Forbidden Games

Family Dinner

What have I done?

No, what have WE done?

No one will ever know anyway. Tristan will be too ashamed to brag about it. And he was very clear. Well, his reaction was obvious. It was a mistake. The worst mistake of our lives. It'll never happen again. And we'll pretend it never happened.

But it did happen . . .

What was I thinking?

He had me. Tristan Quinn. That damn voice of his and his intense artist vibe, all sweaty and passionate. I tried to fight it, but he got me. Those blue eyes that I fell right into. As if I were the only one he looked at like that. His wet lips that he licks and bites, as if it were sexy. And the worst part is, it is. His muscular arms, those soft, confident hands that touch and squeeze, making it impossible to escape. And yet he didn't try to trap me. He was gentle and respectful the whole time, despite his feverish need. I felt like he was under my spell too. Like he couldn't resist either. And maybe that was what really got me. But how did we let things go so far?

No one can ever know, ever.

He's my stepbrother, I'm his stepsister. Our parents are married. It's disgusting. They said it that night on the beach. That's what everyone will think. And if people did find out, it's already obvious that I'd be the one that would be ridiculed. Tristan is just a guy, a chick magnet. It's in his nature to seduce women and give into his impulses. People would forgive him for straying, saying it was just his primal instinct. "That's just how he is," they'd say. Some might even be impressed that he managed to lead me astray. Plus, he's a rebel. He's allowed to do stupid shit. It's exactly what people expect of him. But I'm daddy's little princess, the quiet, well-behaved kid. The innocent little thing that everyone expects to be good and reasonable, to do everything right. This is going to be a disaster. My dad would be so disillusioned. My stepmother would call me every name in the book. And everyone would scold me for giving into temptation when I could have just said no. It's not like I have desires. Not like I was interested in "that." No, I don't feel anything, of course not. I'm just an 18-year-old tomboy who hates everyone.

That's what I'll say. Because that's how they see me. And I'll use that. If people find out, I'll deny it. Nothing happened in that dressing room. All we did was fight, throw things at each other and annoy each other. Like always, like every time we're in the same room.

If only that were true . . .

That's what we do best together . . .

That's what we used to do best . . .

No, I just have to keep telling myself it didn't happen. It was just a sexy dream. A strange nightmare where I was wearing a leather skirt I'd never actually wear and mascara that's not even mine. A strange night where I kissed a stranger to make a guy I can't even stand jealous. It makes no sense. It's obvious it never even happened. I just have to leave this bedroom and forget who's sleeping on the other side of the wall. A wall so thin I can almost hear him breathing.

***

We've managed to avoid each other for four full days. The month of July is over. We're already halfway through summer break. It's been a month since Tristan got back from boarding school. Just one more month to go under the same roof. And if we keep this up, maybe we'll forget what happened.

Well, one more month if I find a college who wants to admit me.

Bonnie and Fergus already got their acceptance letters. What am I supposed to think?

"Are the two of you having a contest to see who can sleep the latest?" Sienna jokes one morning, intercepting me as I walk out of my bedroom. "Tristan, get up!" she yells at the door next to mine. "You can stop now, you've won. Liv got up first!"

"It's Sunday. Can I go drink my coffee now?" I ask, trying to get away before he comes out.

"No, I have a few words to say to the two of you," she says, putting her fist on her hips as if it gave her some authority.

Tristan comes out sighing, his face sleepy and his hair a mess. He's wearing black boxers and a gray tee-shirt he just threw on. He hasn't even pulled it down over his torso. It's not the first time I've seen him in this kind of morning attire. But it's the first time I've had to keep myself from staring. And the first time I notice that same white elastic band on his underwear, down low on his abs. I push the image from my mind as it tries to invade my retina. I try to concentrate on the lesson my stepmother is trying to teach us. Most likely completely useless, and something I've heard a hundred times, but I'm sure it will work this time.

"When you're eighteen you're full of energy! You want to grab life by the horns, not waste a minute! So can you explain to me why the two of you are always locked up in your rooms?"

