Forbidden Games

A Summer like any other

"Hello?"

"Who is this?" breathes a manly voice down the phone, making me jump.

"Ah, I forgot about you!" I say, half-pretending.

"Who is this?" he says again, playing the same game.

"Guess!" I say, getting annoyed.

"Liv Sawyer, you may still be young enough to pull pranks, but I turned eighteen a long time ago. Grow up!"

"Congratulations," I say sardonically. "Tristan Quinn, I award thee the medal for being six months older than me, even if there's not much proof of it. And who thinks he's so much better and more mature that he has to remind the entire planet he's a man now!"

"Since when were you the entire planet?" he says, trying to wind me up. "You were just as annoying the last time I saw you, but you were much less pretentious."

"OK, OK, please don't bring back all the terrible memories from our forced cohabitation . . . What do you want?"

"Just to annoy the hell out of my sister until she hangs up on me," he laughs down the other end of the line.

"Stop calling me that. I'm not your sister. I'll give you five seconds to say something intelligent, or at least useful, and then I'm hanging up. Five . . . four . . . three . . . "

"Just tell my mom I'm on my way home! See ya, Sawyer!"

Shit!

Not only did he hang up on me, not only did he call me by my last name, which I despise. But now he's coming back way sooner than I expected. Summer vacation has just started and I was hoping classes would last a little longer at his boarding school for misbehaving rich kids. Funnily enough, we haven't heard anything about his graduation. Or maybe his lovely mother just decided not to go. Or Tristan is being his usual rebel self and is refusing to go. That would be just like him. Though I would have liked to show all the kids at school – the school he was kicked out of – a picture of him in a long black robe and that ridiculous hat. No chiseled biceps, no tan skin, no perfectly messy hair. Exit Tristan Quinn, the popular guy, the distracted student all the teachers dread having in their class, the bad boy who all the good girls fantasize about. Oh how I would have loved to see him dressed up as a model student, diploma in hand, just another face in the crowd for once. I would have paid good money for that chance. But right now, on a scale of one to ten, my desire to see him is right around minus two.

"Who was that?" asks little Harrison, running up with his stuffed green and white alligator trailing behind him, all ragged and worn. He's constantly chewing on one of its feet.

"Your brother," I reply, sighing.

I mean, your dumb-ass brother. Your infuriating brother who thinks he's the king of the world and the hottest object in town, who you admire just because you're 3 years old and you want to be like him when you grow up, even if it's the worst thing that could possibly happen to you.

"Titan!" screams the little monster, his blue eyes opening wide as he runs in a circle with his arms stretched out like a plane.

I'm supposed to be watching him, but Harry has been playing airplane for about ten minutes now, flying Alfred the alligator through the air. As soon as he hears the slightest noise outside, he presses his forehead (and his lovely bowl cut) against the living room window, looking out for the first signs of his beloved big brother.

"Mom, Titan is here!" he cries out, resuming his flight with Alfred.

I jump again. There's a loud "Knock knock knock" on the front door. He's already annoying the hell out of me and he's not even here yet. Tristan Quinn to a tee. I'm sweating like a pig in my jeans, which I opted for over my shorts so he wouldn't be able to look at my bare legs with that half-amused, half-indifferent smirk. In the meantime, my desire to see him had dropped to minus ten. I don't want to see his arrogant smile, his dimple that everyone thinks is so adorable, that lock of hair that always falls perfectly across his too-blue eyes. I don't want to hear that voice, so much deeper than all the other guys his age, and which he pretends not to be proud of. I don't want to see in his teasing eyes how much he loves to wind me up, just for fun, and because he knows he can.

I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to!

I want to throw a tantrum on the floor like Harry when he doesn't get what he wants.

But with a few swear words thrown in. Shit, shit, shit!

"I'm busy, honey!" replies the little boy's mother two hours later from the office she's locked herself inside. "And don't yell like that, I need to concentrate! And try to say Tristan properly, Harry. Your speech therapist has repeated it a thousand times. Get that stuffed animal out of your mouth! Ask Liv to open the door, I already told you not to open it when you don't know who's there."

But he just saw his brother through the window!

I think Sienna Lombardi is the stupidest person I know – well, second place to her eldest son. Fortunately she decided to keep her maiden name when she married my dad. At least we don't share that. "Proud of my Italian roots." Right! I'm sure it's just her emergency exit. She's already on her second marriage and it's definitely not the last – please, God, get me out of here. Well, I guess she can't be all that stupid since she owns the most luxurious hotel in Key West and it's always fully booked. Well, even if she's not the stupidest, she's definitely the most selfish woman in the world. She divides her time between her hotel where she lets loose screaming at her employees, and her office at home where she demands complete silence, all the while yelling at us to leave her alone. And not only does she neglect both her sons – she sent one off to boarding school and pawns the other one off on nannies and babysitters, myself included. What's worse is that even when she is around, she doesn't even pretend to listen to what her kids have to say. Nor does she make the effort to meet them when they return home after three years at boarding school. Is it humanly possible to be so heartless?

