Forbidden Games

The Best Age

I heard everyone bustling around this morning. I could have slept in, but I was awake, my eyes wide and my legs restless. I heard my name mentioned a few times downstairs. I knew they were talking about me, and I know very well why. But I didn't get out of bed. I stayed there for almost an hour, thinking about this special day, trying to imagine my future and seeing nothing whatsoever, trying to see if I felt different or not. Today I'm 18 years old. And, as predicted, nothing has changed. My dad works too much, smokes too much and stresses out too much. Tristan talks too loudly, laughs too loudly and sings too loudly. Harrison doesn't eat enough, can't speak properly, is afraid of everything and cries for no reason. At least that's what I heard Sienna going on to them about first thing this morning.

And if I had been around I would have gotten my dose as well: "Brush your hair, it's full of knots. Don't you want to get a tan? Stop pouting! When are you going to start dressing like a girl? No middle fingers or swear words in my house thanks very much! Oh, and can you watch Harry today?"

Gee, how nice!

Hoping to get a little peace and quiet as a birthday present, I waited patiently for the noise to stop and the doors to slam. I waited for the house to empty out. I heard my dad leave for work, shouting a warm, "Have a good day, everyone, see you tonight!" as he went. I heard my stepmother lock herself in her office, asking everyone to "Try not to bother me" on her way. I heard Tristan leave, walking and whistling, and I hurried to my bedroom window to check: he was crossing the lawn with his little brother's hand in his, Alfred the alligator in Harry's other hand, his tail dragging on the ground. A sight that was almost touching. And the sign that I had free reign.

Without thinking about what to wear or how to do my hair, or anything else, I head down to the quiet kitchen. My mug of coffee is waiting for me – cold – along with my dad's note that makes me smile:

"Happy birthday, my big green olive. Eighteen years ago you changed my life. I hope yours is as beautiful, strong and passionate as you are. I love you, Dad."

Just underneath, Sienna has scribbled in her miniscule writing: "A little something to buy yourself whatever you like," with a fifty dollar bill next to it. Like every year. That's about as gushy and generous as she gets. I've gotten used to it.

The door to the house slams again and Harry runs over to me to tell me that "Titan" taught him how to pee outside. Great. They only went out for a few minutes. And I'm standing here in the middle of the kitchen in my mini cotton stretch shorts and a tank top without a bra. My hair is tangled mess. Tristan comes in next, looking all nonchalant, mussing his hair with one hand and holding the other behind his back. No comment on my (lack of) clothing or hair for the time being. I hold Harrison against my bare legs to hide my some of my nudity.

"Happy birthday, Sawyer!" Tristan says pulling a bouquet of white roses out from behind his back.

I hesitate for a second. This is not like him. But his smile seems more genuine than usual. My heart is beating out of time. It's sweet of him. But I'm afraid it's a trap.

"You can count them for yourself, there are 18," he says, pushing the flowers into my arms.

"Thanks," I stutter, finally accepting them.

"Harry, go do a drawing for Liv," he suggests to his brother as our hands brush against each other.

He obeys and leaves the kitchen as electricity continues to fill the air. Usually the sparks would have already flown, the insults would have come flying and a mug or shoe would have been thrown.

"You should wear shorts more often, now that you're not a kid anymore," he says in a low voice. "And I like it when your hair is wild like that."

I can't tell if these are compliments or thinly veiled insults. In the end it's easier when he gets me all worked up. I always manage to find a come back. But now, my mind is blank. My mouth feels dry. The silence seems to drag on. I jump when Sienna suddenly rushes into the kitchen, causing Tristan to back up a few steps. She says to me:

"Liv, I don't have any cash for the cleaning woman, I'm going to take 40 from you, but remind me to pay you back!" she says, without even looking at me as she takes two twenties from my birthday stack.

"Sure," I mutter, just to say something, a little overwhelmed by what just happened.

"Don't make that face!" Sienna scolds me. "It's not like you didn't get a present. Craig got up even earlier than usual to go get you that bouquet! He thought you'd wake up earlier. Speaking of which, oversleeping does not work wonders for those bags under your eyes."