"That's not true, I practice with the guys all day," Tristan replies in a low voice.

"And I work at the agency all week," I add, looking away.

"Yes, and you go hide out the second you get home. It's not really what I call a family life!"

"Mom . . . " my next-door neighbor starts to complain, clenching his teeth. "Craig leaves for work at 7am. You're at the hotel until 10pm. When you're home, you're in the office with a big 'do not disturb' sign. Harry knows his nannies better than he knows you. My dad is dead, Liv's mom is non-existent and you see your husband for one hour every day. You're seriously trying to tell us what family life should look like?"

"Don't speak to me like that, Tristan!" Sienna says, annoyed as she wags her finger at him. "I'm telling you this for your own good. But if you really want to waste your life away, go ahead, you're doing a great job! And if our family doesn't suit you, there's the door!" she yells, pointing downstairs. "And the same goes for you!" she splutters at me before walking downstairs with that overly dramatic strut.

Tristan lets out a sound somewhere between a stifled laugh and an annoyed sigh. I smile too. Her sudden, failed attempt at authority is comic, as it always is with her. Our eyes meet and we're both smiling, but we immediately change our expressions. His turns into an embarrassed grin. And mine into an ashamed pout. I stare at my feet. He pulls his tee-shirt down over his waistband. I try to head to the steps. But he moves at the same time. I veer to the left, and so does he. I turn to the right to avoid him, but he blocks my route without meaning to. And our brains are completely useless, unable to coordinate our bodies' movements so we don't bump into each other.

Damn it.

Nothing will ever be the same. It's going to be worse.

***

A coffee and a quick trip to the shower and then I'm out the door as fast as I can, straight to my new car. Finally alone. I could call Bonnie, but I'm not sure I'm in the mood for her cheery singing and dirty jokes. Or maybe Fergus, but he'll just keep complaining about the amazing concert he missed and he'll ask me to tell him everything all over again. That's not exactly going to help keep my mind off things. I could go meet my dad, but when he goes to work on Sundays, it means there's an emergency to deal with. And it's high time I learned to deal with my problems on my own. I decide on my grandma: always at home on the weekend, never in a bad mood and very removed from my problems. She's the perfect person.

Her little house is just like her personality: unique, colorful, messy and full of life. In her big yard, which hasn't grown grass in a very long time, there's a menagerie of all the abandoned animals she has adopted over the past ten years: three dogs, a goat, turtles and a collection of hens and stray cats. There's even a dwarf pig she claims she saved from the slaughterhouse. Betty Sue is vegetarian, of course, but that's not all. She's a real hippie. She rejects consumer society, eats organic, grows her own vegetables and makes her own clothes. She recycles everything she finds that can be of any use. She couldn't care less about all my dad's money and refuses categorically every time he tries to improve her daily life. Betty Sue doesn't need much to be happy. She just wants to be left alone. Her son and his little girl are enough, though she does sometimes brag about having a lover here and there, but she'll tell anyone who will listen that she much prefers animals to men.

She just recently made friends with a pelican who swims in the pond behind her place. She's decided she needs to build it an artificial nest so it will want to reproduce. She doesn't even know if it's male or female! Betty Sue believes in life more than anything and she loves miracles. She could spend hours watching the flowers grow or ants march along the ground. She finds everything interesting, exciting and it takes a lot to wipe the smile off her face.

The minute I park outside her house, she's waving her arms at me to join her on the porch. My grandma is wearing a long floral dress, her feet are bare and she's painting some sort of little shed a bright apple green. It's probably a new shelter for one of her feathered or furry friends. I can hear her charm bracelets jangling from here as she moves around. According to my dad, Betty Sue has been wearing the same clothes for 40 years. Given that she's 77 now – 20 in spirit – it means she's gone half her life without going shopping. For that alone, she's my idol. She probably hasn't cut her hair since then either and she wears it long, gray and wavy. Sometimes she tries to dye it with henna but it never works out quite right. She has the same blue eyes and pale skin as the rest of the Sawyer clan – and there are only three of us because my dad is an only child and my grandma has no idea who his father was.

