Forbidden Glances
1539 Words
The days after the hospital felt suspended in fragile equilibrium.
Dad came home after four days pale, slower, but alive. Mom hovered like a shadow, enforcing the doctor’s orders with military precision: low-sodium meals, daily walks around the block, no stress. Sophia flew back from Boston early, rearranged her schedule, spent nights at the family house helping Mom. James drove over every evening after work, bringing groceries, fixing the leaky faucet in the guest bathroom, sitting with Dad to watch old football games on mute.
Emily came too every day after work, sometimes staying late into the night. The house filled with the quiet rhythm of recovery: the soft beep of Dad’s home monitor, the clink of medication bottles, the murmur of voices trying not to disturb him.
And underneath it all, the unspoken current between Emily and James.
They didn’t speak about the kiss in the hallway. Not once. But it existed in every room they shared, in every glance that lasted half a second too long, in every accidental brush of shoulders when passing in the narrow kitchen.
The first time it happened again was Sunday afternoon.
Dad was napping in the recliner. Mom had gone to the pharmacy for refills. Sophia was in the kitchen making tea.
Emily stood at the sink rinsing mugs. James walked in to grab a glass of water.
Their arms brushed barely. A whisper of contact.
She froze.
He froze.
They both looked toward the doorway, listening for footsteps.
None came.
James set the glass down slowly. His fingers grazed the back of her hand where it rested on the counter.
Emily’s breath hitched.
He didn’t pull away.
Instead he turned his hand over, palm up an invitation.
She hesitated only a heartbeat before sliding her fingers into his.
They stood like that facing the sink, hands linked below the counter level, out of sight while the kettle hissed behind them.
Sophia’s voice floated from the hallway: “Tea’s almost ready. Dad still sleeping?”
Emily slipped her hand free. James stepped back smoothly.
“Yeah,” Emily called back. “Still out.”
Sophia appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray. “Good. He needs the rest.”
James smiled at her warm, husbandly. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
Sophia laughed tiredly. “Tell that to my inbox.”
They moved to the living room with the tea. Emily sat on the couch beside Sophia. James took the armchair opposite.
Dad stirred, opened his eyes.
“Everyone still here?” he rasped.
“Wouldn’t leave you,” James said, leaning forward. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” Dad muttered. “But alive. That’s something.”
Sophia reached over and squeezed Emily’s knee. “We’re all here, Dad. No one’s going anywhere.”
Emily smiled at her sister genuine, aching.
But when she looked up, James was watching her.
Not Sophia.
Her.
The glance was brief fleeting but it carried weight. Heat. Memory.
Emily looked away first, cheeks burning.
Later that evening, after Dad had gone back to bed and Mom insisted everyone go home, Sophia walked Emily and James to the door.
“I’m staying another night,” Sophia said. “Mom needs the company.”
James kissed her cheek. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be back tomorrow after work.”
Sophia nodded. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Emily hugged Sophia tightly. “Text me when he’s settled.”
“I will.”
Then James and Emily stepped outside together.
The night air was cool, streetlights pooling gold on the wet pavement.
They walked to their cars parked side by side.
At the driver’s door of her car, Emily stopped.
James stopped too.
They stood in the quiet driveway, inches apart.
No one spoke.
Then he reached out slowly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
His fingers lingered against her cheek.
Emily closed her eyes.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he whispered. “The hallway. Your mouth on mine.”
“Me neither.”
He stepped closer. Their bodies aligned chest to chest, breath mingling.
But he didn’t kiss her.
Instead he pressed his forehead to hers.
“I want to,” he said. “Every second I’m near you.”
“I know.”
“But we can’t. Not here. Not now.”
Emily nodded against him.
They stayed like that foreheads touching, breathing the same air for what felt like forever.
Then headlights swept down the street.
A neighbor’s car.
They broke apart instantly.
James opened her car door for her. “Drive safe.”
“You too.”
She got in.
He closed the door gently.
She watched him walk to his SUV in the rearview mirror.
Neither waved.
Neither smiled.
But the glance they shared through the glass said everything.
The pattern continued over the next week.
Forbidden glances across dinner tables.
Fingers brushing when passing plates.
A hand on the small of her back brief, innocent when guiding her through a doorway crowded with family.
Each touch electric.
Each glance loaded.
Emily started writing.
Not to him.
Never to him.
She bought a small black notebook plain, unremarkable and kept it hidden in her nightstand drawer.
The first entry was written at 2 a.m. after another late night at the family house.
October 28
I kissed him.
In the hallway where we used to play hide-and-seek as kids.
Sophia was upstairs sleeping. Dad was recovering ten feet away.
And I kissed him back.
I didn’t stop him.
I didn’t want to.
I still don’t.
I hate myself for it.
I hate him a little too for making it feel inevitable.
But mostly I hate how much I want it to happen again.
She wrote every night after that.
Sometimes short fragments:
His thumb on my wrist pulse. Counting my heartbeat like it belonged to him.
Sometimes longer confessions:
I watch him with Sophia and it hurts in places I didn’t know could hurt. The way he smiles at her small, tired, still loving. And then he looks at me and it’s different. Hungrier. Guilty. Like I’m the secret he’s dying to keep and dying to tell at the same time.
I’m becoming the other woman in my own family.
And I don’t know how to stop.
One night she wrote:
If I tell Sophia, she’ll never forgive me.
If I don’t, I’ll never forgive myself.
Either way, someone loses everything.
Probably all of us.
She never dated the entries consistently. Never signed them.
She just poured the poison onto the page so it wouldn’t spill into real life.
But it was spilling anyway.
One evening ten days after Dad’s heart attack they were all at the house again.
Sophia had cooked simple pasta, salad, garlic bread. Dad ate slowly at the table for the first time since coming home.
After dinner, they moved to the living room.
Sophia curled against James on the couch, head on his shoulder.
Emily sat on the floor near Dad’s recliner, knees drawn up, watching an old movie on low volume.
James’s arm was around Sophia.
But his eyes kept drifting.
To Emily.
She felt them like a physical touch.
When Sophia got up to refill water glasses, James leaned forward pretending to adjust the blanket over Dad’s lap and his hand brushed Emily’s shoulder.
Lingering.
She looked up.
He didn’t smile.
He just held her gaze long, steady, burning.
Sophia returned.
The moment broke.
But the heat remained.
Later, when everyone was saying goodnight, James walked Emily to her car again.
This time the driveway was empty. No headlights. No neighbors.
He stopped her before she opened the door.
“Emily.”
She turned.
He stepped into her space close enough she could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of hospital antiseptic that still clung to him from the days spent there.
“I can’t keep doing this,” he said quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending I don’t want to touch you every time we’re in the same room.”
Emily’s throat closed.
“Then stop pretending.”
His eyes darkened. “If I stop, everything changes.”
“I know.”
He cupped her face with both hands gentle, reverent.
Their lips met.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Slow. Deep. Devastating.
Emily’s hands fisted in his jacket.
His thumbs brushed her cheekbones.
When they finally parted, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers again.
“We’re going to hell for this,” he whispered.
“Maybe we’re already there.”
He kissed her once more soft, final.
Then stepped back.
“Drive safe.”
She got in the car.
He watched her pull away.
In the rearview mirror, he stood in the driveway hands in pockets, head bowed until she turned the corner.
When Emily got home, she opened the notebook.
She wrote one line:
Tonight he kissed me again.
And I let him.
Again.
She closed the book.
Locked the drawer.
And cried herself to sleep.
Because the glances were no longer forbidden.
They were inevitable.
And the next time they touched, she knew it wouldn’t stop at a kiss.
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