"It was him? The flowers, they're from my dad?" I say, feeling anger rise in my chest.

"Of course, who else? Did you think you had a secret admirer?" she jokes, unaware of the stunt her son just pulled.

Tristan bursts out laughing behind her back. I drop the flowers on the counter and bite the insides of my cheeks to keep the tears from rising to my eyes. I don't even know if it's from sadness or frustration.

I wish I were just angry. Or even better, that I give a shit!

"What did you do now?" Sienna barks at her son. "It's her birthday for Christ's sake! You did wish her a happy birthday, I hope?"

"Of course, Mom," he replies in his good little boy voice, still giving me the bad boy glare.

"You two are wearing me out," she sighs. "Make peace, kiss and make up. Why don't you start acting like brother and sister for once!"

Sienna stands there, her fists on her hips as if she were determined to get what she asked for. And Tristan obeys, which hardly ever happens. He walks over to me slowly, his movement relaxed and his mouth stretched in a half smile. He wraps his arms around me and presses that damn dimple against my cheek, then whispers:

"Happy birthday, naive little Liv . . ."

"I hate you, Quinn," I whisper as quietly as possible, pasting a fake smile on my face to appease my stepmother.

"You're not my sister, and you never will be," he says, squeezing me harder in his arms, as if to hurt me.

"Your biceps don't scare me. My knee is dangerously close to your zipper," I seethe as I pull back a few inches in case i need to make good on my threat.

"See, it's not so hard to make peace!" Sienna congratulates herself, leaving the room. "I'm going back to work. Try not to eat each other alive! And keep an eye on Harry!" she calls out before slamming the door to her office.

Tristan lets go of me and I push him out of the way to storm out of the kitchen. I run into the hallway, ignoring the little boy and the drawing he's trying to hand me, run up the stairs and shut myself in my room. I feel more exasperated than I've been in a long time. And so sad I could cry. And I've got his damn cologne all over me now.

Who said 18 was the best age?

***

I'm still worked up when I meet my dad in the evening for our birthday dinner tradition. Ever since I was a little girl, every year we've gone out for my birthday. I get to pick where I want to go. And I get to taste his champagne. Tonight, I'd like to drink a whole bottle myself to forget the nightmarish morning I had, and the rest of the day stuck in my room trying to avoid that jerk Tristan.

"18, huh? Almost makes you giddy, doesn't it?" my dad says, seeing the disturbed expression on my face.

"No, it doesn't really change anything," I say, shrugging my shoulders and trying to reassure him.

"Well, this present might do a little more to change your life," he jokes, pulling a big black key out of his jacket pocket.

"A car?"

"Yes, you're responsible enough. And I don't want to see you walking on the side of the road because you missed the bus anymore," he says, furrowing his brow. "And I know you'll wear your seatbelt!" he continues, convincing himself of his decision.

"Of course! Thanks Dad!" I exclaim, standing to hug him across our empty plates. "And thanks for teaching me how to drive without having a heart attack. And for the flowers this morning too, and everything you've done for me these last 18 years."

"Well, at least I did a good job raising you," he smiles, "you know how to say thank you!"

"I'll pay you back a little each month for the car once I start earning money, until it's paid in full!"

"We'll see about that," he says, as if it weren't important. "I'm happy you're working at the agency, green olive. You have all the traits needed to succeed in real estate: the personality, a cool head, persuasive arguments and tenacity. We just need to work on your interpersonal skills a little," he jokes kindly.

"I'd be better off going to university, I don't think I'm ready for the working world. But I haven't been accepted anywhere yet. Maybe I won't get in anywhere . . ."

"You're a Sawyer, Liv: street smart, but not so into the books. Just like your old dad! Believe me, you don't need a degree to have a successful career. You learn best out in the field. And I don't know if I want my little girl to go off to school on the other side of the country."

"You know you're the only parent in the world who's discouraging his daughter from studying, right?" I laugh.

"I want you to be happy, you can do whatever you want! But I don't want you to leave home just to get away from Tristan or Sienna."

