My tires kiss the curb as I swerve into our driveway, the world spinning like I'm trapped in some fucked-up carnival ride. I kill the engine and just sit there, knuckles white on the steering wheel, trying to make the universe stop tilting.
"That wasn't Mom," I whisper to my reflection in the rearview mirror. The guy staring back looks like me but worse, eyes bloodshot, hair plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. "It couldn't have been. The jungle juice was fucking with your head."
I stumble out of the car, nearly eating pavement before catching myself on the hood. The house looks normal, peaceful even. Porch light on like always, Mom's gardening gloves still draped over the railing where she left them yesterday. Everything in its place, like the world hasn't just been turned inside out.
My key misses the lock three times before I manage to get it in. I make it upstairs through sheer muscle memory, my brain a hurricane of fragmented images. White hair, blue eyes, legs I'd recognize anywhere.
"Stop," I hiss at myself, stumbling into my room and collapsing face-first onto my bed without bothering to turn on the lights. The ceiling spins above me even with my eyes closed. My stomach constricts, threatening to empty itself, but I breathe through it. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like Mom taught me whenever I'd get carsick as a kid.
Mom.
Fuck.
"It wasn't her," I repeat into my pillow, the words muffled and desperate. "You were wasted. Brad probably slipped something into that hellbrew. People don't look like themselves when you're that fucked up."
But her voice. The way she said my name. "Gabriel."
No. No. No. I shake my head violently, trying to dislodge the memory. My mother is not an escort. She doesn't fuck college guys at parties. She works late at... at...
I DON'T FUCKING KNOW. BUT THERE'S NO FUCKING WAY SHE'S A PROSTITUTE.
"Jesus Christ," I groan, rolling over and pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars. "Get it together, Gabe. You're just drunk and projecting your own sick fantasies."
I'm still wrestling with my thoughts when I hear it, the front door opening downstairs. My heart stops mid-beat, blood turning to ice water in my veins.
Footsteps on the stairs. Slow, deliberate. My heartbeat hammers so loud I'm sure she can hear it through the door. I roll over to face the wall, pulling my comforter up to my chin like I'm fucking five years old again, hiding from monsters. Except this time, the monster is the realization that my mother might be…
The door creaks open, a thin slice of hallway light cutting across my bedroom floor. I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing deep and steady like they teach in those acting classes I never took. Just another drunk college kid passed out in his bed. Nothing to see here.
"Gabriel?" Her voice is barely a whisper, familiar and foreign all at once. "Are you awake, honey?"
I focus on keeping my breathing even, fighting the urge to flinch when I hear her step into my room. The floorboard by the door squeaks, just like it always has.
"Gabriel, we need to talk about what happened tonight."
My heart's trying to punch its way out of my chest, but I don't move. Don't breathe differently. Don't acknowledge that I heard her, that I saw her, that I was inside her less than an hour ago.
This isn't real. She's not standing there in my doorway. My mother isn't a fucking escort who services frat parties. I'm still at Brad's, passed out in some corner, having the most fucked-up nightmare of my life.
A soft sigh escapes her lips. "I understand," she whispers, more to herself than to me. "It's a lot to process. We'll talk tomorrow."
The door closes with a gentle click that somehow sounds like a gunshot in the silence of my room. Her footsteps retreat down the hall, and moments later, I hear the bathroom door open and close. The pipes groan as the shower starts running.
The sound of water running mixes with my scattered thoughts. What would she have said if I'd responded? What could possibly explain what I saw tonight? What I did?
My eyelids grow heavy despite the chaos in my mind. The alcohol is winning, dragging me down into unconsciousness even as questions swirl like vultures. The last thing I remember before darkness claims me is the realization that tomorrow, I'll have to face her across the breakfast table.
…..
It was nice, though, to finally achieve my dream. To connect with Mom.
—
Blinding rays stab through my eyelids like hot pokers, dragging me, kicking and screaming into consciousness. My head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it, each pulse of blood a fresh assault on my fragile skull. I groan, rolling away from the window.
"Fuck," I croak, my tongue a desert stuck to the roof of my mouth. The taste is indescribable like something crawled in there and died. Twice.
