Page 134 of Be With Me
“Sometimes. But I have two kids—thirteen and fifteen. They keep me busy. Soccer practice, tutors, all of that. It’s always a struggle to find time for myself.” She glanced around the room. “Meeting your mother has been wonderful. She’s so kind. She's introduced me to new people and given me a reason to get out of the house. You’re very lucky to have her.”
The beer bottle was warm in my hand. “Lucky, yeah.”
That was one way to put it.
Mom wasn’t warm, not in the way most people thought of mothers. Her love was sharp-edged, conditional. But she took care of me and my brothers. She had high standards for us. So high they sometimes felt impossible to reach.
Maybe tonight I could show her that I was capable. That I could be the son she needed me to be.
“Would you like to see the art gallery?” I asked.
Alana smiled. “That sounds lovely.”
I left the beer on a table and led her through the crowd. The gallery wasn’t much—just a room at the back of the penthouse with paintings packed onto its walls. A few narrow windows let in slivers of natural light, but the space was mostly shadowed, designed to showcase my parents’ collection.
“They’re big fans of Japanese art,” I explained, walking toward a large canvas of a snowy winter day set against the backdrop of Mount Fuji.
“This is beautiful,” Alana said, her gaze shifting between the paintings and me. She seemed more interested in studying my face than the art on the walls. “And what about you? Do you like it?”
Caught off guard, I ran a hand through my hair. “I think it’s cool, but…it’s not really what I’d put up in my own place, you know?”
She grinned, seemingly charmed, like I’d said something far cleverer than I had. “Are you planning on moving out soon?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just starting to look at apartments. My brothers have already moved out, so I’m the last one left.”
She nodded, stepping closer until we stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the painting. “And did you have a girlfriend at school, Romolo?”
Her voice had changed, turning lower, softer. I noticed the faint flush creeping up her neck, the way her arm brushed against mine—lightly enough that she could pretend it wasn’t deliberate.
Adrenaline flushed through my veins, making me feel a little sick.
“I didn’t,” I said slowly, turning my head to meet her gaze. And then, because I knew what she wanted to hear, I added, “I prefer older women.”
Her lips parted slightly. Her pupils dilated.
The moment hung heavily between us, and I knew what I had to do.
Revulsion clawed at my chest, but I shoved it down.
I leaned in and pressed my lips to hers.
It was brief—two, maybe three seconds. I didn’t use tongue, but she let out a soft gasp. When I pulled back, her eyes were heavy-lidded, her expression slack.
I couldn’t tell if she was pleased or just surprised.
A beat passed. The silence stretched until I couldn’t bear it anymore. What if Mom had been wrong?
Panic flared.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, the words tumbling out of me. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
I turned to leave, already trying to figure out how I’d explain this to Mom, but before I could take a step, fingers curled around my wrist.
“Romolo.”
Her voice was thick.
I glanced over my shoulder.