He knows me too well.

"It's not because of that," I try to say, despite myself.

"Yes, it's exactly because of that. And I know I've been saying the same thing for three years, but give them a chance and give it some time. We change as we grow up. Everything changes. You've already lived several lives at your young age. Paris, now here, your parents divorced, a single dad and now a combined family . . . Who knows what might happen next."

"Who knows . . . " I echo, thinking of Tristan with a certain amount of discomfort before pushing him out of my thoughts.

"To the future!" my dad says lifting his glass of champagne. "To your new life as an adult!" he proclaims. I bring the glass to my lips.

An hour later, I'm the one driving us home. "My" car, dropped off at the restaurant by one of my dad's employees, is a small, used black SUV that he chose because it's sturdy and has all the possible safety features imaginable. When I park in front of the house, I give my dad a hug and thank him again. He congratulates me on my safe driving and suggests I stay with him outside while he smokes one last cigarette where Sienna can't see him.

"I don't know if you remember, but Tristan's dad died in a tragic accident," he exhales, blowing mentholated smoke out his mouth.

"Yes, he was a race car driver and he had a car accident," I say sadly.

"It was brutal and very hard for them. Sienna was pregnant and . . . Tristan saw the accident happen. He was only 14," my dad says, not sure if he's saying too little or too much.

"I didn't know he was there. He and Sienna don't like to talk about it."

"Tristan has his license but he hardly ever drives. It's a sensitive subject for him. So try not to push him on this, OK?"

"I'll try," I say, not really sure what that means.

Or even if it's possible to have any sort of interaction with him that doesn't involve pushing.

My dad stubs his cigarette out on the ground and tiptoes over to the trash can to throw away the butt. He comes back holding his finger to his lips, reminding me to keep the secret, tiptoeing in this exaggerated way to make me laugh. I'm his partner in crime, through thick and thin. And it's been that way for 18 years.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out. "Mom" appears on the screen, making me freeze, confused. My mom calls me twice a year: once on my birthday and once at Christmas. My dad kisses my forehead and whispers for me to pick up, then heads inside.

"Hello?" I say, forcing myself to sound happy.

"Happy birthday, Liv."

"Thanks."

"Did I get the time difference right? It's 6 am in Paris."

"Yeah. It's just before midnight here. You didn't have to get up so early, you know."

"I didn't want to miss my daughter's 18th birthday."

"You made it, mom . . ."

"Did your dad take you out to dinner?"

"Yep, that's the tradition," I sigh, thinking that we have the same conversation every year.

"I know," she replies, as always, as if to prove she still knows something about my life. "I hope you're happy on your island over there."

"I think so, yeah."

"I'll let you go then. Good night, Liv. Talk to you soon," she lies.

"Talk to you soon," I lie back.

See you in six months, mom. For the same phone call as last Christmas.

Tears rise to my eyes. Usually I don't have any trouble admitting my mom and I are basically strangers. We speak to each other like an aunt and niece who hardly know each other. Or a godmother and goddaughter who grew apart long ago and have nothing but a label to link them to one another. But tonight, I think I would have liked to have a mom, a woman I trust who I could talk to about the knot in my stomach, the hole in my heart, my fear of growing up and not understanding what is happening to me. A woman who could explain that you can hate a boy and yet still think he smells good. Hate him but really like the way he looks at you. Hate him and still think about the way his arms felt around you.

No, I could never admit that to anyone.

It's not even true. I hate everything about him. Tristan Quinn is nothing more than my worst enemy.

***

I don't know why I said yes. I couldn't care less about parties. I don't even like parties. Especially parties thrown in my honor. And even less when they are on the terrace at Sienna's hotel. But I couldn't say no to my dad. And at the time, it seemed better than having people over to the house. It gave me an excuse to get out of there. But this Saturday is starting to look like my worst nightmare. Fergus and Bonnie managed to get about 15 people from our high school to come along – promising them an awesome pool party – to try and make me believe I have a bunch of friends. And what made them actually come? The reputation of the Lombardi, this old colonial mansion on the most beautiful beach around, renovated and transformed into a luxury hotel. It's now THE destination for celebrities who come to the island. Some of my former classmates are probably expecting to cross paths with Kanye West, Jennifer Aniston or Ryan Gosling, but it won't be happening: the hotel is closed for a few days, which is why my lovely stepmother agreed to having us all over.