My stomach lurches as fragments of last night crash through the hangover fog. Brad. The jungle juice. The bedroom. Mom.
"No, no, no," I mutter.
I bolt upright, immediately regretting it as the room spins and my stomach threatens revolution. Stumbling to my feet, I barely make it to the trash can before emptying whatever unholy concoction was still in my system.
When there's nothing left but dry heaves, I collapse back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.
"It wasn't real," I tell myself for the hundredth time. "You were hallucinating. That jungle juice probably had fucking bath salts in it or something."
But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. The weight of reality sits on my chest like a concrete block. I fucked my mother last night. I came inside her. And worst of all? Some sick, twisted part of me, the part I've been trying to bury for years, loved it.
The smell of coffee and bacon drifts up from downstairs, so normal it's surreal. Is she really down there making breakfast like nothing happened? Like her son didn't lose his virginity to her in front of a room full of frat boys?
I drag myself to my feet, fighting a wave of nausea that threatens to send me right back to the trash can.
"Fuck it," I mutter. No point hiding in my room like a coward. Whatever twisted nightmare awaits me downstairs, I might as well face it head-on.
Each step down the stairs feels like I'm marching to my execution. The bacon smell gets stronger, making my stomach growl despite everything. My body's a traitor.
I freeze in the kitchen doorway, breath catching in my throat.
Mom stands at the stove with her back to me, but what she's wearing makes my brain short-circuit. A silky blue nightgown that barely reaches mid-thigh, thin enough that I can see the outline of her body beneath it. No bra that much is painfully obvious from the way her breasts move as she flips a pancake. She's never, and I mean never, dressed like this around me before.
"Jesus," I whisper before I can stop myself.
She turns, those blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that pins me in place. Her face is a storm cloud, beautiful but threatening rain.
"Gabriel," she says, her voice deceptively calm. "Sit down."
My legs move automatically, carrying me to my usual chair at the table. There's already a steaming mug of coffee waiting for me, black with two sugars, exactly how I like it.
Mom slides a plate in front of me that looks like something off a cooking show. Fluffy pancakes drizzled with maple syrup, crispy bacon arranged in a perfect fan, scrambled eggs that actually look moist instead of the rubber I usually make, and fresh strawberries glistening with moisture.
Before I can process the Michelin-star breakfast, she moves behind me. I feel her lean over, her breasts pressing against my back and shoulders, soft and warm through the thin fabric. Her white hair falls forward, tickling my cheek as she brings her lips close to my ear.
"Do you know why I'm angry with you, Gabriel?" she whispers, her breath hot against my skin.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I can't think straight with her this close, with the memory of last night still raw in my mind.
"I…I didn't know it was you," I stammer, staring down at the perfect breakfast, unable to look at her. "I swear to God, Mom, I was so drunk I could barely stand. If I'd known…"
Mom's lips suddenly press against my neck, cutting off my rambling explanation. The soft, wet heat of her mouth makes me freeze mid-sentence, my brain short-circuiting as she trails kisses up to my ear.
"I'm angry because you drove home drunk, Gabriel," she whispers, her voice vibrating against my skin. "Do you have any idea what could have happened?"
Her teeth graze my earlobe, a gentle nibble that sends electricity straight down my spine. I grip the edge of the table so hard I think it might snap.
"You could have hurt someone," she continues, her hands sliding down my shoulders. "Or worse." her voice breaks slightly, "You could have hurt yourself. I could have lost you."
My body's betraying me, responding to her touch even as my mind screams this is wrong. The conflicting emotions slam into me like a freight train, disgust, confusion, and underneath it all, relief.
"Mom," I choke out, my voice barely a whisper, "what are you doing?"
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, her expression a mixture of concern and something darker, something possessive that makes my stomach flip.
"Taking care of my son," she says simply like this is the most natural thing in the world. "Like I've always done."
"Mom, we can't do this!" I jerk away from her touch. "This is fucked up!"
She places a finger against my lips, the gentle pressure silencing me more effectively than a shout could have.
