The Trouble With Love: An Age Gap Romance (The Forbidden Love Series Book 1)

For the longest time, my theory on love has been conceptualized to be a feeling of overwhelming happiness.

It’s the holding of hands on a beautiful summer’s day, the endearing smiles while eyes lock together as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

It’s the gesture of holding the door open or pulling out a seat in a restaurant.

It’s offering to drive, to removing your coat when the other person is cold.

Love, in my eyes, is the hardest of lessons if ever fate is not on your side.

I turn to lay on my side, the complete view of Will asleep beside me. His body appears worn, tired after our emotional goodbye which led to truthful admissions, then one last night together—no sex, no lovemaking, just in each other’s arms.

We both want the best for one another, yet neither of us is the best for each other.

I drink in the sight of him, knowing this will be the last time. The small pout of his lips, lips which have kissed every single part of my body. The bridge of his nose, sitting between the bluest of eyes. Above them, his dark lashes curl so naturally. Against the black satin pillowcase, his hair appears lighter than the usual dark shade of brown. His usual controlled style is nothing but a wild mess, making me smile softly.

My gaze falls upon his shoulders, broad and toned, to his perfectly sculpted chest. My fingers ache to run their tips on the edge of his skin but touching him will wake him up. I need to savor this moment for as long as I can.

Something drags my eyes to his chest, watching the rise and fall and what appears so effortlessly. Beneath the movement lays his heart. I so desperately want to be everything it fights for, the only thing making it beat. But the longer I sit here and stare, the deeper my own heart weeps. Every inch of me feels like an open wound, a pain so visible you’re unable to escape the severity of its presence.

I can’t do this—pretend it doesn’t hurt when not one part of me has been affected.

Beside me, Will stirs softly before his eyes open wide, the blue ocean torturing my already weakened heart.

“I have to go,” I whisper, lowering my head. “It’s time.”

He takes a deep breath, twisting his body, so he’s flat on his back. Staring at the ceiling, his cheekbones tighten while he bites down on his lip.

“It doesn’t have to be this way.” His change of mind comes across uncertain, and I know him well enough to know he’s scared of the unknown.

“And love isn’t supposed to be this hard,” I tell him.

His gaze shifts, and perhaps the word love was premature to use. Our feelings are strong, our emotions run deep, but love doesn’t end by saying goodbye.

“So, this is it…” he states, rather than question. “We go our separate ways. Pretend this never happened.”

I shake my head. “I’ll never be able to forget, Will.”

My hand reaches out for my jacket which so carelessly lays on the foot of the bed. I admire the fabric inside my hands, but, of course, this jacket will be another memory of him amongst everything else.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do, Amelia.”

I stand up, placing my jacket on, ignoring the pain crippling my simple moves. Adjusting the skirt of my dress, I find my boots on the ground and grab them.

With a forced smile, so much so that my mouth hurts, my eyes struggle to follow in suit. I allow myself to look one more time at the man my heart cries for.

“I expect nothing, Will,” I say, until my voice waivers. “London is the right decision.”

As I turn back around, a shuffle occurs behind me, and Will has stopped me in my tracks. His hand caresses my face, the pain rippling through as I beg myself not to cry. Slowly, he lifts my chin, so our eyes meet.

“I wish things were different,” he chokes.

How I wish the same—that we don’t feel compelled to lie to our loved ones, that this relationship almost destroyed our families, and that we had the freedom to express our love without the restraints of age or what society deems appropriate.

If our love has a chance of lasting forever, all these hurdles would come second, not be the priority.

“If they were different,” I whisper, unable to look him in the eye. “There’s still no guarantee.”

He moves forward, placing his lips on mine. There’s no urgent rush, no sexual gratification in our kiss.

This kiss comes from a different place, and despite my willingness to mask the pain, I’m so close to falling apart in front of him.

“Goodbye, Amelia,” he murmurs with an ache. “I just want you to be happy.”

And perhaps that’s the biggest catch of all. My happiness falls dependent on him.

I remove his hands from my face, choke back my words, wishing I can return the sentiment, but I need to walk away now.

Just one step at a time, I tell myself. The room is behind me, the hallway leading to the door appearing impossibly long. I walk past the dining room, the living room, every room carrying its own memories of us.

But the hardest part is seeing the suitcases beside the door.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes tight, my hand resting on the doorknob as I leave the apartment, closing the door behind me.

I have no recollection of walking toward the car, or climbing inside, or even starting the engine. I pull out of the parking lot, and just before I drive on the street, I stop at the top of the driveway and grab my phone to send a text.

Me: You won, as always.

And there is the final nail in the coffin, no more lying to my father. He wants the truth. Well, there it is.

The streets are dead on Sunday morning, and the radio plays lazy tunes without the idle morning chit-chat. I switch to my playlist, but every lyric runs deep, and eventually, I turn everything off to complete silence.

The fog is clouding my vision from the heavy rain which lashed the East Coast last night, and when I’m only a few blocks away from campus, the red light prompts me to stop.

The traffic lights are buried amongst the fog, and as I count down to the light turning green, my heart rate begins to accelerate. Unwillingly, I clench the steering wheel, trying to ignore my skin flushing. My shoulders bear tight, but they feel like they are quaking, causing me to choke out a gasp.

Everywhere I turn, everywhere I look, all I see is Will—his smile tormenting me, his laughter, and the way he caresses the back of my neck and draws me in for a deep kiss.

I breathe faster, but each breath begins to turn into a sob until my eyes cloud, and warm streams of tears fall down my face.

It all hurts, every piece of me. I don’t want to be here, not without him. I contemplate turning around, driving to the airport to beg him not to leave until my phone beeps beside me, and my focus shifts to the text on the screen.

Dad: It’s for the best.

Anger ripples through me as I open my window and throw the phone outside the car. It smashes against the road, falling into pieces.

Gulping for air, the light turns green, my foot slamming on the gas until the sound of a loud horn catches my attention on my left.

Fuck, what’s that?

I try to control myself, but all I see is the parked car in front of me. I slam my foot on the brake, my white knuckles clutching the steering wheel with panic.

I let out a scream before it all becomes a hazy vision of lights, and my car drives up an embankment, the impact releasing the airbags. My head knocks front forward against the blown-up bag, a sharp pain ricocheting across my temple.

My breath is caught in my throat, shock paralyzing me while strangers rush to my aide.

The voices are panicked, none of it registering. Someone yells, “Call 9-1-1.” A woman opens my door with a phone in her hand. I hear a dial tone, then a voice on the other end saying state your emergency.

It all drowns out—the accident, the noise, the strangers around me.

My emergency isn’t my catatonic state, nor is it the gash on my head with a trickle of blood falling down the side of my face.

It’s a broken heart.

Unrepairable, damaged, and writhing in pain.

And that’s the trouble with love.

It’s the greatest feeling in the world, if only for a fleeting moment.

Yet, a broken heart will last a lifetime.