The waiter gives us a choice of pop or non-alcoholic cocktails. It's dark outside, but the hotel's outdoor bar is lit up with such colorful, harsh lights that you'd think it was a little kid's birthday party in the middle of the afternoon. My best friend is singing over the summer hits pumping loudly through speakers to try and liven up the atmosphere. But I think her loud, R n' B renditions are annoying everyone. My dad and Sienna are quick to chat with the few parents present, hoping to transform them into future clients of their respective businesses. And when I see my grandma off in the distance, looking lost in the lobby, I fear the worst.

Could this failure of a party turn out to be even worse?

Yes, I love Betty Sue, but she can embarrass me like no other!

"Liv, sweetie, why in the world did you decide to celebrate your birthday here?" she whispers when I go to meet her.

"Don't ask. It's a long story . . . "

"You young people today, you don't know how to have a good time!" she says, kicking off her flip-flops and starting to dance barefoot as if she were in some kind of trance.

Her long bohemian skirt twirls around her and her collection of charm bracelets jingles on her arm, making a loud noise that attracts attention.

"Betty Sue, I already want to go drown in the pool. Please, don't make this any worse."

"I see," she says, stopping and turning serious again. "I just came to give you this. Happy birthday, sweetie!"

I unfold the recycled paper packet carefully and find an unidentified item of clothing. It's long and asymmetrical with huge sleeves and wild patterns.

"It's a summer poncho," she explains with her eyes alight. "You can wear it with nothing under it and feel so free, so very free!" she giggles in a high voice. "Or you could wear it as a cover-up to the beach when you don't know what to put on over your wet swimsuit. And it's see-through so the boys can still admire you," she adds with a wink. "Anyway, you can do what you want with it!"

"Thanks, Betty Sue. It's . . . "

"Essential, is the word you're looking for," she says, laughing and kissing me on the cheek. "I'm out of here!" she says, slipping back into her sandals.

"You sure you don't want to stay?" I say, trying to be polite.

"No honey, life is too short to endure this kind of party! You want to escape with me?" she says. She always has the craziest ideas.

"Thanks, but I better stay. Dad would be disappointed."

"Alright. But remember that a summer poncho may also be used to strangle an inconvenient stepmother," she says as she pulls the long piece of fabric around my neck.

She wraps it around three or four times, pulls tight and says "eep!" before she heads for the door. I laugh to myself as I go back to join the others who seem insanely bored as they linger by the bar with their glasses of orange juice. I was worried about my grandma showing up, but now I wonder if that wasn't THE highlight of the evening! My dad eventually leaves along with Sienna, who looks around to make sure no one's breaking anything. Given the atmosphere, I seriously don't see that happening. I really don't care that I'm not friends with the cool kids or that I'm not popular. I don't need to get trashed on my 18th birthday. But I would much rather be spending the evening alone in my room or on a deserted beach with just Bonnie and Fergus.

Instead, I see Tristan stroll in with four of his buddies – the members of his band – each with a bottle of alcohol in hand and a stupid smile on their stupid faces. How dare he show up here after the stunt he pulled this morning? I was hoping my torture would be over soon, but something tells me it's just beginning.

"It's not very nice not to invite your brother to your birthday," he says as he walks in.

"Now wait a second, Quinn. Am I your sister or am I nothing to you?"

"Still nothing, that hasn't changed since this morning," he replies, a smirk on his face.

"So what the hell are you doing here, then?" I say, moving closer to challenge him.

"Don't get any ideas. I only came because I had nothing better to do," he says, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. "And my buddies wanted to meet some girls."

"Daddy's little girls, like me? Since when does that interest you guys?" I say, holding my ground.

"It interests them. I didn't say the same was true for me," he explains, staring into my eyes with intensity as if he meant the opposite of what he said.