"Sawyer, I know you're there, open up!" Tristan says, getting impatient on the doorstep.

Oh God . . .

His voice. It has the same effect on me as it does on all the other good little girls in this town. The voice of a guy who seems just a little older. The voice of a guy who's confident, afraid of nothing, who give orders without even considering that he might not get what he wants. The voice of the guy who would murmur the dirtiest things possible in your hottest dreams, the dreams you never have, no matter how hard you try.

"Sawyer, what are you doing? You playing guessing games again? Because I have no problem guessing what you're wearing right now!" he says with a smile in his voice.

"Try again," I stutter, unable to think of a better come back as I try to hold Harry back, impatient and oblivious to our game.

"I'm sure you changed into jeans to keep me from checking you out. Or to stop you blushing. And I bet you're wearing one of those shapeless tank tops so no one will notice you have no chest.

Piss off!

"Come in and shut up," I say, opening the door. I just want to put an end to my suffering.

Harrison jumps on his brother, calling out his name, or something close, then attaches himself to his leg. Tristan ruffles his hair softly, running his long fingers through the horrible bowl cut his mother forces him to have, and that he enjoys mussing every chance he gets.

"Hey," he finally says in a lower voice.

His voice is deep, and his eyes serious. I thought he'd be celebrating his victory at guessing my outfit. But instead he just watches me, waiting for my reaction. I hate his sense of assurance, his ability to remain silent. I'm sure he loves every moment of awkwardness he causes. He would be so gorgeous if he wasn't so aware of it. I've never told anyone, but I think he looks like a young Brad Pitt. Just a little less blond. But he's got everything else. Both the "cute guy" and "dominant male" vibe. Always a smile on his face, but retaining an air of mystery. Pretends to play it cool, but can turn ruthless without the slightest warning. An unbearable mixture of sex symbol and bad boy.

Quit dreaming and say something!

"I said, 'hey'," he says, trying to make me talk, squinting his impatient blue eyes.

"Well, well, someone finally taught you some manners," I try to throw him a jab so he'll stop staring at me.

"It's a shame your dad still hasn't taught you how to dress . . . You do know we're in Florida, right? Not Paris? No one wears jeans in the Keys in July," he laughs, still looking me up and down.

"Your little geography lesson has been fascinating," I reply, looking away. "But if you wouldn't mind coming in and closing the door, then I could get back to living my life and pretending you're not here."

With his eyes fixed on me, he leans down to pick up Harry. The little boy wraps himself around his brother's torso, as if clicking back into a puzzle: the child's legs hug his brother's waist and his arms cling to his neck, his little face tucked over Tristan's shoulder. Alfred the alligator hangs limply by his foot, stuffed in Harry's mouth.

"Listen, little brother," he whispers loud enough for me to hear. "If a girl covers her legs when it's 90 degrees outside, it's for one of two reasons: either she has a hair removal situation and she's afraid someone will notice, or she's lacking self esteem and thinks people will say she's too fat or too skinny. And whatever the case, if she's afraid, it's because she likes you."

"In your dreams, Quinn!" I retort, ready to bolt as fast as I can.

"Oh, hey, Sawyer!" he says, as I start to go upstairs. "Thanks for opening the door," he exalts, pulling the keys out of his pocket and twirling them around his index finger.

I stop on the stairs. I can't believe his nerve. I'm so annoyed at him and frustrated that I always let him win. I can't even keep walking upstairs. I try to find something, anything, to throw at his head. But with all the cleaning people Sienna has hired to keep her gorgeous villa in tip-top shape, there's never anything lying around. I take a deep breath and without so much as looking at Tristan, I say:

"You've only been here five minutes and I already can't stand you. Could we please just ignore each other until the end of the summer?"

"I was going to suggest the same thing," he says in his deep voice, finally serious.

"And when I said you were my sister earlier, I was joking. We're nothing to each other, Sawyer. And l plan to make sure things stay that way," he adds, rubbing the hair at the back of his head.

"At least that's something we can agree on," I say, making eye contact.

I suddenly feel very uncomfortable and he's the first one to look away for once, as if he had felt the same embarrassment. I continue walking upstairs and shut myself in my room. Finally alone. Finally out of these awful jeans. And the suffocating air that fills the room every time he's in it.

