The taste of forbidden

3. The intruder.

3. The intruder

Lia

Rose doesn’t like me very much.

I’m used to people not liking me. A lot of them mistake my shyness for coldness, or even hostility. But it’s not that I don’t like being around people... it’s just mentally exhausting. After spending an entire day socializing or attending an event out of obligation, all I want is to get to my bed. It’s like everything inside me gets drained, and resting becomes an urgent, almost physical need.

After Lucas died, my social anxiety got worse.

And there are too many people on this ranch.

Rose, Casidy, the ranch hands, and other workers come and go through the house like it’s their own. I don’t mind… but it overwhelms me. The noise, the voices, the constant presence of others. So even though I’ve been living here for over a week, I still haven’t gotten used to it.

Sometimes I’m eating breakfast when three or four ranch hands barge in loudly to grab food or something cold to drink. At first, they used to greet me, but I got so nervous I could only manage a stiff reply, so now they just walk past me, barely noticing I’m there. I can’t even imagine what they think of me or what insults they probably call me in their heads.

The first one to give up on me was Rose, who it’s painfully obvious can’t stand me, so I mostly try to make my own food so she won’t think I’m taking advantage of her.

This whole situation brings me back to my school days, when making friends or fitting into any group felt nearly impossible.

Sometimes I feel like this world was made for extroverts. For those who effortlessly fill space with words and laughter. Introverts don’t get much understanding in a place where only the loudest voices get heard.

Maybe that’s why it’s easy for me to go unnoticed here. With so many people coming and going, it’s easy to hide in the background. But even amid all that constant movement, there are patterns you start to notice.

Like Becket.

Every day I hear him getting up at almost illegal hours of the morning to go to work, and he comes back when I’m already in bed. Sometimes I silently spy on him through the window. I peek out and see him leaving before the sun’s even up, then I see him returning in his truck when the moon is already high. He looks exhausted and like he’s carrying the weight of the world, which reminds me a bit of those first days after I lost Lucas.

Becket is grieving, going through those first days when you feel like a zombie. And he does look like a zombie, burying himself in work to avoid thinking about anything else. I suspect that’s one of the reasons Rose hates me; she blames me for Becket’s state. It doesn’t help that he seems to avoid me like the plague, which people have noticed and only makes their dislike of me worse.

But despite this situation, it’s still better than being at home, where I’ve become the center of attention in my family. I’ve always hated being the center of attention—but being the center of attention out of pity? I despise it. So I prefer this disdain, because it lets me go unnoticed, something I’ve become an expert at my whole life.

That Monday, around noon, everything seems more hectic than usual. I hear the workers coming and going, eating at odd hours, crossing through the house like someone broke the routine. On a normal day, I’d wait for things to calm down before going to get lunch, but this time it doesn’t seem like there’ll be a single quiet moment.

And I’m starving.

So, putting on a brave face, I step out of my room and head downstairs, where the smell of food hits me—along with laughter and the deep voices of the workers.

Hank, one of the few workers who’s been kind to me, gives me a small smile when he sees me. He’s sitting at the dining table, eating with two other men. They glance at me for a second, then go back to what they’re doing, like I’m not even there. Like I’m invisible.

I smile back at Hank just as Rose comes out carrying two thermal trays with what I assume is food for the workers.

“Girl, I’m taking this last batch to the vet and Beck. If you want to eat, you’ll have to wait,” says Rose, rushing.

“Give her my lunch,” interrupts a voice from the entrance.

Everyone straightens up instantly. The laughter dies and the relaxed mood vanishes like someone flipped a switch.

“What did you say, Beck?” Rose frowns at him.

“Give her my lunch. I can wait for you to make something else,” Becket answers, not looking at anyone. He just walks over, grabs the two food containers, and hands me one. The other, I assume, is for the vet.

As soon as he leaves, the laughter and chatter return like nothing happened. Except for Rose, who gives me a displeased look before disappearing into the kitchen.

I sigh.

I glance again at Hank, who looks embarrassed by the older woman’s behavior. The discomfort tightens in my chest, and the fear that they’ll start asking questions if I stay to eat with them becomes unbearable. So I turn around and take refuge in the study, the same one where I’ve been spending a lot of time these past few days.

