Forbidden Games

On the Edge

Since dinner with Romeo last night, I've been thinking about the last thing Tristan said to me. His words have been resonating in my mind and in my dreams all night. And while it broke my heart at the time, I've decided to accept it. I respect Tristan's decision and I have to admit that he's right. It's the best thing I can do if I don't want to go insane. It's not like we have a choice, anyway.

We can't want each other.

This morning, the feeling in the house is unrecognizable. There's less electricity in the air. The silence is almost calming. The serenity is strange as I walk downstairs, pulling down my sleep shorts, in case someone is around. Thousands of butterflies flitter under my skin, from my stomach to my fingertips when I see Tristan, his back turned to me in the kitchen. He's leaning over Harrison. He fascinates me with his solid, square shoulders, the strength in his arms and the gentle way he moves.

Without really thinking about what I'm doing, I stop halfway down the stairs and watch them live these precious minutes, not wanting to interrupt their moment of brotherly love. I notice how calm Harry is when his big brother takes care of him. He finally relaxes, as if nothing could hurt him, as if he knows it's the perfect time to learn, follow his example, to grow without being afraid. And I admire Tristan's natural ease, his grace with a hint of melancholy, the simplicity he exhibits with such tenderness when he doesn't know he's being watched, when he doesn't have to be the most popular guy in school, the leader of a rock band, the heartbreaker at the beach. I'm sure I'm wrong, but I feel like I'm the only one who knows how deep he can be, how serious. I'm the only one who sees his doubts and inner turmoil – what makes him vulnerable.

And our conversation yesterday comes to mind again: he might want me, but he shouldn't and he can't.

"Sawyer, the Quinn brothers' show is over, you can be on your way now," he says, walking around the counter.

"I was just trying to catch my breath after the shock of seeing you up so early in the morning."

"What do you think, Harry? Should we let her sit with us? You sure we allow girls at our table?"

"I haff-a ask Alf-ed and Elton," says the little boy, sitting between his alligator and elephant.

I slowly get up from my perch on the steps and go join them in the open kitchen. I kiss the top of Harry's bowl cut, then do the same his stuffed animals, so they'll let me into their club.

"And Titan?" Harry interrupts, outraged that I forgot his hero.

My heart clenches in my chest. My temples throb at the idea of having to kiss Tristan. Since we moved into the same house, we've been forced into this kind of exchange about a dozen times. Back when we hated it. But everything has changed. And kissing him "in public", now that I'm not allowed to do it anymore, kissing him with the most innocent kiss possible, now that I want the total opposite, kissing him like a sister kisses her brother . . . just seems unthinkable. I think I'd rather never go near him again than have to pretend.

But Tristan makes a liar out of me as he moves close. The heat of his body near mine makes me shiver and I begin to melt inside. He turns his cheek toward me, his jaw tight, a painful sigh on the tip of his tongue. I put my lips to his skin, ordering my brain to make it a quick peck – but my body loves his too much, my forehead on his temple, my nose against his cheekbone. I breathe him in for a moment – coconut body wash, shampoo, laundry detergent – I let his scent intoxicate me, tasting the forbidden fruit, unable to resist. He doesn't pull away either, and I see his eyelids close, his long brown lashes dropping the curtain over his good resolutions. Then the blue eyes return and shoot daggers at me as he pulls away, hesitating between scolding and apologizing. Tristan rubs his head and leans against the kitchen sink, his back to me as he contracts his biceps through the sleeves of his light gray polo shirt.

"Why are you two up and dressed already?" I say, my voice a little fake, talking only to Harry.

"We're going to school!" the little boy announces. "Mommy says I have to be ha-some an big and bwave and keep my shirt cween."

"She signed him up for private preschool," Tristan explains, finally turning around and leaning his back against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest as he looks out the living room window from a distance. "She bought him new clothes and a ridiculous little backpack, but she's not even capable of taking him on his first day," he says angrily under his breath so his little brother can't hear him.

"You're going to make lots of friends, Harry!" I turn to Tristan and add, "it'll be better than staying here alone."

