Forbidden Games

Back to the Motherland

6:12 AM.

I open one eye and realize Tristan came to join me in the night. All I'm wearing is a skimpy pair of panties. He's sleeping soundly on his stomach, his head turned toward me. I'm too sleepy to panic or think of the danger. Maybe his openness about his feelings has reassured me. Maybe the decision we made together has given me serenity. It's definitely him that's making me feel so brave. In any case, I'm happy just to wake up lazily and rub his muscular back with my fingertips, watching his peaceful face. Right now, the possibility of someone walking in and finding us here in my bed, early in the morning, seems less horrible than what awaits.

Christmas is approaching along with all the obligations it implies. I have to go to France and spend a few days with my mom, making sure time goes by as quickly as possible. I'm just going to make my dad happy. So he'll stop feeling guilty for not providing me with the maternal figure I deserved. To be honest, I'm doing just fine without it. I may seem excessive and cold, but that's how I've learned to protect myself.

She and I both stopped pretending years ago. And rather than waiting for her to wake up, to change or stop being an absent, selfish, indifferent mother, I've decided to follow her example, and live my life without her. Keep her at a distance rather than let myself feel abandoned. Marianne Hardy made her decision 16 years ago when she decided she didn't want to play dolls anymore, and certainly didn't want to play house.

I don't have her last name, or her love.

What do we have in common? Our blond hair and blue eyes and the paleness of our skin.

Tristan stretches lazily next to me. Without opening his eyes, he turns over on his back, letting me admire his perfectly chiseled torso, the fineness of his features as the weak rays of sunlight seem to slide over his skin. The covers are pulled up to his navel, keeping me from seeing anything below the belt. It doesn't matter, I don't need that. Not now. His beauty is enough to calm me.

"How long do you plan on staring at me, Sawyer?"

His smirk is particularly tempting. The animal nature in his eyes. His hoarse voice that comes out of nowhere and resonates much louder than it should. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling and quickly press my palm over his mouth. With a defiant smile on my lips, I murmur:

"You want us to get caught? Don't talk so loud, especially if it's just to say crap like that . . ."

"You've got it bad, admit it!" he says, pulling my hand away forcefully.

In the space of two seconds, I find myself pinned between a soft mattress and a hard body. His lips explore my neck and I moan, then writhe, trying to release myself from his grasp. It's an utter failure: he can overpower me with disconcerting ease.

"Stop struggling, I already told you it was pointless . . ."

"Let go of me unless you want to end up sterile . . ."

He laughs, then stares into my eyes, hypnotizing me.

"Liv Sawyer and her legendary tact."

"If you were hoping for Miss America or some brainless bimbo, you shouldn't have picked me."

"I got exactly what I was hoping for," he smiles in that disarming way. "A tomboy with icy eyes and a fiery personality. Not to mention those legs that go on forever. A gorgeous, radiant girl who swears and has no idea how crazy she makes me."

His smile and the fire in his eyes makes me forget the world: the restrictions, the danger, our current location, the torture that awaits me just 48 hours from now and even my phone, vibrating frantically for the third time in three minutes.

"Answer, you never know," he finally sighs, releasing me from my prison.

I reach over to my nightstand, half-heartedly, and grab my phone. Bonnie's name is displayed on the screen, and Fergus is in the list of recipients as well. Three texts in all.

[I'm officially the queen of all idiots. Bow down before me.]

[Drake slept with that pink-haired whore! And I'm guessing she's not the only one . . .]

[I should have known. No 18-year-old is monogamous. Unless he's a choir boy. Or covered in acne. And scales. Over his entire body. I HATE MEN!]

I drop my phone onto the pillow and growl, pushing Tristan's hand off of my stomach where it just came to rest.

"What's up?" he asks, pushing himself up on his elbow.

"Drake's a dickhead."

"And that's my fault?"

"Did you know he was screwing everything in a skirt?"

"We don't exactly confess to each other about our love lives around a campfire, Liv."

"Yeah. Because you men, the real, hard ones, you are better than that," I say ironically, grabbing my oversized tee-shirt and putting it on.

"That's not what I said," he groans.

I turn around to face him. He ruffles his hair and yawns and I don't know what happens, but something clicks and I come back to lie next to him.