Part of me wants to find Becket and at least give him half the lunch back, but I don’t dare. If he’s been avoiding me, it’s because he can’t stand my presence. And I don’t want to impose more than I already do.

Just as I’m finishing lunch, the door opens and Cassidy walks in with a backpack full of notebooks. She’s muttering something under her breath, so it takes her a moment to notice I’m there, but when she does, she stops like she’s not sure whether to stay or leave.

“Come in, I was just finishing up.”

“I don’t remember your name,” she says, tossing her things onto the desk.

“Lia,” I tell her.

“Rose hates you. Says you’re the coldest woman she’s ever met. Is that true?”

I wipe my hands with a napkin and shrug.

How do I answer that?

That’s her opinion of me, but it’s not my truth.

“What do you think?” I ask instead.

“I think everything scares you,” she says distractedly, flipping through her notebooks. “You’re just like Canela. You remind me of her.”

“Canela?”

“The mare Becket rescued years ago.”

I pause, analyzing her words.

“Are you comparing me to a horse?”

“Canela’s prettier than you, but you’re both just as skittish. When Uncle Beck brought her, she was so scared of everyone she wouldn’t leave the paddock. Just like you won’t leave your room.” She bites her pencil, lifts her eyes from the notebook, and looks at me curiously. “What do you even do in there? Rose says probably nothing, that you’re lazy.”

Wow, looks like Rose has already formed a very firm opinion of me.

“I work,” I tell her.

“You work?” More curiosity lights up her gaze. Her eyes are black and her hair is a beautiful coppery red. She doesn’t look anything like Hank, her father, so she must have gotten her features from her mom.

“I’m a 2D animator,” I answer, and when she looks confused, I clarify, “Right now I’m animating the main character for a video game. I draw and give it smooth movements, facial expressions, and…” I stop talking because she looks like I’m speaking another language… or like I’m boring her.

“Cool,” she says flatly. “But I don’t like video games.”

“But a lot of other people do.”

“I guess.” She bites her pen again, staring at her notebook. “Do you know algebra?”

“Do you want me to help you?”

She nods immediately.

“Becket usually helps me, but today is vaccination day for the cattle and everyone’s busy with that, so…”

"Okay," I hesitate for a second. "Do you want me to come over there?"

"Bring that chair, sit next to me."

So I do.

"How can I help you?"

Soon I'm solving simple equations and adding negatives with positives. Cassidy is smart, but a bit lazy and easily distracted; I have to bring her back to the real world every few minutes. Plus, she goes off on all kinds of tangents.

"What was Lucas like?"

I stop. The pencil stops scratching the page.

"What?"

"Lucas," she repeats. "Uncle Beck told me very little about him. He always got sad when I mentioned him, so I stopped asking."

I've tried, on my own, to understand the dynamic between Becket and Lucas, but I have so little to go on. Just fragments, and the letter my husband left me. Still, there's one thing I'm sure of: they loved each other. It was a mutual, deep love. I know that because the only reason Lucas wanted his ashes to rest on this land… was him. Becket.

"And?" Cassidy pulls me out of my thoughts. "What was Lucas like?"

I smile, despite the knot starting to tighten in my chest.

"Lucas Callahan was very funny. He made jokes about everything and loved making people laugh." I pause for a second, letting the memory wash over me. "You would've liked him."

Everyone liked Lucas.

"Can you show me?"

The question takes me by surprise.

"What?"

"In pictures. Even better if you have a video." She gets excited just saying it. "You're his wife, I'm sure you have lots, right?"

"I do," I swallow hard. But it's been a long time since I've watched those videos. A long time since I even dared to look at a picture of him.

"Cass," Becket’s firm voice startles us both. He's standing at the door, leaning against the frame, watching us seriously. "A calf is about to be born. Don’t you want to go see it?"

"No, I’m fine here. Lia’s going to show me your brother."

Becket stares at her in silence, with an expression that's hard to read. Cassidy, on the other hand, doesn’t flinch.

"Cass, go. Hank was looking for you."

"That's not true. I told Dad I’d be here."

"Cassidy," his voice hardens.

After a brief staring contest, Cassidy finally gives in. She stands up with an annoyed sigh and walks out, grumbling under her breath.

