Forbidden Games

Family Portrait

One of the big advantages of living in Florida is that you slide easily from summer to fall without even noticing. It's the beginning of October and it's 75 to 85 degrees in Key West. The locals are still in shorts and the tourists have left town. They have escaped the sometimes-oppressing humidity, and they'll be back after the season of pouring rain and nightly storms has passed. "High season," as Sienna calls it, starts in January in the Keys. That's when the Europeans and North Americans start to freeze at home and come to enjoy our mild climate. In the meantime, Key West is in slow motion; the bars are empty and the smaller hotels have closed for a few months. There's room to breathe on the shopping streets and beaches and the island has reclaimed its space. The humidity is suffocating and the slow, cool rhythm is almost lethargic.

It's obviously my favorite time of year. I feel so at home here. I don't even miss Paris. I think back to Tristan's scenario: if my dad and his mom get divorced, I don't know what will happen. But what I do know is that I don't want to go back to France and leave my little corner of paradise.

Even if it feels like hell sometimes.

I keep working through my online courses in the morning, but I'm more and more anxious to get to the agency in the afternoon. I like to be active, to learn new things and surprise myself by solving problems I didn't think could be solved. I like seeing my dad's proud smile and the impressed looks on the faces of his most experienced coworkers. But most of all, it gets me out of the house and keeps me from thinking too much; and walking from room to room and seeing reminders of Tristan everywhere I look. His guitar sitting on the living room couch – I can still hear the chords and that gorgeous voice of his. One of his tee-shirts thrown over the stair railing that Sienna must have asked him to pick up a hundred times. His size 9.5 tennis shoes sitting in the hall – the ones I wore that one time just before I died of humiliation. The towel that smells like his coconut body wash in the bathroom – the one I forbid myself to sniff like a desperado . . . but then I can't resist. Swim trunks on the ground next to the pool behind the house – reminding me of his naked body, that unforgettable shape I wish I could erase from my memory.

Not to mention the den downstairs that I can't even walk into anymore.

"Olive? Olive?" says a voice I don't recognize as a hand lightly touches my arm.

"Hmm?!" I almost jump.

"Sorry," Romeo apologizes with a teasing smile, "but you weren't responding when I called you Liv. Is everything alright?"

"Oh! Yeah, fine. I was just lost in thought. Do you need me?"

"Can you write up some info sheets for the front window and the website? We got three new houses this morning. I managed to convince the clients to entrust them to us exclusively."

"Great! Good work! Do you have photos?"

"Here's everything."

He sets his little digital camera on my desk and a notepad with writing on several pages.

"I'm sure you'll know what to do, Little Miss Resourceful!" he smiles before walking out.

I don't quite know what to think of this new nickname. Romeo invented it and now the others have jumped on board. I like the idea that they think I'm resourceful, but "Little Miss" is condescending. Or macho. And coming from the mouth of a dark, handsome man, it almost sounds like flirting. And his gestures have something flirtatious about them as well: putting his hand on my shoulder to congratulate me. Lending me his suit jacket to protect me from the rain. Opening the office door and refusing to walk in ahead of me, explaining with an honest smile that chivalry is going out of style and it's a shame. I'm not used to such attentiveness. My dad is so anti-macho that he doesn't even make a distinction between men and women and it's always been that way. He's always been a gentleman, but I've never seen him act like an attentive, seductive or even affectionate husband with Sienna. As for Tristan and his way of behaving – contradiction, conflict, confrontation – the three C's he holds so dear. He's not exactly a prime example either.

I realize that I am incapable of distinguishing simple kindness from flirting. My dad's new partner is charming, talkative and tactile, but maybe it's just his salesman nature. Or his Latin roots. All I know about Romeo Rivera is that he's 26, half-Mexican and very talented in real estate. Unlike me, Romeo is very comfortable with people in general and with the opposite sex in particular. It's not a coincidence that my dad has us working together. Or that he's taken Romeo under his wing. He's probably planning to hand over Luxury Homes to his new protégé until I'm ready for the role. That's if he decides to retire one day – which will never happen, I'd bet my life on it.

I can already see it: Robert Redford with graying hair, a cigarette in one hand and an oxygen tank in the other, saying he's perfectly capable of working another year. Until his daughter has really learned the ropes. I'll be 40 and he'll be 70, and he'll still be protecting me like I'm 12. He'll still try to dance the tango every time he sells a house and he'll ask me to put a straw in his green slushie and complain that he doesn't have any grandkids to spoil like he used to spoil me. Of course Betty Sue will still be alive. She'll be close to 100 and her hair will be down to her feet. She'll still be wearing all the same clothes and she'll move around in a squeaky wheel chair with an entire family of pelicans waddling behind her.

