my skin. I reached for my discarded shirt on the floor, intending to pull it on.

“Don’t… You look really sexy…” he whispered, his voice a low, husky caress.

“I’m getting back in bed,” I said, retreating towards the covers as the room suddenly felt colder.

“Good idea. I’ll join you,” Brandon said immediately, pulling his hoodie over his head.

“Wait, what?” was all I could manage before he was already slipping beneath the covers beside me. He shed his shorts, leaving only his briefs and short white socks. The briefs were snug, outlining every curve and swell of what they were meant to conceal.

We lay side-by-side in my bed, another first. I turned to face him; he had already turned to face me. A faint sparkle in his eye caught a sliver of moonlight filtering through the window.

“So, what now?” he whispered, his voice soft.

“I don’t know. You came to me, woke me, and now you’re practically naked in MY bed. You tell me ‘what now’,” I whispered back, my heart beginning to thrum a little faster.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asked, and without waiting for a reply, his lips were on mine.

An electric current shot through my body. His breath was sweet, tasting faintly of mountain dew, and his hand rested gently on my chest as he edged closer, the heat of his body radiating against mine. A new, potent sensation stirred deep within me—lust. I wanted him on top of me, wanted him pressed as close as humanly possible. I realized, with a jolt, that I was completely, undeniably aroused. It had been a while since I’d indulged myself, and I knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified, that I was dangerously close to losing control.

His arm encircled my waist, a swift, possessive motion that drew me flush against him. Instantly, I felt it: his erection, so much thicker than my own, a potent presence pressing hard into me. A slick dampness coated it, a promising wetness against my own straining cock.

He broke the kiss, his lips tracing a searing path to my ear. Another jolt, a delicious current, shot through me as his mouth brushed my neck. Never had such raw lust ignited within me, consuming every thought, every nerve ending.

My arms wrapped around his powerfully muscled back, pulling him even closer, desperate to merge our bodies completely.

“Wait.”

The word was a sudden, sharp intake of breath as he pulled back, just inches away.

“Maybe we should just take this slow?” he murmured, his gaze searching mine. “I really like you, and I definitely want to continue, but I don’t want to rush into something that might ruin everything.

“I actually just came down here to tell you how amazing you are, and that I like you. Maybe then end the conversation with a kiss.”

“Okay…” I managed, a little breathless, pulling myself up a fraction. “This is all new to me, too.”

“Yeah?” he asked, a sly, knowing grin playing on his lips.

“Feel here.”

He guided my hand, warm and firm, placing it directly onto his throbbing shaft.

I felt the slick pre-cum beading at the tip, a warm, wet promise. He was enormous, easily over eight inches, and my fingers barely met when I wrapped them around his incredible thickness.

This is really big, I thought, releasing him, my hand tingling from the contact.

“I’m going to head back.”

He swung his legs out of bed, the moment broken.

In a matter of minutes, he was dressed, already halfway out the window, a casual exit that left me reeling.

“See you in the morning,” he called, already airborne.

He started to walk away, then stopped, turning back with a suddenness that made my heart leap.

“Almost forgot.”

He reached out, cupped my face, and pulled me forward for one last, searing kiss. It was deep, possessive, a final taste of him before he was gone.

By the time I truly came to my senses, he was surely back at the mansion, and I was still staring blankly into the distance, the echo of his touch vibrant on my skin.

I was still hard when I finally crawled back into bed, a desperate ache settling in my groin. I needed release. Within minutes, I was violently tugging at my uncircumcised dick, my body arching as hot, copious amounts of sperm erupted onto my chest and stomach. It was, without a doubt, the most incredible orgasm I had ever experienced.

Minutes later, I was deeply, utterly asleep.