I've never really desired anyone. Of course, I've loved their bodies, but it never had to be specifically them. Anyone with a dick and a pretty-enough face was fine. The seduction, the sex; it was all just a game to me. They'd spend months thinking about me, wondering where I went after I left them in their hotel beds, hoping I'd come back. The idea that so many people craved me, that I was a modern Casanova, thrilled me.

So I've never felt undesired before. I've never woken up unexpectedly alone, without even a note on the bedside table, or a phone number in soap on the hotel mirror.

It looked like this was my week for new experiences.

I stood by my bed. My phone was gone - which I should have expected, bringing a delinquent high schooler into my suite – but my laptop didn't appear to have been touched, and my credit cards were still in my wallet in my jeans. Maybe it was the pictures of us he wanted, or (more likely) he just wanted something easy to sell on Ebay. My vanity liked to think it was the former. But I wasn't too worried about the phone - the only thing I'd miss would be the snapshots of Bennet and Chris that I took at the airport the day before yesterday. But it's wasn't like I'd never see them again.

It was him I wouldn't see again. The thieving bastard with the pretty face, who, for some obscure reason, I couldn't stop thinking about. His scarred skin, his sarcastic expressions, those powerfully dark and dangerous eyes – everything about him was etched into my memory, and I hated it.

I kicked the foot of the bed in frustration. Why was I so worked up about it? I knew it was partially because I was sore, and tired. Have I mentioned how sore I was? God was I sore. I was in pain and exhausted, so waking up alone was another kick to the balls. It made me feel cheap and unwanted. But it was more than that: it was embarrassing.

I wanted to put off my visit to 23 Grange Street again, but I couldn't. I couldn't stand knowing that if I loitered around this part of the city another night, I might see him again. It scared me – fuck, there's that word again - that I wouldn't know how he'd react to seeing me, that I didn't understand him, that I didn't understand why I reacted to him.

Did I want to see him again? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Whether that meant yes or no, I didn't have a clue.

For some reason, standing on the street with my luggage, I hesitated. I watched people get in and out of taxis. I watched ridiculously chubby woman jog past in ridiculously short shorts, and university students fight over a doughnut that ended up on the ground anyway. I stood there for a good ten minutes, watching the world go past, before a young woman tapped me on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," she said. "But if you don't want that taxi, could you please move?" She had more luggage than I did, a ginger cat to match her ginger hair, and a big red picture of Elmo on her oversized, knee-length black shirt. The cat hissed at me through the carrier.

I apologized, and moved out of the way. Lifting the suitcase was a pain in the arse – or rather, the back – which I think she noticed because she asked if I wanted to share.

"I'm heading to Manukau," she said, for some reason pulling a face. "What about you?"

I didn't have a clue where or what Manukau was, but I remembered the suburb from the address I had on a post-it-note in my pocket. "Er, Otara," I said, sure I had pronounced it wrong.

"Otara is in Manukau," she said, giving me a quizzical look. She pronounced Otara the same way I did, to my relief. "Is this your first time in the city?"

I hated feeling ignorant. "First time in the country," I emphasized reluctantly. "My flight got in yesterday."

She laughed (she had a horrible laugh) and told me it wouldn't take long for me to get used to things, as though she knew anything about me.

In the end, for some ridiculous reason that I can't remember, I agreed to travel with her. I promptly regretted it; she turned out to be chatty, telling me all about her sickly grandmother and her father's panel beating business. She had a horrible Australian accent, and, worst of all, she insisted that her cat be allowed out of it's cage inside the vehicle. I was sure that the taxi driver would have told her where to shove her pet furball, but he seemed quite content to allow the whining, smelly beast paw our laps while he drove. God forbid it have fleas.

Manukau was maybe fifteen minutes out of the city, which meant it wouldn't take long for me to get from Grange street to the University every day when the semester started. It also meant I didn't have to put up with Cathy – that was her name, by the way – for as long as I'd feared.

"This is a nice street," she had said as we stopped on Grange Street. It looked a lot like all the other streets to me. "Maybe we'll see each other at the local market."

"Maybe," I had said politely, making a mental note to avoid the market. She smiled and waved the hand that wasn't clinging the desperate, flailing cat to her chest, and then the doors were shut and she was gone.

I was surprised - watching her drive away in that little white taxi, I suddenly felt more uncomfortable than I had inside the car. To emphasize, I felt more uncomfortable standing there on the side of the road than I had in a smelly, cramped vehicle with the most annoying woman I had ever met and her pet Simba.

But in my defense, I was standing outside the house of the mother I'd never known - the mother I had thought to be someone else up until a month ago - with the intention of going inside and staying there, no matter how psychotic, overweight, poor or ugly a woman she might be.

Anyone in my situation would feel a little uneasy.