This imaginary family portrait makes me smile until my subconscious tries to insert Tristan into the mix. I don't know how to make him fit. I can't visualize him by my side, calm at age 40, a hand around my waist, his face the perfect picture of happiness. That Tristan Quinn doesn't exist. I'm incapable of imagining him as anything but a tortured soul: his hair a mess as he runs his hand nervously through it, that unreadable half-smile, his piercing blue eyes – insolent and provocative until something makes them go dark as he crosses his arms over his muscular chest. I know that Tristan Quinn all too well. And I don't think anything could make him change, could tame or soothe him, not in a thousand years. The truth is I can't imagine a future for us, nothing but the here and now. Our eighteen-year-old selves. Hating each other as much as we want each other. Rejecting each other over and over. Forbidding anything else.

And if there's no possible future, not even in my dreams, then the rules are real. And they're there for a reason.

I feel a huge weight on my chest when this thought hits me yet again. Tristan and I simply aren't allowed. Despite the vise around my heart, I keep writing up the info sheets for the gorgeous mansions, not letting myself stop or give into my emotions. I type quickly on my computer to keep myself from digging my nails into my palms. I open my eyes wide, stare at my screen and fight back my tears, refusing to blink so they don't have a chance to flow. And behind my burning eyes, way back in my subconscious, I see Romeo enter the photograph with such alarming ease. He's wearing a perfectly tailored suit with his black hair just so, his soft, calm face and closely shaven cheeks. Those jaws that are never tight with anger, his movements so precise as he teases without pushing. He smiles easily and agrees to pose for the snapshot.

Then my eyes finally close and it all goes black, then red, and I see Tristan punch Romeo violently, kicking him out of the frame. He takes my hand and pulls me out as well, and we start running, not knowing where we're going.

Alert! I'm going crazy! I have to get out of here! I have to stop thinking! I need to breathe!

***

A few days later I've finished the descriptions of the new houses and I've even decided to redo all the sheets and update them with a clearer presentation and change the wording so they sound more attractive. The agency window is unrecognizable. It's modern and lively, though still just as luxurious and minimalist as before. "Little Miss Resourceful" is back and my dad congratulates me for my initiative and all my hard work. It was the only way to get Tristan out of my head, stop thinking about the future, and quit imagining silly things about Romeo Rivera, who I'm not even interested in!

"Are you avoiding me, Sawyer?" Tristan says, surprising me one morning with a dark look on his face.

"Are you following me, Quinn?" I say more aggressively than I meant to.

"No, I was just wondering why I don't see you anymore these days," he replies, trying to sound indifferent.

"Because I'm busy," I say laconically without looking at him.

Standing in the kitchen, he leans his chiseled body forward and braces his arms against the counter with ease, as if he were stretching. Or maybe he's just getting comfortable, trying to drag out this conversation that I didn't even want to start in the first place. I notice he's wearing an old denim shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. It makes him look older. I try to concentrate on my coffee, nothing but my coffee.

"Harry was asking for you this morning before school," Tristan says. "He asked where you were. Last night too."

"I was working last night. This morning I was sleeping," I say. "And you can ask me directly, you don't have to use your little brother as an excuse."

"I'm just saying, he misses you, that's all," he replies, shrugging his shoulders to let me know he doesn't care.

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty, now? I'm abandoning Harry too? Is that it?" I sigh, trying to remain calm.

"No . . . but you've been working later and later, Sawyer, you're going to end up like your dad," he says in his deep voice, trying to needle me.

He turns slightly to the side, bends an elbow and rests his head against his hand, waiting for my reaction. I force myself not to take the bait. But he's so sexy.

"What about you?" I say, changing the subject, admiring my self-control. "Why aren't you at your amazing music school?"

"Not today," he says, trying to cut the conversation short, his face closing off.

"Why?"

"Because. I don't want to."

"Rebel," I laugh, hiding my teasing expression behind my coffee mug.

"I heard you," he barks, standing up behind the counter. "Today's the anniversary of my dad's death. I always go to the cemetery. So you can laugh if you want, choke on your coffee or call me names, but I'm going to do what I need to do."

He walks out of the kitchen, leaving a heavy silence in his wake, teaching me a lesson. I want to apologize, but I can't think of what to say. Anything I could come up with would probably just make things worse. I hear him put on his shoes, grab his keys and slam the front door. Without thinking, I go upstairs and change into clean underwear, shorts and a tank top, then go back down, throwing my hair into a messy ponytail as I go. Then I leave the house, running after Tristan.

He's on his bike and I already regret choosing sandals over my tennis shoes. I accelerate my pace and manage to catch up to him. He's pedaling slowly, as if the surrounding heat and his sadness had eaten up all his energy.