I go over to the sink to make my coffee. Tristan doesn't move an inch, even though our arms brush against each other. I see him look at my messy hair out of the corner of his eye, then glance down to see just how short my sleepwear is as I reach up on my tip toes to search through the upper cabinet. I'm not looking for anything in particular. Just an excuse to stand next to him. My coffee is ready.

"Harry, finish your toast, we're going to be late," Tristan says, trying to find a reason to move away from me.

"Can't he have a cookie or something instead of that chewed up bread?"

"It's breakfast, Sawyer. Not a birthday party where he can have whatever he wants," Tristan argues.

"Oh right, we can't have your brother becoming a spoiled brat like me," I say sarcastically, handing him a chocolate cookie anyway.

"If no one sets boundaries for him, how is he going to get by at school?" he whispers. There's anger in his eyes.

"Don't get mad at me, Quinn. Your mom's the one who needs to hear this."

"My kids won't be overprotected," he says, as if he had already thought it all through. "They'll have limits so they won't mess around, but they'll also learn to get by on their own."

"Key West: breaking news! Rock singer turned stay-at-home dad."

"I wouldn't mind," Tristan says, shrugging his shoulders.

"Seriously? Staying at home all day? Playing with toys and changing diapers?"

"Better than being stuck in an office and pretending you're important just because you sold a house to a millionaire who already has four of them," he says, hitting me where it hurts.

"At least my job will let me be independent. I won't have to find myself a husband I don't like, just so he can take care of me."

"You could also get married for love, Sawyer. There are women who believe in such things, you know."

"When did you become Mr. Romantic?"

"And when did you steal my heart of stone?" he replies, both amused and confused by the turn things have taken.

"My dad has been married twice and so has your mom. We don't even know why they picked each other or how long it will last. I'm sorry if I don't want to repeat the same pattern: fighting about everything, never agreeing on anything, burying yourself in work so as to spend as little time as possible together and coming home to each other in the evening because life is just a little easier when there are two of you. Marriage is not exactly my dream come true."

"No one's saying you have to have the same little dreams that they do," Tristan sighs bitterly as if he were disappointed in what I'd just said.

The sadness in his voice makes the stone in my chest jump. It's like I feel it start to crack, to let in Tristan Quinn's soul, his burning blood invading my cold, blue veins.

"Maybe I just haven't met the person who will change my mind yet."

He looks at me, but doesn't say anything. I feel weary all of a sudden, and kind of sad. I throw in the towel for this battle of wits and go stand behind Harrison who is too busy eating his cookie to listen. I wrap my arms around him, resting my chin on his little head that still has that nice baby smell, and I hug him to replace the person I really wish I could hold in my arms.

But Tristan walks over in that nonchalant way that makes it impossible to know what he's up to or where he's going. Slowly, he presses himself against me. His gray polo shirt on my black tank top, his pecs against my back. His tan arms slide under mine and he cups his hands over Harry's ears.

"I think you know very well that you've already found him . . ."

My neck shivers under the effect of his deep, muffled voice. And my hands slide over the little boy's eyes, without me realizing what I'm doing. I turn my head slightly and my eyes meet with his blue irises, full of light and rebellion, those fleshy lips just inches from mine. Our breathing falls into rhythm.

"Maybe," I say as my heart comes to a screeching halt.

"Can I pway too?" Harry interrupts, laughing out loud as he throws his little arms back to grab at us.

Tristan pulls away and I do the same. He coughs to clear his voice and then says a bit too loudly:

"It's time to go! Harrison Quinn, you can't be late for your first day of school!"

He unties the bib from around his brother's neck, wipes the crumbs off his face and then lifts him out of his chair to put him on the floor. He smooths his little brother's shirt with the palm of his hand, fixes his hair into the perfectly shaped bowl cut, as if he were putting everything in its proper place. He does the same to me as he takes me by the waist and removes me from his path to leave the kitchen and find his keys.

"On the hook," I say as I watch him wander around the hall. "Have fun, Harry! Make some friends and learn some cool stuff – and don't be too good," I add, as if it were a secret.

"And one last piece of advice, never listen to Liv!" Tristan says, giving the tiny backpack to his brother.

The little boy grabs Alfred by the leg and runs into the hall. I haven't seen him smile like that for a long time.

