Page 18 of Taboo
Hmmm…
She’s crafted a sanctuary here for me, a room in my favorite color, a bright studio down the hall, complete with easel and paints, all for me, a stranger bound to her only by Max’s past. It’s more than I expected, more than I know how to accept, and the weight of her generosity presses against my chest, a mix of gratitude and unease.
But beneath it, a small, mean part of me—sharp and ugly—twists with jealousy, a venomous thread I can’t untangle. This should be my life. This house, with its soaring windows and vibrant art, this family, with Jason’s bright eyes and Sara’s easy laughter—it should be mine, built with Max, the man I loved before a lie tore us apart. The thought stings, a bitter ache that coils in my gut, and I hate myself for it. Sara’s done nothing to deserve this resentment, nothing to earn the envy that flareswhen I see her touch Max’s arm, her hand so natural, so claimed. She’s not the villain here, not the one who shattered my world.
Max isn’t my brother, isn’t my anything, but he’s hers now, and I’m left with scraps of what might’ve been. With fierce determination, I squash the ill-feeling, crushing it down until it’s a dull throb, because it’s not Sara’s fault my life is in ruins. It’s Dad’s, his lie, a theft I’ll never get over.
I lean back, my head resting against the tall headboard. The room is quiet, save for the soft tick of a clock on the nightstand, its rhythm steady against the chaos in my mind. My gaze drifts to the window, where the late afternoon light filters through the drapes, casting a lavender haze across the rug. It’s beautiful, this space, a more luxurious, classier version of the attic Max decorated for me all those years ago. The thought of him choosing this color—did he tell Sara, or was it just chance? Of course, it’s not just chance. She must have asked, and he must have told her.
The thought sends a pang through me, sharp and sweet. I close my eyes and rein in my runaway thoughts, but his face lingers—those watchful eyes, that tattoo peeking from his sleeve, and the way his innocent hug nearly undid me. My body still hums from lunch, from the intensity of his gaze, and I shift, the denim brushing my thighs, a reminder of the ache I can’t escape.
I stand, needing to move, and cross to the vanity, its mirror reflecting my pale face, my eyes too bright, too raw in my tired face, faded. I touch the mirror, my fingers cool against the glass, and see myself from Sara’s eyes. She is shiny and glamorous, all of her, from her hair to the tips of her toenails. My appearance must seem very drab to her. Even I have to admit it is a bad haircut. I come from a small world, and it shows. Her offer to take me shopping and to a hairdresser, echoes in my mind, and I wonder how she sees me—someone to fix, to polish, and genuinely lift up because she is a kind and generous person, orshe is just ashamed to introduce her glitzy friends to her dull sister-in-law.
I tell myself not to be ungenerous. Sara is one of those rare people, not only blessed with beauty but also kind-hearted, but something niggles at me. Something I can’t place my finger on, but it is bothering me.
Something is not right.
Chapter
Eleven
MAX
The city’s lights rush past the car window, a kaleidoscope of neon and glass that does nothing to calm the restlessness in my chest. The drive home feels longer tonight, each mile stretching as my mind churns over Amelia—her presence in my house, her smile at lunch, the way her cautious eyes caught mine and held, like a hook I can’t shake off. She’s under my skin, a fire impossible to douse. The thought of seeing her again at dinner sends a thrill through me.
Gripping the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles go white, I focus on the road.
By the time I pull into the driveway, the house is glowing with lights under the dusk sky. I step inside, the air warm and scented with roasted garlic and thyme, but quiet. I loosen my tie, my shoulders tight from a day of meetings I barely participated in.
“I’m home,” I call, my voice echoing off the polished hardwood.
Sara’s head pokes out from the kitchen, her blonde hair swinging around her face.
“What perfect timing,” she says, her smile bright, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and coming forward. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
I nod, scanning the space, my pulse ticking up. “Where’s Amelia?” The question slips out, too quick, too eager, and I curse myself for it, hoping Sara doesn’t notice.
She shrugs. “She’s tired. She said she’d eat in her studio tonight. It’s been a big day for her.”
Disappointment stabs into me, sharp and unexpected, but I mask it with a smile. “Sure, makes sense.” I move past her, toward the dining room, and the weight of Amelia’s absence settles like a stone in my gut. The table is set for three. Jason is already seated, his small hands folded, his solemn eyes lighting up when he sees me.
“Hey, Dad!” he chirps, and I smile, ruffling his dark curls.
“How’s your day been, buddy?” I ask, taking my place at the head of the table.
He tells me about his school project, his words tumbling quickly over each other, and I nod solicitously, but I’m only half-listening, my mind drifting to the studio upstairs, to Amelia alone with her paints and her grief.
Sara joins us, and Jason falls silent. Maria serves the food. Roasted lamb with mint sauce, creamed potatoes, and steamed asparagus glistening with butter. When Maria leaves, Sara’s chatter fills the silence—something about Jason’s teacher, a neighbor’s new dog. I eat mechanically, the lamb tender, the asparagus just right, but it’s tasteless, my thoughts locked on the woman who’s not here. When dinner is over, I feel relieved, eager to escape the wall of inane gossip that I have never found interesting.
Jason and I play a video game, then I read to him and tuck him into bed before going down to the swimming pool. Twenty laps later, I feel sufficiently tired to go to bed.
After a quick shower, I enter our bedroom. Sara’s in her nightgown, a soft blue silk that makes her skin glow. She is sitting in front of her vanity, rubbing night cream into her skin. Her movements are languorous and sensuous. She watches me in the mirror, her expression serene and untroubled as she picks up her hairbrush and starts brushing her hair. “I’m taking Amelia to my hairdresser tomorrow,” she says softly, “then we’re going shopping for clothes and shoes. I think it’ll be good for her to feel pampered, and you know, to revamp her wardrobe, her clothes are a bit plain and old-fashioned.”
Her words hit like a spark on dry tinder, and I can’t stop myself. Fury flares, hot and sudden, my hands freezing on the doorknob. “Leave her alone, Sara,” I snap, my voice low, venomous. “She’s fine just as she is.”
Sara turns, her brush pausing mid-stroke, her eyes wide with surprise. Sara turns on her stool and stares at me, her confusion palpable. I know my outburst is rare, a crack in the calm I’ve always shown her. She’s used to my silence, my indifference, but I can’t explain the reason for my lack of self-control without betraying the truth I’m barely holding back, but I hate how she makes me feel like I’ve struck her.
“I wasn’t unsubtle or cruel to her,” she says softly. “She was happy about it.”