"What are you doing here, sweetie? Did your stepmom get under your skin again?"

"Nothing serious, just a little tantrum for no reason," I say, shrugging my shoulders indifferently.

"Let me tell you a little secret," she whispers, holding her paintbrush still for a moment. "Your dad is a good man who has succeeded at everything in his life – except his marriages," she says maliciously. "He has strange tastes when it comes to women. I mean, I was never a fan of the Frenchie, but the Italian? What a stuck-up snob!"

"He and my mom were only together for two years. But he's already been with Sienna for three!" I sigh.

"Don't worry about it, it won't last."

"Did you curse them with your voodoo dolls?" I laugh.

"No, my psychic predicted it," she says with a wink.

"Ah, well in that case, it must be true!" I joke.

"What about you, hon? Which one of the poor idiots who follows you around is madly in love with you? Who's the boy you can get to do bad things?"

I usually love her quasi-feminist discourse. My grandmother is convinced that women run the world, leading men around on a tight leash. All the while pretending to let them dominate so they can keep their supremacy secret. It's all a big scheme. Except today, the boy who's misbehaving has a name. And he's neither an idiot nor madly in love with me. And the bad thing happens to be his stepsister.

"I know how to keep a secret," Betty Sue insists, seeing how pensive I've become. "And who would I tell anyway? To cutlet, pork chop or fillet mignon?"

"And to think I'm not allowed to call you grandma, but you give your animals such atrocious names!"

"I don't eat meat so I'm allowed to use those nicknames to remind myself what it tasted like!" she jokes, looking out over her zoo.

"I know you love your dad, Liv. And your mom hasn't really made an effort to be there for you over the past eighteen years. But if you need to talk to a woman, I'm here. You can't miss me!" she reminds me as she opens her arms wide to display her colorful dress.

I hesitate for a second, then I throw myself into her arms. My heart is beating a little too quickly and I can't say a thing. I can't tell her. Not yet. Probably never. That torrid moment that Tristan and I shared has to be kept secret. In the meantime, I'll enjoy Betty Sue's warmth, her positive energy and the slow, comforting movements of her hands on my back.

"Whatever you did or wanted to do, sweetie, it's no big deal," she says in her soft, kind voice. "Whatever it is, it's not as bad as you think."

I'm not so sure about that . . .

***

After playing with my grandma's dogs, running after the pig named pork chop, drinking homemade ice tea and painting a rickety old dog house, I go back home with bit of a spring in my step and smears of green paint all over me. But I haven't made any progress on my feelings. Do I still hate him? More than before? Am I mad at him? Is it his fault? Is it mine? No one's? Should I ignore him? Confront him? If I pretend nothing happened will I forget everything? It might be worth a shot.

Harrison and Tristan are out in front of the house when I park along the sidewalk. I hear their voices through my open window: the kid's high-pitched, joyful voice and the deep, tortured voice of the older brother. He doesn't really sound like himself. I park as far away from the gate to hide my car, not wanting to give him an excuse to attack me as soon as I walk up. I take a deep breath before I come in and try to act normal and detached when I say:

"So, who pees the furthest?"

"None of your business, Sawyer," the eldest replies dryly.

"Why do you have green all over you?" the younger one asks.

"Harry, get out of here, go play over there!" Tristan orders him.

"You can speak to me like I'm dirt, but he's only three years old and he didn't do anything to you," I try to interject.

"Why, you think you did something to me?" he says with a little smirk. "It was nothing, Sawyer. And don't go thinking it's changed anything between us."

"You're the one who brought it up, Quinn," I retort in my defense. "I'd completely forgotten about it," I lie, maintaining eye contact.

"Good," he says, his blue eyes looking away.

They wander over my skin, focusing on the paint splotches on my chin, my shoulder, the low-cut neckline of my tank top. I play with the strap nervously as if to remind myself I am indeed clothed, that his piercing stare does not yet have the power to undress me.

Apparently he doesn't know whether he hates me or wants me either . . .