We'd talked on the phone once, about a week ago, to make plans. I had tracked her down on the internet and emailed her. She had been thrilled to hear from me, and sounded delighted at the prospect of me coming to stay. She had immediately sent her address and phone number, and said to come whenever I wanted. I had called her a couple of weeks after, to say that I'd applied at the local university, and that if possible I'd like to move in the following week.

And that was it. All I knew about her was the sound of her voice, her email and her address. Oh, there were a things about her online; that she had enrolled in a photography course, and done wedding photography for a few years, but nothing really personal. What did she do for a living? Had she remarried? What she look like? I hadn't thought to ask any of those things on the phone.

I suddenly felt a little weak in the legs.

Almost reluctantly, I pulled my suitcase to the porch, taking in every detail of the house in my procrastination. It was built of whitewashed weatherboard, with unusual pale green around the window frames. The garden was somewhat extravagant. The plants were neat, minimal and well organized, but bright murals were painted up the wooden fences and mismatching garden ornaments stood out everywhere. Dozens of homemade windcharms hung from the only tree in the garden, all making a different chime in the breeze.

I wasn't too sure what to make of this, so I decided not to think about it.

The porch was ordinary enough, but somewhat intimidating. Just like earlier in the morning, I found myself hesitating. I couldn't put it off for much longer though, because as soon as I put my suitcase down, a small dog inside started yapping through the door. I could hear movement further in, and with bated breath, raised my hand to knock on the door (there was no doorbell).

The first thing that struck me about her was her face. When she first opened the door I was startled to see my own nose and eyes. Somehow, I had never once looked for myself in Margaret. I'd never noticed that while my 'mother' had Bennett's eyes and Bennett's lips, she had nothing of me. Something about seeing myself in this stranger instantly warmed me to her.

The fact that she was slim, pretty and tidy worked in her favor as well, but I wasn't really thinking about that. My chest was still full of butterflies and cockroaches and God knows what else.

She seemed a little shell shocked, so I held out my hand and, after a momentary and internal panic over what to call her, said, "Ms. Webber, I'm Alex Preston." I hesitated when she didn't take my hand. "I called you last week," I added.

Then something seemed to click inside her; her expression warmed and she smiled, and reached out and took my hand firmly in hers.

"Of course," she said gently. "Please, call me Alicia."

I was inexplicably grateful that she hadn't asked me to call her mother, or Mom. I don't know if I could have handled that. Sure, in movies, everyone screams and hugs and cries the ocean when children meet their parents for the first time. But I wasn't sure what I felt for this woman. Of course I wanted to know her, to understand her, but I definitely didn't love her. We were just two strangers standing on this pale green threshold, with the knowledge that we might come to love each other eventually.

Her hand was shaking, so I promptly let it go before she realized I'd noticed. We stood there awkwardly for a moment; she was looking at me and I was looking at her. Maybe we were taking in all the details, trying to guess what we'd missed, searching for things we recognized. Or maybe we were both just a little too uncertain of what to say next.

And then she remembered who and where we were, and said,"Come inside," stepping back to reveal the hallway. "We weren't expecting you for a few more days, so your room isn't finished yet... would you liked a cup of coffee? Or tea? We have Milo too..."

I didn't answer. I didn't even register the 'we'. Maybe if I had, I would have demanded to know who else lived there, and maybe I could have escaped while I still had the chance.

But I didn't register it; I was entirely captivated by the paintings on the walls - of flowers and oceans and mythical creatures. They weren't the kind of dark, earthy classics that my father hung above the fireplace back home, and that I'd probably be studying at the university – they were bright and bold and creative, and full of imaginative detail. And there was nothing abstract or amateur about them; the compositions were well thought out, the anatomy flawless. There was one particular painting that held my eye.

I raised a hand to touch the gold plaque on the frame that read Alex and Erin. The painting depicted two angels, perhaps two and three years old, playing on clouds beneath a rainbow.

"I painted that a few months before he left," Alicia said quietly. I swallowed, looking at the the slightly older angel. Her hair was curlier, and she was draped in pale yellow fabric.

"Who's Erin?" I asked, and when Alicia didn't reply, I turned around. She looked surprisingly shocked, and also a little disgusted, which she covered up quickly.

"How much did Nigel tell you about us?"

"Nothing," I said reluctantly. "Right up until the day I left, he denied you existed."

Alicia regarded me for a moment, and then let out a heavy breath. "You better come into the kitchen," she said. "You probably have a lot of questions."

I followed her through the narrow, dark hallway, and into a brightly lit living area. I was excited, nervous and scared all at once, but also glad at how smoothly this seemed to be going. She didn't seem insane at all – rather, quite likeable. I could picture her baking cookies. For some inexplicable reason the thought made me smile; I hate biscuits.

"What did you say you liked to drink?" she asked, putting the kettle on as I sat down at the breakfast bar.

"Oh, sorry. Coffee would be fantastic, thank you."

"Is there anything you'd like to eat? Fruit? A biscuit?"