"Shhh," she whispers, sliding into the chair beside me, her nightgown riding dangerously high on her thighs. "I saw your eyes last night, Gabriel. When you realized who I was... who you were inside of." Her hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking my skin. "Before the panic set in, there was something else there. Something that matched what I've been hiding for years."
My mouth goes dry. "What are you talking about?"
"It was like looking in a mirror," she continues, her voice soft but steady. "I recognized that look because I've felt it too. I've wanted to be with you too, Gabriel. For longer than I care to admit."
The confession hangs between us, heavy and impossible to ignore. My brain is screaming that this is wrong, but my body remembers how she felt last night.
"Mom, no. We can't." I shake my head violently, trying to clear it. Suddenly, another realization crashes through the fog of confusion and arousal. "Wait, you're a fucking hooker? An escort? Whatever the hell you call it? That's what you've been doing all these years?"
My voice cracks as the pieces fall into place. All those late nights. The mysterious "overtime." The way we always had enough money despite her never talking about her job.
"I want to talk about THAT!" I slam my palm on the table, making the perfect breakfast jump. "How long have you been doing this? Why would you…"
Mom's eyes flash with a mix of hurt and determination. She sighs deeply, the sound cutting through my anger, and slides her chair closer until our knees touch. The fight drains from me as quickly as it came, replaced by a hollow ache in my chest.
"When your father walked out," she says quietly, her fingers reaching up to brush my hair from my forehead, "I had nothing, Gabriel. No degree, no savings, no family to turn to. Just a six-month-old boy who needed everything I couldn't provide."
Her touch is feather-light as she traces the line of my jaw, her eyes never leaving mine. I should pull away, but I can't.
"So yes, I became an escort," she continues, her voice steady despite the weight of her confession. "It wasn't my first choice, but it let me set my own hours. I could be home when you needed me, be at every science fair, every parent-teacher conference. And it paid enough that I could give you everything, your camps, your books, that computer you needed for school."
Something hot and painful swells in my throat. My vision blurs as tears well up, the anger morphing into something else entirely. All these years, I'd imagined her in some office somewhere, typing away at spreadsheets or answering phones, not...
"But Mom, you must have gone through so much. All those men... you must have felt so alone."
A single tear escapes, sliding down my cheek. Mom catches it with her thumb, her own eyes glistening.
Mom wraps her arms around me so suddenly, I almost fall out of my chair. She pulls me against her chest, holding me like I'm still that little boy who scraped his knee on the playground.
"Oh, Gabriel," she whispers into my hair, her voice breaking. "The only time I ever felt truly alone was when I wasn't with and my baby. When I couldn't be with you."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. All these years, she's been sacrificing everything for me. The realization crashes through me, and suddenly I know what I have to do.
"Mom, listen to me," I pull back, gripping her shoulders, determination flooding through me. "I'll get a job, several jobs if I have to. I can quit school, and you can quit... what you do. I'll take care of you for a change."
The fierce look in her eyes softens to something almost pitying. She shakes her head slowly.
"Gabriel, don't be childish," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "You're not throwing away your education. That's precisely what I've been working for all these years."
Something snaps inside me.
"Mom, do you actually enjoy being a prostitute?" I demand, my voice rising. "Do you enjoy being passed around like you're nothing?"
Her eyes flash with annoyance, jaw tightening. "Of course, I don't enjoy it, but…"
"Then I don't care what we have to do," I cut her off, leaning forward, my whole body trembling. "I don't care how many jobs I have to find or how long it takes. I don't want you to be a prostitute anymore. Not for one more fucking day."
Something changes in her expression, then a shift so subtle I almost miss it. The annoyance melts away, replaced by something calculating, almost predatory. She leans toward me, the neckline of her nightgown dipping low enough that I can see the soft curve of her breasts.
"Gabriel," she says, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "are you trying to keep me all to yourself? Is that why you want me to stop?"
My throat constricts, heart hammering so hard I'm sure she can hear it. The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to face.
She's wrong… Even if she's right, I stand by it.
"Mom, we can never be together!" I blurt out, pushing back from the table so violently my chair tips over. "Not like that. It's wrong."
She doesn't flinch at my outburst, just watches me with those piercing blue eyes that seem to see right through me.