"Get inside and clean yourselves up, all three of you!" Sienna yells from the living room window.

I see Tristan jump at the same time as I do, and he automatically backs up a few steps. He rubs his hair briskly, as if he were getting his mind back to a safe place and shoves his hands into his jean short pockets, returning to his perfectly indifferent attitude.

"I think your mom is under the impression that we're all three years old," I say to Tristan who can't help but smile.

He comes to stand next to me, facing the window where Sienna is waiting in desperation for us to obey.

"Is it time to go beddy bye? Or do you want to read us a story first?" he asks his mother with disdain. "I think Liv might need you to give her a bath, first!"

"That's what you'd like to do, Quinn," I insinuate quietly to egg him on.

I see the dimple in his left cheek sink deeper into the skin. My daring is appreciated. He crosses his muscular arms over his chest and forces himself to look away.

"Make sure you close the bathroom door real tight, Sawyer. You might have some problems with your towel," he replies through his clenched jaws.

"Ooh, I'm scared," I jeer, still smiling.

"Are you going to stop fooling around and come inside, then? Tonight we're all eating dinner together. Like a family!" Sienna bellows before she closes the window.

"Shit," he sighs.

"Damn it," I say in agreement.

Fifteen minutes later, all five of us are seated around the square table in the dining room that we hardly ever use. We each have our assigned seats: my dad and I on one side, Tristan and his mom on the other and Harry at the end, insisting he sit next to his brother.

"You know, in normal families, the parents make the food. Not the servants," Tristan says with that eternal desire to cause trouble.

"Shut up and eat," Sienna replies with a forced smile, ready to do whatever it takes to make this dinner a success.

"May I cut your son's meat or should we wait for the nanny to come in and do it?" he replies.

"Craig and I work very hard to provide all this for you," she says in her defense. "And it's only natural that we'd hire people to support us on a day to day basis. That's their job."

"Dad had way more money than the two of you will ever make," Tristan says, continuing to push her. "It didn't keep him from living a simple life."

"Your dad isn't here anymore," Sienna whispers, having trouble swallowing.

"And you, Craig? Do you agree with this bourgeois lifestyle?" he says, seeking out a new adversary.

The two men enter into a sterile debate on what is essential or superfluous. My dad thinks it's amusing, always finding a good comeback to poke at Tristan's argumentative nature. In the meantime, Harrison is eating with his fingers and whines each time his mom asks him to use a fork. I pull back from the discussion to observe each of them, realizing just how different we are. Just how out of place we all seem.

My dad could have chosen to rebuild his life with a kind, open-minded woman who was easy to get along with. Someone like him. Sienna could have found a non-smoking husband, who was submissive but could live up to her ambitions in life. Harry could have had both his parents, who would kindly and patiently teach him to eat with silverware and pee in the right place. Tristan would have never even crossed paths with me. Or I could have met him coincidentally at a concert, in some bar. And he wouldn't be my stepbrother.

The phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. But no one at the table thinks to stop what they're doing to go pick it up. It's like they don't even hear it. Everyone has a cell phone and the landline ringing doesn't seem to interest them. I finally decide to go, dragging my feet, convinced it won't be for me.

"Hello?" I say, trying to imitate Sienna's snobbish voice, just for fun.

"I know what your children did," says a metallic voice through some sort of distortion device.

"Excuse me?"

"I know what they did."

"I think you must have the wrong number, sir," I say, thinking it's a practical joke.

"No," the robotic voice insists. "Liv Sawyer and Tristan Quinn. I know what they did. And it's called incest."

The line goes dead and my heart sinks. The earth has stopped spinning, but I can still hear laughter and shouting from the dining room.

Who was that?

And whoever it is, how does he know?

What if my dad or stepmom had picked up?

"Liv, come back in here, you need to explain to this idiot why it's good to be daddy's little princess!" my dad jokes from the other room.

"Tristan, don't insult her, she's your sister!" Sienna complains again.

"Your sister . . . "

"Nothing's as bad as you think . . . "

"And it's called incest . . . "

Nothing. But that.