"I'm sorry," I yell, running to stand in front of his bike.

"Get out of the way, Sawyer."

"I didn't know," I say, trying to apologize. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it."

"I don't care."

He starts pedaling again, going around me, and I jog to keep up, sometimes getting ahead of him, sometimes pulling back so he'll have to look at me. I say a bunch of stupid things he probably can't even understand because I'm so out of breath, and he continues to ignore me, clenching his jaw and taking one hand off the handlebars from time to time to wipe the sweat off his brow or ruffle his hair without thinking. It's hot, humid and hazy, and I feel like I'm running inside an oven. But I don't stop.

A few minutes later he drops his bike on the curb, leaving it on its side and I keep running, backwards now to face him, too tired to speak, but still determined not to give up. I don't realize we've arrived until my back hits one of the two white columns that mark the entrance to the Key West cemetery. Tristan continues to walk forward, saying:

"I didn't invite you."

"I know. I don't want to . . . " I hesitate.

Continuing to jog beside him, I touch his forearm.

"Let me come. Please."

"OK, but be quiet. And stop jogging, you're wearing me out," he adds, slowing down. "And get your hand off me!"

He stares at his forearm, shiny with sweat and tense with irritation.

"I'll be quiet, I won't do anything," I agree, complying with our contract.

I follow Tristan in silence down the rows of palm trees and perfectly aligned white tombs. I'm still surprised he's let me come this far. I try not to look at him too much, but I see his Adam's apple move up and down in his throat, his tongue sweeping over his slightly parted lips several times, as if he were trying to get air or saliva. Anything to help him survive this awful humidity. I don't even notice my dry throat or my pulse that won't seem to slow down, my sore thighs from running and the blisters on my feet. I just want to be here without screwing anything up. I want to respect this sacred moment, out of time, that Tristan is allowing me to share with him, even if it wasn't really his idea. But after a few turns, he slows down, squints and looks straight ahead. His head is slightly tilted to the side.

"Stop," he mutters, without looking at me.

"What is it?"

"That blond woman over there," he points with his chin. "It's Sadie something or other."

"Hmm?" I say, trying to get more information without forcing.

"My dad's first wife," he says in his deep voice, making me shiver. "His ex-wife," he corrects himself, as if it mattered.

I watch the blond who is as different from Sienna as humanly possible. She must be at least ten years older, but she seems to be trying to dress and style her hair in a way that will make her look "young." She's wearing a dress that's a little too short on her thin, delicate frame. Her hair is so meticulously styled, you'd think she just left a luxury beauty salon. It's as if she were trying to look nice for her ex-husband. But her face seems severe. Her eyes are weary and her small mouth is tight, in a permanent frown. Everything about her is the opposite of my stepmom with her voluptuous shape, Mediterranean coloring, her dark eyes and classy clothes that are always sophisticated. Her rounded facial features and forced smiles.

I'm constantly amazed by men's varied taste in women . . .

"Do you know each other?" I try to say quietly, worried that Tristan will be angry.

"I only saw her once – at the funeral. She lives in another state, I didn't even know she came here," he says, still motionless.

"Maybe . . . "

I don't finish my sentence, incapable of finding any good reason for her presence here. The low-lying clouds seem to explode over our heads and huge, noisy drops of rain begin to pour down over the cemetery.

"Come on," Tristan says, cutting me off and putting his hand at the base of my neck to pull me behind the trunk of a palm tree.

I don't know if it's to protect me, shelter us from the rain or just hide from the ex-wife, who he obviously does not want to talk to. Except maybe to say, "You have no reason to visit Lawrence Quinn's grave. Now leave." At least that's what his face seems to be saying, his blue eyes darkened by the stormy shadows around us. The fat drops of rain fall on his face, soaking his hair and his long lashes, exploding on his tan arm that is still stretched out between us. His fingers almost seem to grab my neck and I do nothing to pull away. The rain is warm and it seeps under my clothes. Tristan's shirt is sticking to his torso. If I wasn't so worried about how he was feeling, I could easily consider this moment to be a torrid one – laden with tension and sensuality.

"We're going," he decides. The rain is ruining my dad's shirt.

He pushes me forward, his hand still on my neck and we cross the cemetery, running to find shelter. Tristan finds a tiny bit of roof in front of a closed store that gives us about six inches of dry sidewalk for our feet. We stand there pressed together, our bodies drenched and our breathing ragged, waiting for the downpour to stop.

"The shirt looks good on you," I finally say, smiling.

Much to my surprise, he smiles back. It's a sad smile, but proud at the same time. Sincere. And the dimple that sinks into his cheek burrows an identical hole into my heart.