"Sorry," I sigh. "Bonnie's my best friend . . ."

"And Drake is mine, but I can't control him."

"You could punch his face, though, right?"

"And castrate him while I'm at it. It might do him good."

"Bonnie would be very grateful."

"You're the one I want to make happy, Liv, just you," he murmurs, serious now.

His lips touch mine with incredible softness. When I'm about to open my mouth and invite his tongue inside, the little brat pinches my nose, gets up and leaves my room wearing his boxer briefs that let me see everything. He laughs as he goes. As if he were never in here, secretly spending the night.

"I'll miss you when you're in France," he whispers, poking his head back into my room. Luckily Drake will know how to keep me busy while you're gone . . ."

I grab a sandal off the floor and throw it at his head. He dodges it, glowing with pride.

"Violent . . ."

"Asshole."

"Brat."

"Jerk."

"Sexy."

" . . ."

"I'll never do that to you, Liv."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Why would I? You're one of a kind."

He looks me over, drinking me in, hesitating as he stares at my bare legs. I immediately blush. Then Tristan gives me a military salute and one of those irresistible smiles and walks away. The house is silent again.

Six days without him . . . Damn it!

***

Craig drops me off at the airport, checking to make sure I have enough warm clothes in my suitcase, enough M&Ms for the ten-hour journey and enough tissues for all the tears I'll shed when we part ways – my dad, the jokester. Then he uses his most serious tone, repeating that he loves me, that Marianne loves me in her own way too, and that he and I are forever. I'm his greatest accomplishment. Of course he can't help but add that he would have preferred a son so he could call him Craig Junior.

Hi-lar-ious.

I tap my foot for an hour, sleep for two, read three idiotic magazines, scarf down a handful of candy even though I'm not hungry, and exchange a few polite words with my neighbor. Then I drift off for the remaining six hours of the flight. When we land, a tall blond in a black suit is waiting for me. Her Bluetooth earpiece is still stuck to the side of her head.

Is it a receptionist? No, that's my mom.

"Liv, you look beautiful!"

"Hi, Mom."

"And tan!"

"Thanks . . ."

Her compliments always make me uncomfortable, as if they were coming from a stranger. I'm freezing under my coat and I blow into my hands, hoping to save a finger or two from the cold. I've just gone from 75 to 30 degrees, from the Florida winter to mid-December in Paris. Indifferent to my suffering, Marianne looks me over from head to toe, as if she were evaluating me before deciding on a purchase. Then she pulls me close into an awkward hug, making sure she doesn't wrinkle her businesswoman's suit.

My mom makes a lot of money, and that's all she needs to be happy.

"I have a little surprise for you! We're going to spend two days in Paris . . . then three days in Brittany! That way you'll see the ocean!"

"I live by the ocean, mom. I see it when I open my blinds every morning. . ."

She shrugs her shoulders, too preoccupied by something else to justify herself, and starts walking toward the exit. She's going to drag me to Brittany for her job, I'd bet my life on it! My mother sees me for five days a year, but even during those five days, I'm not her priority. Weary but used to it, I follow her out, sniffing and pulling my thousand-pound suitcase behind me.

What the hell did I pack?

Once we're in the car – a shiny sedan she probably got from her boss, who appreciates her during and after business hours – I turn on the heat as high as it will go, which does not please her.

"You're going to make my makeup run!" she cries. "I work hard to stay young, you'll understand one day!"

"So it's better that I get sick, is that what you're saying? As long as you look ten years younger than you really are?"

"Ten years? That's all?"

Her sad little voice horrifies me and I turn my head to the window to watch the scenes roll by. Though there's nothing picturesque about the Parisian outer belt. Once we reach her apartment in the 4th arrondissement, I go stand by a heater and take off two of my four layers of clothing, perking myself up with a cup of black coffee. Marianne prepares a rejuvenating herbal tea for herself and slips out to make a quick phone call.

i.e.: she'll be back in 45 minutes.

I find my bedroom waiting for me, a light little room without much furniture, no photos on the wall, no personal touch. This is where I sleep every time I come. This is where I spend dreamless nights, waiting to go back to my real family.

Craig. Betty-Sue. The Keys.