Today has been worse than all the other days combined.

In the three years I've had to live with Tristan Quinn – after his mother and my father got the great idea to start dating, live together and then get married – I've always managed to avoid him as much as possible. Either he was away at school, staying away even at the weekends – probably to avoid his mother who he hates almost as much as I do – or I was away at my grandma's for vacation. But this time, we've both finished high school and I have no idea what he plans on doing next year. I haven't made much progress on figuring out my own future either. With a little luck, I'll go to university – if I get into the ones I applied to with my mediocre grades – and I'll never have to see that angelic/diabolical face of his again. If not, I'll find another solution. In the meantime, we have the whole summer to get through.

I think back to my excitement six years ago when my dad asked if I wanted to leave Paris to live in Key West, his hometown, the very last of the Florida Keys. I thought I'd found paradise on earth and could escape my humdrum existence. My parents divorced when I was 2. My dad, American by birth and at heart, had stayed in France so I could be close to my mom, a true Parisian with the maternal instinct of a slug. But when I turned 12, she and I both stopped pretending and my dad figured I was old enough to decide where I wanted to live. In gray, polluted, noisy Paris, surrounded by 2 million strangers, always in a hurry, always stressed out? Or on a little island in the south of the United States, between Cuba and Miami, with a tropical climate, turquoise waters, 20,000 people who got around mostly by bike and a Caribbean feel? I made my decision in about one second.

But this cloudless paradise only lasted for three years. I reunited with my beloved paternal grandmother, I made a few very good friends, I discovered all the magical hidden places in Key West and fell in love with the wild nature, all the animals freely roaming between city and beach, the bohemian lifestyle of all the artists, writers, dancers, musicians, fishermen, sailors, environmentalists and liberated gays who took up residence on this marvelous little island. Then my dad, a successful real estate agent, sold a luxury villa to a certain Sienna Lombardi, the mother of a boy my age, recently widowed, and who had just had another baby. The whole shebang! Any other man would have run away screaming, but not my dad, not Craig Sawyer. He's extremely kind-hearted, has an iron will and never backs down when faced with the obstacles life throws in his path.

Yes, I love and admire my dad. And the worst part is, I'm not even ashamed to admit it.

I don't know if the strong-willed Italian charmed my father or if he felt an obligation to help this woman was caught up in a tragic situation at the young age of 35, but things moved very quickly between them. Much to my dismay. My dad and I, who had been living as a dynamic duo almost from day one, left our house to move into this huge Victorian mansion with the pastel blue facade and enough bedrooms and bathrooms for all of us. There's even a pool. But instead of forming one big happy family, like in all the romantic comedies, we have remained as two distinct clans living under the same roof. The Sawyers on one side and the Quinn-Lombardis on the other, even if my room is right next to Tristan's, we've never shared anything but that one wall.

I think Sienna is incapable of living alone, without a man, but that doesn't mean she relies on him. She and my dad are pretty independent. They both work a ton, which means they don't end up seeing each other very often. She's never asked him to play dad to Harry, even if the little guy has never known his real father. Everyone has stuck to their rightful roles: husband and wife, stepmother and stepdaughter, stepfather and stepson.

The whole thing might have turned out alright if Tristan and I hadn't had such a conflict-ridden relationship from the first day we met. We've been forced to be around each other for three years now and our rare conversations always begin with a jab and end in a fight. Just being in the same place at the same time is enough to produce electricity. Even if God had wanted to play a joke on us, he couldn't have made us any more different from one another. He's noisy, sociable, flirty, extroverted, stylish, sporty, playful, creative and unstoppable. In other words, a pain in the ass. It just so happens that I enjoy silence, solitude, nature and calm. I don't care that much about boys, parties, clothes, music and all the other things young people my age are into. It's not that I'm always pouting, contrary to what he says. It's just that I don't smile for any old reason. Especially not for his beautiful eyes. And it's not, as he thinks, that I don't like people. It's just that I hate him.

For example, I hate what he's doing right now: playing the guitar in the middle of the living room and singing nonsense to make his little brother laugh. Harry just begs for more and claps. No, Alfred the Alligator is not a good topic for a new song. No, Harry the Heron doesn't make anyone laugh. And Liv is certainly not a good name for a lizard. If I have to listen to that hoarse voice and that nagging tune for one more second, I might have a nervous breakdown. I throw on some cotton shorts, slip my phone and keys into my small cross-body bag and carry my sandals in my hand so as not to make any noise on the steps as I try to sneak out without anyone noticing me.

As soon as I put my foot on the first step of the stairs, Tristan looks up and changes the words to the song:

"Here we go, Liv did it, Liv finally did it, she finally shaved," he sings in the same tune, with an added smirk in his voice.

