Page 38 of Taboo
Neither of us moves. We stay in place, panting, the water beating onto us. He presses his forehead to mine, our breath mingling, and then he kisses me. It is soft and lingering, a tenderness that cracks my heart open.
“I love you, Amelia,” he whispers, his voice raw. “I always will. There never has been and never will be anyone else for me.”
I nod, tears pricking my eyes, unable to say it back. I love him too. More than he will ever know, but I need to leave myself a way out of this, whole and without it breaking me into pieces.
He shuts off the water. The silence is sudden, almost deafening. He grasps a towel from the rail and wraps it around me, his hands gentle and reverent. He towels my hair, his fingers combing through the wet strands, and it is a care that feels like a vow. I watch him mutely, my chest aching with love, with fear.
Afterwards, he moves onto his own body, and I can’t help but watch him dry his powerful body. Unable to help myself, I go over to help him recall several memories just like this when we were younger and sneaking around. The tension remains because years later this is still heartbreakingly the case. We still have to sneak around like sinners to share our hearts.
As we return to the bedroom, his phone begins to ring. I jump with dread. What if it is Sara calling him? I watch him through the mirror nervously.
He answers and listens. I watch as his expression darkens and then in the end he responds in a resigned voice. “Alright, I’ll be in soon, but I’m not staying long.”
The call comes to an end, and he gets up from the bed.
"I'm sorry, baby.” He comes over, and there is a flicker of regret in his eyes. “Something important has come up and I have to go into the office, but I’ll be back before you know it.”
I nod, forcing a smile, my throat tight. “It’s okay,” I say, my voice soft, though my heart clenches, already missing him. “Go. I’ll be here…painting.”
He kisses me again, quick but deep, his lips lingering. And then he heads out the door. My whole body hums, and I relish the emotions that are so intense they leave me feeling like I am floating.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
AMELIA
The door clicks shut behind Max. The air is still heavy with the lingering warmth of our shower. My skin tingles, flushed and alive, every nerve humming with the memory of his touch. I press a hand to my chest.
I feel almost delirious with happiness.
It’s the kind of joy that is so fierce it feels like it could burst through my ribs, painting the world in colors I haven’t seen in years. Max loves me.
Max loves me.
But then guilt comes. Sara’s face flashes into my mind—her bright smile, her kindness, the way she opened her home, her family, to me. Yet I’m betraying her, stealing moments with her husband, moments I justify by the injustice I suffered because of a lie my father told.
I’m a thief in the perfect life she has built for herself, and the weight of it presses against my lungs, making each breath a conscious effort. I shake my head, hard, as if I can dislodge the guilt like a stubborn stone. I take a deep breath. I’m not stealingher husband. I’m just borrowing him for two weeks. That’s all. He was mine before he was hers. Today, I will choose joy, choose Max, choose the fleeting time we have.
It’s mid-summer, the Chicago air full of the promise of long, golden days. The house feels too quiet, too vast without Max’s presence, so I decide to take Jason outside and lose myself in the garden’s vibrance. I slip into a light-blue, cotton sundress that skims my knees. The neckline dips just enough to catch the sun’s warmth on my collarbone. My hair, still damp, falls in loose waves over my shoulders as I slip into a pair of sandals and head downstairs.
I find Jason in his den, sprawled on a sofa, his small frame hunched over a handheld game. He looks up briefly, a smile breaking his focused concentration, before he returns his attention to his screen.
“Hey, Aunt Amelia.”
My heart tugs, a tender ache for this boy who’s become so quickly dear to me. He’s such a good kid. “Hey, Jason,” I reply, leaning against the doorframe. “Wanna help me in the garden? I’m going to cut some flowers for the house.”
I really thought he would say he had to finish his game, or he’ll join me later, but to my surprise, he immediately looks up, his game forgotten, and scrambles to his feet.
“Yeah!” he says, his keenness a spark that lights me up. I didn’t really expect this much enthusiasm from a boy his age. “I’ll show you where the purple ones grow. You can put them in your room?”
I laugh, nodding, and take his hand, his small fingers warm and trusting in mine. “Definitely. Let’s see what we can find.”
We step outside. The sprawling garden is a riot of color under the midday sun. The air is heavy, scented with honeysuckle and warm earth, the buzz of bees a soft hum beneath the rustle of leaves. The lawn stretches wide, dotted with flower bedsbursting with roses, lavender, and vibrant zinnias, their petals swaying in a gentle breeze. I spot a gardener in the distance, his weathered hands busy with a pair of shears, his straw hat tipped low against the sun. I thought Max had given all the staff a vacation. Maybe he will leave later.
“Good morning!” I call, waving, and he straightens, his lined face creasing into a grin as he wipes sweat from his brow with a bandana.
“Good morning, Miss Fitzwilliam,” he calls back, his voice gruff but warm, his eyes crinkling at Jason. “You’re here, too. Have you come to make trouble in my garden, young man?”