He crosses his muscular arms across his torso and enjoys dragging out the awkward silence, observing my discomfort and lack of comeback. I fiddle with my empty cocktail glass, trying not to let his bright blue eyes throw me off balance.

"Let me guess," he says in a low, deep voice, "you want to throw your glass at my head, is that it? Why don't you go ahead?" he says, trying to egg me on, making that damn dimple sink into his cheek.

"I don't want to ruin that angelic little face," I say immediately. "It is all you have going for you after all."

He smiles as if I just gave him a compliment and his big strong body saunters away as he goes to join his musician friends. I hurry away from the terrace to get some fresh air on the beach. Another group of kids seem to be having a party further down. I don't even think I'm jealous. As if by magic, all of my party guests come to join me a few minutes later, forming a tight circle in the sand. Bottles are passed around from hand to hand, mouth to mouth, and I take a few burning swigs, hoping it'll help me relax.

The hotel bar lights are eventually turned off and the only source of light is the moon above us. The sudden darkness makes a few people laugh, especially the girls, and others take the opportunity to start a game of spin the bottle – the boys, of course. The neck of the bottle turns and points to the first two condemned to kiss. They settle for an innocent peck as the others jeer and boo. I cross my fingers behind my back as hard as I can, hoping it won't land on me. Next to me, I see Bonnie is praying with all her might for the exact opposite. She sighs loudly with both envy and disappointment as a pretty brunette whose name I don't even know, kisses Drake, Tristan's best friend, languorously.

"Bonnie, close your mouth," I whisper as I elbow her in the ribs as the kiss lingers on. "You are kissing the air."

Drake, with his now-reddened lips, spins the empty bottle in the sand. It lands on Tristan who gets up and starts running away, followed by Drake and his joking growls. He finally manages to plant one on him, though it's badly aimed, and everyone bursts out laughing, probably egged on by the alcohol and the excitement.

Now I'm sure of it, I should have escaped with Betty Sue . . .

Or maybe I should have just skipped my own birthday party.

Well, shit.

The bottle, sent spinning by Tristan's muscular arm, lands smack dab on me. My heart pounds. Thousands of swear words get caught in my throat. I look at Bonnie in desperation and she comes to my rescue, yelling above all the laughter:

"They can't, they're from the same family!"

"That's right, it'd be disgusting," Fergus chimes in, in a hurry to get a turn himself.

"Whatever, they don't have the same blood!" Drake interjects even though no one asked for his opinion.

"Technically, it's true, you're not brother and sister . . ." Bonnie hesitates, agreeing with him.

"What's wrong, are you scared, Sawyer?" Tristan says, moving into the middle of the circle with that arrogant nonchalance of his.

"Afraid of what? You?" I say, forcing myself to smile as if I couldn't care less.

In reality, I'm burning up. I'm cold. I feel everything all at once.

I breathe through my mouth so I won't smell his cologne. I look at my feet so I can't see his blue eyes challenging me. Then I do look at him a little – I don't want everyone to think I'm trying to avoid him. But his confident smile kills me. I stare at that dimple; it's not quite as scary as the rest. And I eventually look up at the moon as if it could save me. Everything seems to sway around me as Tristan moves closer. The laughter and yelling around us become a distance buzz. He slowly puts his hands on my face. His scent fills my nostrils. The piercing blue of his eyes makes me close my own. And his lips brush against mine for just a second. But it's enough to make my heart stop, and my head begins to spin as the sand seems to sink under my feet. A tiny, barely audible, ridiculous moan escapes my lips as Tristan pulls away.

There's total silence around us. Please God, I hope no one heard that. I feel my cheeks blush in the night air. I hold my breath until the joyful screams explode again around me. The entire circle is anxious for the game to begin again. But Tristan picks up the bottle and throws it as hard as he can out toward the water.

"It's a stupid, childish game," he growls as he heads off across the beach to join the other group further along.

A blond in super-short tight shorts holds her arms out to him. It's his ex, Lana.

Happy birthday, Sawyer . . . !