It’s been over a week since I last saw Becket in person, and despite the time, that little animosity between us is still there. Invisible, but constant.

"This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, is it?"

His question catches me off guard, so I tilt my head, frowning without hiding my confusion.

Becket steps into the study and looks around, intentionally.

Ah.

"It’s the only place with air conditioning," I reply simply, as if that explains everything.

"You don’t handle heat well."

Of course. He knows Lucas and I lived in London. He must assume this climate still feels foreign to me.

I turn my gaze to the window, where the orange sunlight is painting the landscape. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him scratching his neck, uncomfortable.

Everything about this situation is.

Should I leave?

Nobody wants me here.

I shake my head.

No.

Lucas wanted me to be here.

And even though I sometimes feel out of place, I want to stay too.

Despite this tension with Becket, he’s the closest thing to Lucas I’ve had in the past two years.

"Did you eat already?" he asks, breaking the silence.

I nod, still looking out the window. I try to picture a young Lucas running across these fields.

Who was my husband, really?

Why did he hide so much of his life from me?

And I don’t even hold it against him, I knew the man I married, I know there was a good reason behind all his secrets, but still, his silence… it hurts.

"Lia, I…"

"I don’t want your land," I whisper.

"What?"

"I don’t want your land," I repeat. "You probably already know I own half of all this, but I don’t want your land."

"How can I be sure of that?"

"You can’t," I’m honest. "You don’t know me, you don’t know if I’m lying to you right now, only time will tell if my words are true or not. But for now, I just want… to be here."

"Why?"

"Because that’s what Lucas wanted."

I don’t explain further, and he doesn’t press me to.

And even though I don’t want any of this, giving up what Lucas legitimately left me also feels wrong, like going against what he wanted… so I can be a silent owner.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him sit in one of the closer chairs. He sighs, and in that sigh, there’s more than just exhaustion: it feels like he’s carrying the full weight of all this, the situation, the days piling up on his shoulders.

It’s not the first time I try to put myself in his shoes. So, gathering all the strength I have, I murmur:

"Do you want to see him?"

"What?" he looks at me.

"Lucas," I whisper, barely audible. "Do you want to see him?"

When was the last time he saw him? Lucas and I shared eight years together, and I can say with certainty that during all that time, Becket never saw him once.

When was the last time he hugged him?

The last time he looked him in the eyes?

And why did they drift apart?

I know he can read all those questions in my gaze. But just like he’s never pressured me, I won’t pressure him either.

"Can I?" he asks in that low, soft tone, like he knows that any louder word might break something.

I smile, barely.

"I’m offering."

I search for the video on my phone, my fingers slightly trembling. Meanwhile, he settles into the chair where Cassidy was sitting earlier, right next to me. The wood creaks under his weight, and I force myself to focus on his closeness, his warmth, instead of what I’m about to show him. When I finally find one of my favorites — our wedding video, almost five years ago — I hand him the phone.

I don’t look at the screen, but his voice reaches me.

"And here we are again, baby." I close my eyes at the sound of his cheerful tone. Then, my own laughter, just before he gives me a loud kiss on the cheek. "I finally got your yes at the altar, the greatest achievement of my life."

"Shut up," I laugh again. And a shiver runs through me at the memory of that time. That happiness.

"What’s wrong?" more laughter, background noise. "I want the whole world to know, how lucky I am…"

The video stops. But I know it didn’t end. He stopped it.

Does it hurt him to watch, too?

When I open my eyes, Becket is holding the phone to the side. His breathing is shallow.

"I’m sorry, I can’t…" he says, shaking his head. His voice sounds thicker, like he’s holding something that’s about to break.

I wipe away a tear that escaped without permission. I don’t want him to see it. But he does. From this close, I notice him following the trail of moisture down my cheek, until it disappears at the corner of my lips.

Then he looks away and lets out a long breath.

"I’m sorry," he whispers.

"For what?"

"Because now I can see it…" he looks at me again, speaking in that same low whisper. "A part of you died with him that day, didn’t it?"

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

Because he has no idea how true every single one of those words is, how much I really lost when I lost Lucas — more than I could’ve ever imagined.

And it’s a loss and guilt I’ll carry for the rest of my life.