The Taste of Doubt

Victor didn’t argue, leaned forward, drew closer and said, “Why do I get the feeling you have something else in mind, hmm?”

He tilted his head, eyes full of mischief. The air between them grew thick, the unspoken words sticky-sweet.

Lillian was so close to him, in the moonlight she could even see the length of his lashes.

She watched the play of shadows across his cheekbones, the way the silver light softened his features. Her breath caught. Heat rose in her chest.

She suddenly felt a little thirsty, licked her lips. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. She looked away, focusing on the patterns the moonlight cast on the floor, trying to steady herself.

Victor’s eyes were full of laughter; he moved even closer, but said nothing.

He let the silence stretch, savoring the tension. His nearness made goosebumps prickle along her arms. She felt her heart race, breath coming faster.

Lillian felt the air in the room grow thin, her breathing quickened, her heart pounding wildly.

She could hear her own pulse in her ears. Every sense felt sharpened—the faint rustle of the curtains, the distant whistle of a train, the heat radiating from Victor beside her.

She met his gaze, saw the playful heat in his eyes, nervously looked away, glancing at the shadows of maple leaves swaying on the window, while their own shadows overlapped on the glass.

The sight made her heart ache—a reminder of the tree they’d planted, of everything that had changed. Their shadows merged and danced on the glass, like they were meant to fit together. She swallowed, hope and fear tangled up inside her.

She immediately closed her eyes, took a deep breath, wanting to touch her burning face, but didn’t dare.

She pressed her hands together, willing herself to be brave, to say something—anything—but the words stuck.

After a while, she heard Victor say softly, “Lillian.”

His voice was gentle, almost reverent, like he was afraid to break the spell between them.

Lillian didn’t dare open her eyes, bit her lower lip hard. “What? You… you don’t want to kiss—”

She stumbled over the words, her voice trembling. The admission hung in the air, raw and exposed. She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

Victor suddenly pressed his hand to her lips. “Shh.”

His palm was warm, his touch gentle. It was a caress, a promise, a plea for patience—all at once. She felt herself relax, just a little.

Lillian swallowed, not daring to speak.

She could feel her heart hammering, hands gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles hurt. The silence was thick with possibility, fear, hope. Anything could happen.

Her heart felt like it would leap out of her chest, her restless hands gripping the sheet tightly.

She squeezed the fabric, grounding herself, trying not to come apart at the seams. The anticipation was almost too much.

With her eyes closed, she couldn’t see, but her other senses sharpened. She could feel his breath so close, hear the wind howling past the porch outside.

The world outside faded, leaving only the two of them in this small, charged space. The wind rattled the windows, but inside, the air was thick with longing.

Suddenly, she felt someone pat the top of her head.

The touch was light, almost playful—a gentle reminder that, for all the tension, there was still tenderness here. She opened her eyes, startled.

She opened her eyes in confusion and met Victor’s smiling eyes.

He looked at her with a warmth that made her breath catch. His smile was soft, reassuring, and a little bit teasing. She felt her nerves settle, just a little.

Victor brushed her burning cheek with his fingertip. “Lillian, shower tomorrow. The smell is too much.”

He grinned, ducking his head, and Lillian’s embarrassment exploded into outrage. She gaped at him, torn between laughing and wanting to smack him.

Lillian: “……” Get lost! Ugh—!

She huffed, slapping his hand away, cheeks blazing. The urge to throw a pillow at him was almost overwhelming. She scooped up her pride and made for the door.

Her face burning, she slapped his hand away, then leapt up from the bed and hurried back to her own room.

She fled down the hall, muttering curses under her breath, heart still pounding. She dove under her covers, determined to ignore him for the rest of the night, but his laughter echoed in her ears, stubborn as ever.

The next morning, she got up early to shower, scrubbing herself until she was fragrant, every strand of hair washed, exuding a pleasant scent.

She spent nearly an hour in the bathroom, steam curling around her as she lathered herself with rose-scented soap. She dried off with her favorite fluffy towel, slipped into a fresh dress, and dabbed on a hint of vanilla lotion. When she looked in the mirror, her cheeks were still pink, but her eyes sparkled with stubborn pride.

At lunch, she absentmindedly pushed her mac and cheese around her plate, not eating a bite.

The golden crust was untouched, her fork tracing lazy circles in the gooey cheese. She barely noticed the clatter of dishes or the soft hum of conversation around her. Her thoughts drifted, snagged on memories and regrets that wouldn’t let go.

Victor noticed and asked, “Is the food not to your taste? I’ll have the chef…”

He leaned forward, concern creasing his brow. His voice was gentle, for once, and Lillian almost let herself be comforted.

Lillian slammed her fork on the table. “I don’t want to talk to you right now, stay away from me!”

Her words rang out, sharp and brittle, echoing through the dining room. The staff froze, forks halfway to their mouths. Victor blinked, caught off guard.

Victor’s hand holding his fork paused. “You…”

He stared at her, mouth open, searching for the right words. The silence stretched, thick as molasses.

Lillian covered her ears and ran out. “Not listening!”

She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the hardwood, and bolted from the room. Her footsteps echoed down the hall, leaving Victor and the staff in stunned silence.

She wandered around the estate for half the day, then ended up at the koi pond.

She drifted from room to room, unable to settle, her thoughts looping like a broken record. Eventually, she found herself by the pond, the water glassy and still, koi gliding beneath the surface like living jewels.

She asked the groundskeeper for a fishing rod and began fishing, catching the koi and releasing them, then catching and releasing again.

The groundskeeper handed her the rod with a bemused smile. Lillian settled on the stone edge, skirt fanned out. She cast the line, watched the koi nibble at the bait, then let them slip free, over and over. The repetition was soothing—a kind of meditation.

She fished and released, released and fished, until the fish were worn out.

The koi grew sluggish, circling her bait with wary eyes. Lillian watched them, her mind drifting, the sun warm on her back. For a while, the world shrank to just her and the fish.

After a while, she put down the rod, took a box of fish food and tossed it into the pond one pellet at a time.

She shook the box, listening to the rattle inside, then began tossing pellets, one by one, into the water. The koi darted and swirled, their scales flashing in the fading light. Each splash felt like a tiny relief.

She tossed a pellet, muttering, “Likes me…”