Page 77 of Taboo
I smile, so immensely relieved that my heart feels like it’s soaring.
Jason bounces on his toes, his grin wide, and we start packing. My movements, though slow, are careful since my body is still tender. Jason helps, folding my sweater with clumsy, eager hands, his chatter filling the room with light. Max watches, his eyes soft, and then he leans close, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Sara’s gone,” he tells me, his gaze holding mine, steady and sure. “She was escorted out yesterday, so you don't have toworry, okay? Ever. I know you were worried about us, but it’s over now. It’ll just be you, me, and Jason. Forever. Unless we have some kids.”
My breath catches, and relief floods me. A flicker of fear lingers, though— from the memory of Sara’s rage, the ashtray’s cold weight crashing against my temple. I push it down and focus on Max’s warmth.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my heart full of gratitude, of love for them both. We finish packing. Jason insists on carrying my small bag. We exit the hospital and head to the SUV. Max’s arm brushes my shoulder while Jason’s hand clings to mine, and it all feels like heaven.
The drive home is quiet, the city encased in the magic of dusk. Jason dozes in the backseat, his soft snores filling the car with a gentle rhythm. Max’s hand rests on the console, close to mine, and I feel it—the newness of our beginning. The family I’ve dreamed of having since that summer.
We pull into the driveway, the gray stones of the house warm and inviting. Stepping inside, the foyer feels reborn, the air clean, scented with fresh flowers, Sara’s shadow gone. The memories of her violence tug at me, sharp, but only fleeting. I shove them away. I won’t let her spoil my life. I cling to Jason’s warmth, to Max’s steady presence.
“You must be starving,” Max says, his voice soft, his eyes searching mine for any sign of discomfort. “How about dinner? The table has been set up for the three of us. Something special.”
I nod, my heart light, a smile curving my lips. “Sounds perfect,” I say, squeezing Jason’s hand. “Come on, little angel.”
He tugs at me, his eyes bright with excitement, and his voice bubbling. “Wait, Aunt Amelia, you gotta see the studio first!” he says, pulling me toward the stairs, his small hand insistent. “I made something while you were in the hospital!”
I laugh, my body still weak but my spirit lifting, warmed by his enthusiasm. “Okay, okay,” I say, my voice teasing, soft. “Let’s see this masterpiece of yours.”
We climb the stairs, his hand in mine, the past fading with each step. The studio door swings open, and I stop dead, my breath catching in my throat.
The room is full of purple flowers—lavender, lilacs, violets, their petals spilling across tables, shelves, the hardwood floor, their scent wrapping me like a warm embrace. Candles flicker on every surface, their golden glow dancing on the walls, casting soft shadows. Above, a white banner stretches across the room, bold, hand-painted letters proclaiming,
Will You Marry Me?
Fingerprints—Max’s large, Jason’s small—dot the fabric, smudged in bright colors, a testament to their shared effort. My heart stops. Tears flood my eyes as I take it all in, unable to process. I look down at Jason. I wonder what his father told him. Perhaps that I’m not his sister and that he loves me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my hands trembling as I cover my mouth, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. The candles glow and shimmer through my tears. I’m overwhelmed with happiness.
“Aunt Amelia, say yes!” Jason tugs my hand, his gray eyes wide, pleading, his voice high and quivering with nerves. “Please say yes! We worked so hard, and I was so nervous!” His small face is earnest, his curls bouncing as he bounces on his toes, and my heart melts, love for him flooding me.
I kneel, laughing through my tears, a shaky, joyous sound, and pull him into a hug, my arms tight around his small frame. “It’s so beautiful, Jason,” I say, my voice thick as I kiss his cheek."You and your dad—you’re amazing. And my answer is yes. Most definitely yes.”
“You’re saying it to the wrong guy,” Max’s voice says from behind, low and warm.
I turn, my breath catching, and there he is, on one knee, his blue eyes, a velvet box open in his hands. A ring sparkles inside, a gorgeous diamond, its facets catching the candlelight, radiant and breathtaking.
“Amelia,” he says, his voice rough, breaking on my name, “I can’t put into words how much I love you—they’ll never be enough. But you know. You’ve always known me, seen me, understood me like no one else. Having you to spend the rest of your life with me, to be my wife, it’ll be the greatest joy I’ll ever have. You’ll make me the happiest man alive. So will you marry me?”
My tears fall faster, my throat too tight to speak, my heart pounding with a love so fierce it hurts. I nod, my vision blurring, and choke out, “Yes. Of course, I’ll marry you.”
His grin is wide and radiant. He rises and slides the ring onto my finger. The metal is cool, and the fit is perfect. It's also so freaking dazzlingly gorgeous. I’m startled by its beauty, but before I can speak, he pulls me into his arms, his lips crashing into mine. The kiss is all fire and tenderness, his tears mixing with mine, salty and warm.
Jason cheers and shouts, “Congratulations!”
I feel him barrel into us, his small arms wrapping around our legs, his giggles bright and infectious. We laugh, crouching to pull him into the embrace. Max’s arms encircle us both, his warmth grounding me, Jason’s laughter filling the room, and I’m home, wrapped in the family of my dreams. My heart is overflowing, the future is bright with love.
Epilogue
MAX
Five Months Later
The ballroom of the Drake Hotel is gorgeous, chandeliers dripping crystal scatter light across polished oak floors. The air’s thick with the scent of champagne and roses. Voices weaving through the jazz quartet’s smooth melody. The release party for the book Amelia was illustrating for is a spectacle, bigger than she expected, but I couldn’t help it.
Her publisher was all in when I pitched the idea of turning it into an art exhibition too, and now all of Chicago’s elite—my associates, friends, art collectors, critics—fill the room, their eyes drawn to the walls where her paintings hang like a gallery of dreams. Dragons, foxes, starlit forests, each one vibrant, alive, her brushstrokes, at once bold and delicate, a window into her soul. They’re magnificent, every line a testament to the fire inside her.