"Shut it, Quinn!" I say, throwing one of my sandals at him as I run down the stairs.

In an easy gesture that is both precise and nonchalant, Tristan lifts his guitar to block the projectile, making Harrison laugh even harder.

Too bad, it was a good shot . . .

At least I got the music to stop.

But shit, now I only have one sandal!

I throw the second just for the sake of it, and go hide in the entry while Sienna screams from her office:

"Are you finished with all the noise already!? Liv, I hope for your sake that Harrison hasn't broken anything expensive."

I open the door, about to run out before I completely lose it. I automatically grab Tristan's tennis shoes that he left lying there and slip into them. I run out, hopping as I realize he's a size 10 and I'm an 8. I take a second to tie the laces tight, then continue running away toward the gate. I hear the living room window open behind me and that deep, annoying voice call out:

"Nice legs, Sawyer! Way better without the jeans! And I like the shoes!"

When I turn to give him the finger, I don't know what bothers me most: his tan, muscular arms folded behind his head, the insolent wink he gives me, his arrogant smile or the dimple I can't help noticing on his cheek. But the list of things I'm mortified about gets even longer when I stop to look at myself. I don't what's worse – the fact that I look like a clown in these enormous shoes, that Tristan saw me in his shoes, or simply that I can't hide from his gaze.

I walk as quickly as possible – I don't care where I'm going – and send a text to my best friend to tell her to meet me anywhere, wherever she wants, as long as it's right away – and some place where no one will see my feet. I would have asked her to bring me some decent shoes, but she's not at home and I don't want to wait while she goes home to get them. My feel will have to recover their dignity another time.

I meet Bonnie at Dog Beach, a rocky, wild beach that's been deserted by vacationers but is a favorite of dog walkers. It's the only beach that allows dogs. Since we've been friends, Bonnie and I come here to get away from it all after class. We sit in the dry sand and watch the dogs run along the water, wondering which one we'd pick if our parents finally let us get a pet.

Which has not obviously not happened and never will.

"What's wrong?" Bonnie asks as she looks me over, pretending to be outraged.

"Nothing, I ran, that's all," I say, covering my cheeks which I'm guessing are bright red.

"I'm not talking about your super sensitive white girl skin," she retorts, rolling her eyes.

Bonnie is black, by the way. She's proud of her skin color, but not of her full name, Ebony. She says that her parents should have just named her Chocolate while they were at it. And to be fair, mine should have called me Porcelain. Bonnie can make me crack up laughing at the drop of a hat. And if Tristan had even an ounce of her humor, he'd see I do occasionally open my mouth to do more than just criticize him. Some people can even get me to laugh!

"We need to talk about your choice of footwear," she says as my mind wanders.

"I know you love your dad and you guys are close and all, but you're allowed to wear your own things, you know!"

"They're Tristan's. I threw mine at his head."

"Ah, so Chace Crawford's lookalike is already back in town?"

Bonnie loves to compare him to her favorite actors. And I'm not about to start a fight and bring up my Brad Pitt theory . . .

"With a vengeance," I sigh, stretching back onto the warm sand.

"And is he still just as hot?" she asks with an exaggerated tone.

"Still just as much of a jerk! With longer hair. A more annoying smile. A useless little dimple in his left cheek. And that gospel singer's voice when he makes up songs for Harry."
"He's such a great singer!" my friend says, full of admiration; she's a music fan. "I know how much you hate him, but you can't argue with that. You think his band will put on some concerts this summer. Maybe I could be a backup singer for them?" she asks excitedly as she sings, clicking her fingers.

"You're better than that, Beyoncé!" I say, trying to dissuade her. "And we need to get real summer jobs. I can't spend another day in that house."

"I'd love to! If I can get unlimited access to the pool and a view of Tristan Quinn in swim trunks all day long..."

"Stop it, I'm going to puke!" I say, sitting up suddenly. "He drives me crazy, I can't stand him, he exasperates me," I repeat as if reciting a religious chant as I rock forward.

"And you're wearing his shoes," she says, cracking up.

"Ebony Robinson, you're gonna eat sand!"

"You'll be sunburnt before that happens, Porcelain Sawyer!"

"Can we please talk about something else besides that moron Quinn?"

"Look how muscular that one is, over there!" Bonnie says, pointing to a dog in the wet sand.

"Yeah, beautiful . . . and his fur is so shiny!"

"Liv, I was talking about the owner! The guy with no shirt on."

"What? So was I!"

We burst out laughing. As if it were a summer like any other. As if we just had to pick out the dog, the guy and the life we wanted. As if Tristan Quinn had never come back to ruin my life.