Mom rises slowly from her chair, movements fluid like a cat stalking prey. She approaches me, closing the distance I'd created, and cups my face between her hands again. Her touch is gentle but possessive, thumbs caressing my cheeks in slow circles.
"But Gabriel," she purrs, eyes locked on mine, "I do enjoy sex. I enjoy it very much. If I were to quit being an escort..." Her voice drops to a whisper, "Would you take responsibility for satisfying those needs?"
Her thumbs continue their gentle assault on my skin, and I can feel my resolve almost crumbling.
"I-I can't," I stammer, pulling away from her touch. "Mom, I wish I could... No, that's not what I mean!" I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots. "I want to be normal! Don't you understand that? I want a normal life, a normal relationship with my mother!"
She flinches slightly at my words but recovers quickly, her expression hardening.
"If you're not hooking anymore," I continue, desperation filling my voice, "maybe you can find a boyfriend. Someone your age who can... satisfy you."
The words taste bitter in my mouth, the thought of Mom with another man making my head churn with jealousy I have no right to feel. But it's the right thing to say, the normal thing to say.
For a moment, she looks genuinely stumped, like this possibility never occurred to her. "Wait, no..." she begins, her confident facade cracking.
I seize the moment to escape her orbit before I get pulled back in. She's faster, though, her hand shooting out to grab my wrist with surprising strength. Her expression shifts from confusion to anger in an instant.
"Under no circumstances are you quitting college, Gabriel," she hisses, fingers tightening around my wrist. "I didn't spend eighteen years working so you could throw away your future."
"Fine," I snap back, wrenching my arm free. "Then I'll get student loans. I'll work nights. I'll figure something out, but I'm not letting you whore yourself out if it's something you don't love doing. Not anymore. Not for me."
The words hang between us, heavy with the weight of years of sacrifice and unspoken feelings. Mom stares at me, her mouth slightly open, eyes wide with an emotion I can't quite place. She seems stunned again, like I've managed to knock her off-balance twice in as many minutes.
"You don't understand what you're saying," she finally manages, her voice softer now. "The debt you'd accumulate…"
"Student debt is NORMAL, Mom!" I explode. "Everyone has it! That's what college is now, a lifetime of payments! I'll deal with it when I get my degree and land a real job. A job I'll use to take care of YOU!"
Her face goes pale, those blue eyes widening with shock at my outburst. She reaches for me, but I'm already backing away, my hands trembling with a cocktail of rage, shame, and something else I refuse to name.
"Gabriel, please…" she starts, but I'm done listening.
"I can't do this right now," I mutter, grabbing my keys from the counter. "I need... I need space."
I'm out the door before she can respond, slamming it hard enough to rattle the windows. The morning air hits my face like a slap, cool against my flushed skin. I storm down the driveway, each step fueled by a desperate need to put distance between us.
I fumble with my car keys as I unlock the door. Sliding behind the wheel feels like the only familiar thing in a world gone completely insane. I slam the door and crank the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a comforting rumble.
The driveway blurs as I back out too fast, tires squealing against asphalt. I catch a glimpse of movement at the front door, Mom watching me leave, still in that goddamn nightgown, but I force my eyes away, focusing on the road ahead.
I drive aimlessly, no destination in mind except not home. My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel as residential streets give way to the main road out of town. The hangover pounds behind my eyes in rhythm with my racing thoughts.
At a red light, I glance up at the rearview mirror, my own reflection staring back at me like a stranger. Is this the face of someone brave enough to resist his own mother's advances? Or just a coward running away from everything he's secretly wanted?
I can't even tell anymore if I'm trying to be moral or just normal. If I'm fighting these feelings because they're wrong or because I'm terrified of what they mean. The line between disgust and desire has never been thinner.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and my heart beats. Mom. It has to be. Probably telling me to come home, that we need to talk this through. That she loves me. That she wants me.
I fish it out at the next stoplight, steeling myself for whatever she's written, but the notification isn't from her at all.
Sabrina: Uhhhh heyy... you haha....
I stare at the message, momentarily stunned out of my existential crisis.
"Who the fuck starts a conversation like this?"