And I think I could say the same for myself.

***

September is speeding by at an alarming pace: there's the morning routine with Tristan and Harrison, my online courses, long, busy afternoons at the agency and then the evenings where the three of us are at home together. Tristan is really busy with music school, but he always finds time to be with his little brother. My dad and step mom are as busy and absent as ever – absorbed in their work, but also purposefully avoiding the house and the inevitable conflicts that arise when they are together. Neither Tristan nor I complain. The anonymous phone calls seem to have stopped and I truly hope Betty Sue was right. Maybe it was just some bored idiot, who hasn't seen anything really, except for maybe that stupid teenage game on the beach. And he must have got tired of his little game before we did.

Every night, Harry tells us what he did at school with a spark of excitement in his little blue eyes. I think he's starting to speak more clearly already. And having him around keeps me and Tristan in line. We still exchange glances and there are the occasional sighs that reveal so much about our relationship. We keep resisting temptation, and I'm impressed by our perseverance. But it's almost as if we enjoy resisting and seeking each other out, making sure the other is still holding out, surprising each other in our moments of weakness, playing with fire before we extinguish it outright. We teeter on the edge between what is allowed and what is forbidden.

We almost act like an old married couple as we avoid becoming one at all costs.

Tristan criticizes my laziness and lack of skill in the kitchen. I complain about how strict he is and make fun of the silly songs he plays on the guitar. I laugh like a kid when he turns Harry's full head of hair into a punk rocker mohawk at bath time. He laughs when I try to teach Harry French instead of reading him a bedtime story, until he realizes I'm helping his beloved little brother learn swear words. He keeps dressing him in little checked or striped dress shirts that make him look like a mini businessman. Tristan's excuse is that he doesn't want his brother to stand out at his preschool for gifted kids of rich parents. For hours, we debate the importance of appearances in our society, the importance of fitting in at the age of three and of breaking the mold when you hit fifteen. Or the opposite. I accuse him of being a sorry excuse for a rebel. He says I've missed the point. We throw forks, slam doors and stomp up and down the stairs. Then we keep talking for hours through the wall that divides our rooms, about as thick as a sheet of paper.

One night, just after we put ourselves to bed, my dearest enemy knocks at my door. We'd just finished a long, heated discussion on our parents' respective responsibility in the failure of their marriage.

"Are you asleep?"

"No . . . are they home?"

"Nope," he sighs when I open the door to my room.

"Do you think they're going to get a divorce?" I whisper, so as not to wake Harry, sleeping at the end of the hall.

"No idea. My mom doesn't like to be alone. Are you just going to stand there?"

He looks at me in the doorway. My bare feet fidget nervously, standing on each another.

"I'm not going to invite you in, if that's what you mean," I say, challenging him.

"I didn't ask you to," he replies, feigning indifference. "Come out, then."

We both close our bedroom doors and sit on the floor, our backs against the wall in the hallway, the border dividing our rooms. Safe territory. The hall is dimly lit by a light we left on downstairs for Sienna and Craig. They're working even later than usual tonight. Our shoulders don't just brush against each other like they often do, they rest there, pressed together, neither of us knowing what to say. I pull my legs in, too naked and pale, holding them tight with my arms. I rest my chin on my knees to protect myself from God knows what. Tristan hasn't changed into his pajamas yet. I don't know what's worse: that I don't get to see him in his boxer briefs or that he gets to see me in my tiny shorts and tank top without a bra. He's wearing his jean shorts and a white tee-shirt. He plays with the hem of his sleeve with two fingers.

"If they get a divorce, do you think . . . " he says, his quiet voice unsure of where it's going.

"That it would change something? for us?"

"Your dad would probably take you back to France, right?"

"I don't know. I'm eighteen. I could say no," I say, before I've even thought it through.

"He's your dad. Liv and Craig Sawyer. You can't live without each other," he says, teasing me.

"You manage to get by without yours," I say, immediately wishing I could take my words back. "Sorry. That's not what I meant. You . . . I admire your independence. I don't know how you . . . I mean, you never talk about him . . .

"It's fine," he says, as if forgiving me. "He's dead, but he's still an inspiration, his life, his path," he says, pushing his head back against the wall.

