freedom taste like you

Chapter 14

“Twenty questions, yeah?” he said, turning to look at me with that crooked smile of his.

I nodded, returning the smile softly. “Sure.”

We were sitting outside at the back of the house, near the pool. The afternoon sun hung lazily above us, the water glimmering with scattered light. A soft breeze brushed against my face, carrying the faint scent of flowers from Emma’s garden. The day felt unusually calm — maybe too calm.

Mr and Mrs Garfield had gone out earlier, to only God knows where, leaving just me and Timothy behind. I had expected an awkward silence or one of his usual cold stares, but instead, he’d suggested a game of twenty questions. To get to know each other more, he’d said. I didn’t know if I should be nervous or happy about that.

He cleared his throat dramatically, pretending to take the game very seriously. “Alright then, question one: what’s your favourite colour?”

“Blue,” I answered without hesitation. It had always been blue — the colour of the sky I used to stare at when I needed an escape.

He nodded and nudged me with his elbow. “Your turn.”

I tilted my head, trying to think of something simple. “What’s yours?”

“Black, obviously.” He chuckled, as if that should’ve been obvious.

I smiled a little. “Figures.”

He gave a playful shrug. “Alright, next question.” His voice softened. “How old are you?”

I froze a bit. My fingers toyed nervously with the edge of my shirt. That question shouldn’t have felt heavy, but it did. Maybe because of what being eighteen meant for me — how much I’d lost before ever getting to live like a normal eighteen-year-old.

He noticed my hesitation. “Is something wrong?” he asked gently, his tone more concerned than teasing.

I shook my head quickly and forced a small smile — my practised one, the one I always used to hide behind. “It’s okay, I’m fine,” I said quietly.

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it either.

“I’m eighteen,” I added after a pause, exhaling as if saying it out loud made it real.

He nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. There was something understanding in his eyes, something that made me both nervous and safe at the same time.

I decided to take my turn to break the tension. “How old are you?”

He smiled then — a real, boyish smile. “Eighteen.”

That made me smile too, genuinely this time. “Guess we’re the same age,” I said, almost surprised at how natural it felt to talk to him now.

“Why were you sad when I asked?” he asked softly, tilting his head.

I bit my lip, trying to form words, but they stuck in my throat. How could I explain that age meant nothing when your whole childhood had been stolen from you?

Before I could find an answer, he spoke again, his tone kind but knowing. “You know… it’s okay if you’re eighteen and haven’t gotten into college yet.”

I looked up, startled. “How did you—”

He smiled, shrugging. “You kind of give that off. I don’t know, maybe the way you hesitated earlier.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I looked down, embarrassed. “Oh.”

“Really,” he said softly. “It’s fine. You’ve still got time.”

I glanced up at him, and his smile was so sincere that I couldn’t help but smile back. “Thanks,” I murmured, looking away again to hide the blush I could feel spreading across my face.

He chuckled under his breath. “Your turn.”

“Oh, right.” I grinned sheepishly. “Have you gotten into college yet?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I got into one not too far from here. Taking a break this semester, though.”

I nodded, smiling faintly. The silence that followed was warm, filled only by the sound of the wind rippling through the water. For once, silence didn’t feel like punishment.

Then he asked, “Why are there bruises all over your body?”

My heart stopped.

For a moment, I hoped I’d misheard him, but his gaze told me I hadn’t.

My mouth went dry. Every word I thought of died before I could say it. My fingers tightened around the hem of my shirt, my heartbeat echoing loudly in my ears.

He waited quietly, watching me — not accusingly, not cruelly — just… waiting.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Amber?” he called gently when I didn’t answer.

“Yeah?” I said quickly, forcing a nervous laugh. My voice trembled despite my best efforts.

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression softening, and then — as if sensing how close I was to breaking — he smiled lightly and reached over to ruffle my hair.

“Are you hungry?” he asked suddenly, his tone switching to casual.

I blinked at him, surprised but grateful. He was letting me off the hook.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, smiling in relief.

He stood up and stretched, then held out his hand to me. “Come on.”

I took it, giving him a small, thankful smile as he helped me up. His hand was warm — not rough or harsh like the ones I remembered — and that simple touch made my chest tighten in a strange, unfamiliar way.

We walked back into the house together, the silence between us not heavy this time, but soft — comfortable, even. Still, a small part of me couldn’t stop thinking about his question. He had seen the bruises. And even though he didn’t press for an answer, I knew deep down he wanted to understand.

When we reached the kitchen, he walked to the cupboards and started looking through them, his head half-buried inside one. “Should we eat out or stay in?” he asked over his shoulder.

I shrugged and sat on one of the stools at the counter. “Let’s stay in.”

He turned to face me with a grin that lit up his entire face. “Well then, what would you like to eat, milady?” he said in a ridiculous accent, bowing dramatically.

I couldn’t help it — I giggled. “Surprise me,” I said, shaking my head.

He smiled back, and there was something about that smile that made my chest feel light. “Coming right up,” he said, grabbing a pan and heading to the gas like he knew exactly what he was doing.

I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hands, watching him move around the kitchen. He wasn’t graceful — not exactly — but he was confident, humming softly under his breath as he worked. The air smelled faintly of butter and herbs, and the rhythm of his movements felt strangely soothing.

Every now and then, he’d glance at me and make some silly comment, and I’d laugh, genuinely laugh — not the forced laughter I used to give my father to avoid another slap, but a real one that made my chest ache in the best way possible.

For the first time in a long time, I felt… human again.

As I watched him cook, I realised that maybe — just maybe — this was what healing looked like. Not a dramatic transformation, not instant peace. Just quiet moments like this. A laugh shared. A secret unspoken but understood.

And sitting there, with the afternoon sun streaming through the windows and Timothy humming softly by the gas, I thought maybe — for the first time — I was exactly where I needed to be.