I could have laughed, but instead I settled with a smile and a "no thank you." I could tell that she was nervous - or perhaps she was just naturally clumsy. But looking at the beautiful strokes of her paintings, I doubted it. There was only one painting in the kitchen, and a couple of famous religious prints on the fridge. I wondered if she were religious, or if she just enjoyed Renaissance art.

"You look a lot like him," Alicia said as she set the coffee down in front of me. "When I first opened the door, for a second I thought it was him. You're almost the splitting image of the man I met in college."

I tried to smile, but my teeth were oddly clenched.

Alicia sighed and sipped her drink. "He won both of you, you know. Of course he lied, said I worked all day and was unfit to raise you. He was a brilliant lawyer, and I was young and naïve and didn't know what to say. Aftwards he came to me and suggested he take you and I take Erin." She paused, watching me carefully. "Erin is twenty two now, and at Otago down south doing a Bachelor of Science. She's your older sister."

It was a kick to the gut. I hadn't really thought about it; sure, I had a different mother. I could deal with that. But an entire family I didn't know about? The paintings, Alicia, Erin... I suddenly felt as though I'd missed an entire world.

"I'm sorry, it must be a lot to take in."

I nodded. "Please, continue."

"After Nigel and I got divorced, he took you and Margaret to America. I tried to get in contact, to ask for photos, videos, anything, but they blocked my number, stopped answering my calls... you even moved a couple of times. In the end it became impossible. I didn't hear anything about you until I found an article in the local online herald when you were fifteen."

I frowned, trying to think back. "What was it about?"

"I believe you got expelled in your second year at high school."

For a second I panicked, worried that it was going to affect her opinion of me, but she simply looked amused, smiling at me over the rim of her coffee.

"Ah," was all I said.

"'Ah' indeed." She laughed. "But I'll let you leave that story for another time. You said you enrolled at the University?"

"Yes," I said, relieved. "I thought I might be interested in Art History."

Alicia seemed delighted. "Oh, I bet Nigel will hate that!"

"That's kind of the idea. He had me enrolled in Law."

"You don't get on with your father?" And when I shook my head and laughed she added, "oh my, I think we're going to be best of friends."

After that, things felt a little less awkward. She told me how she was a part time teacher at the local Primary School, and we talked a little more seriously about whether it was actually a good idea for me to drop Law for Arts. I found her likeable to the point where I wondered if I would have been happier growing up here than in America.

The conversation was still somewhat formal and restrained, but I think I preferred that over tearful and awkward.

Around lunchtime she offered to make sandwiches.

"Don't be silly," she said when I got up to help. "You're a guest today. After tomorrow you can start helping with the chores."

I chose not to think about what kind of chores I might be helping with tomorrow, and watched her busy herself in the kitchen. It was somewhat fascinating how different she was from Margaret. For one, Margaret never made sandwiches unless entertaining, and then she'd spend hours cutting, shaping and arranging them. Laurent, Bennett and I were never allowed to touch them, even if there were leftovers. But of course, that's not to say I haven't had a sandwich before; we bought them from school all the time.

I'd just never had one made specifically for me.

"Do you eat cheese?" Alicia asked, pausing at the fridge.

"Cheese is fine," I replied, just as the dog started barking again. I wondered if someone were visiting, or if it was the more annoying kind of animal that barked at everything.

Alicia peered through the lace curtains above the sink. "I wonder who this is," she muttered. "Kevin isn't due home for a couple of hours..."

"Kevin?" I asked uncertainly, but I never got a reply because at that moment someone opened the door. The dog stopped barking, and we could hear someone talking to it in the hallway. Alicia sighed heavily to my right, and I guessed that whoever it was was less than welcome.

"I'm home!" a voice shouted from the hallway, and I could hear heavy boots being kicked off.

"Hey, sweetie." Alicia's voice was strained. "How was school?"

"Like always."

I might have said I recognized the voice if I didn't think all New Zealand accents sounded the same. Maybe it would have been better if I had recognized it; I would have been more prepared.

"Come in. We have a visitor."

The dog scurried under my feet, jumping up to lick my hand, but I didn't even notice because it happened the same time he came round the corner.

Thinking back on it, It's his expression I remember most of all. It was so surprisingly relaxed. He could have been any teenager coming home from a tedious day at school.

But he wasn't 'any teenager'. It was 1pm, school wasn't out, and I distinctly remembered this particular teenager fucking me senseless the previous night.

There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, and then it was gone.

"Fuck," I said. I'm not sure if anyone heard. I'm not even sure if I said it aloud.

"Who's he?" Teal asked bluntly, dropping his bag in the doorway.

I thought I heard Alicia swallow, but I wasn't too sure because I was still trying to process what was standing in front of me.

"Teal, this is Alex." Alicia looked at me almost apologetically. "Alex - this is your brother, Teal."