"What was he like?" I say, a bit nervous I'm asking too much.

"He was amazing. He didn't talk much, but when he did, it was always interesting. He always knew just what to say. The opposite of my mom. He never went to her society parties, he didn't care about that stuff. The only thing he cared about was adventure, speed, adrenaline. He won a ton of races, you know. And when he retired from Formula 1, he bought a team and trained young champions. He was gifted. He knew how to bring out the best in people. He took me with him a lot of the time. Everyone said we were alike. Physically, and in other ways too."

"Was he a ladies' man?" I smile softly.

Tristan lifts his head to look at me in the dark, smiling back.

"I know he was married once before my mom. But he was loyal, faithful. I saw how women looked at him; he had so much charisma. But he didn't care about all that. He lived his life, plain and simple. 'Look straight ahead, Tristan.' 'Don't worry about what's going on around you.' 'You're the only one who can know where you're going.' 'If you keep your head on straight you can go anywhere, further than you think.' He was always saying stuff like that. I try to remember," he adds with a slight tremor in his voice.

"I'm sorry. That he's not here for you now," I stutter, feeling emotion rise in my throat.

"I'm OK. I was lucky enough to know him. But Harry will never have any of that. He won't hear any of those things to help guide him through life. That's why I try to take care of him, now that I'm around."

"I know," I sigh, as if a weight had just landed square on my chest. "But he hears those things from you. I think he admires you as much as you admired your dad."

"A big brother can't replace a father," he says in a low, almost resigned voice. "Sometimes I'm angry with my dad. For leaving the two of us. For not being more careful. He had a son, and another one on the way. He knew we needed him. I think being a rebel, being passionate about something, being so independent . . . it can make you selfish."

Tristan goes quiet and pushes his thumb and index finger into his closed eyes, as if he needed to be alone for just a second, to clear his head. I let my arms drop, stretch out my legs next to his. I don't say anything, but I lean against him, so he can lean on me. The silence grows long, maybe long enough for him to choke back his tears. Or until the heat of my body calms him down.

"What about you? Are you mad at your mom for not being here?" he asks.

"No, I don't think she was ever cut out for it. She tried. But I'm thankful that she never pretended to take care of me. I was two when she and Craig split up. I don't even remember. She never asked for custody. She never fought my dad when we decided to leave Paris and come to the US. That's how it goes. Me and my dad – it's always been enough."

"Daddy's girl," he teases, nudging me with his elbow.

"We're more alike than you think," I reply, pushing back.

"Yeah . . . one parent gone, the other totally absent, a broken family . . . great stuff we have in common, Sawyer."

"If only this damn family had never existed," I sigh, looking up at the ceiling as if some god somewhere could hear me.

"Then we never would have met," he says in his deep voice, growing serious.

"Maybe that would have been for the best," I say softly.

"What?" he sighs, turning his face to mine.

"You know very well what," I reply, letting my eyes drift down to focus on his lips.

"Forbidden fruit," he finally says, just before he kisses me.

His mouth unites sensually with mine, and little bubbles burst all through my body. I give in to his enchanting kiss, suspended in time. But it's interrupted much too soon. Tristan pulls away from my mouth and presses his forehead to mine, his eyelids closed and his lips still wet from our kiss.

"We can't, Liv . . . "

The sound of the front door opening keeps me from arguing with him. My dad races up the steps, not giving us enough time to move. I pull my legs in again, retreating into my shell. Tristan runs one hand through his hair and holds his thumb to his lips with the other, as if he were erasing the trace I left on him.

"What are you two doing here?" my dad asks, standing over us, the scent of tobacco still on him. "Is everything alright?"

"Harry had a nightmare," Tristan says, improvising. "We just put him back down."

"We were just waiting for him to go back to sleep."

I see a shadow in my dad's eyes, as if he were suspicious of our explanation, realizing his own daughter is capable of lying to him. My stomach ties itself in knots as he looks between us, back and forth, three times. He finally focuses on the place where our shoulders meet, where the strap of my tank top slid down when we kissed. The line where our skin meets forms a border between our rooms, here in this much-too-dark, much-too-quiet hallway.