I consider unpacking, but change my mind. I put my second sweater back on, my coat, scarf and hat and head outside to reunite with Paris: a city that fascinates me, despite the noise and pollution . . . and the proximity of my mother. I walk alone for a few hours, through little alleyways and along wide avenues. I go in a few shops and look at everything, but I don't buy anything. I smile at a few passersby and grimace at others, observing the happy faces just a few days before the holidays. And suddenly I really miss my dad.

Not to mention Tristan . . .

I walk back into the loft late in the afternoon. Marianne is defrosting some soup, still talking on the phone. She barely nods to me. I go shut myself in my room. My hard outer shell cracks sometimes. Seeing how little share cares about me being here hurts. A little. Just a little.

I'm digging through my suitcase to find another pair of socks when I notice five little packages wrapped up in my sweaters and jeans. They're all numbered, from one to five. I open the first one, thinking of my silly father thinking up his crazy idea.

Nope. I recognize Tristan's writing on the yellow post-it note stuck to his Led Zeppelin tee-shirt. On the little fluorescent square, he's written:

"I know I'm going to miss your scent. I hope the feeling is mutual . . ."

If he were sitting here right now, I'd probably already be teasing him about it. I wouldn't be able to resist. But I'm alone . . . and very touched. So surprised, so moved that I give in. I smile with tears in my eyes and bury my head into the cotton that smells like his deodorant, laundry detergent and his unique smell. Only his. After breathing in the drug for a few minutes, I look at the post-it again and see there's a second note:

"Five surprises for five days without me.

Don't cheat, Sawyer. Wait till tomorrow to open the next one . . .

In the meantime, wear my tee-shirt with nothing under it. That's an order."

I hear Marianne call from the other side of the wall, pulling me out of my daydream. I go out and eat with her, because I don't have a choice. Our discussion is limited to three topics: her "miracle" skincare products, her "captivating" work and the fact that people could easily mistake us for "sisters". I use jet lag as an excuse to go to bed before dessert. I slide between the sheets wearing just the tee-shirt of the boy I'm madly in love with.

That's not a secret anymore.

Without thinking what time it is in Key West, I decide to send him a selfie. I take a picture of myself on my bed, the tee-shirt clearly visible, lit by my bedside lamp. I can't decide whether I should smile seriously – too gushy – or make a silly face – too childish. I decide to stick my tongue out, just a little, smiling with my eyes.

"Compromise. That's what couples do, don't they?"

***

Day two in Paris. I brave the snowflakes and drizzle falling over the Marais as I listen to the little MP3 player that was in the second secret package. 30 tracks in all, 29 songs. The ones we both like, the ones we've fought about, the soundtrack to moments when we've hated each other, desired each other and tamed each other. Rock, some blues jazz and even some pop. Track number one – my favorite by far – is a recording of Tristan's deep, sensual voice, telling me to go check out a few record shops where his dad took him on their boys' trip to Paris. He was 14. It was just before his dad died.

If I believed in fairy tales, I'd say we'll go there together some day, the two of us . . .

But for now, I'll settle for a selfie in one of the stores he mentioned, my earbuds in my ears, winking at him to say thanks. A way to communicate the things I can't say.

Third morning. After a night filled with dreams of guitar chords and tight boxer briefs, we're heading to Brittany, the Morbihan area. Marianne drives carefully, her eyes on the road, as I snack on chocolate covered popcorn – one of my guilty pleasures and the contents of surprise package number three.

I take another photo of myself in the car, my mouth full and chocolate on my chin.

Too bad. Tristan asked me to let loose, right?

"We have four hours of driving left, you're going to have to talk to me, Liv . . ."

"What about?" I ask, surprised by her request.

"About you. Your life over there. Your boyfriend . . ."

"What boyfriend?"

"Oh don't take me for a fool! Who are you sending all these texts and photos to? And I can tell you've changed. You're more . . . womanly."

"And now that I'm a woman, you're taking an interest in me?"

I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but it came out on its own. My mom freezes and tightens her grip on the steering wheel. She doesn't say anything for a few long minutes. The tension is thick in the sedan.

"It's hard to pretend it doesn't exist," I say. "The distance between us. We're strangers really."

"You can barely manage to call me mom," Marianne murmurs.

"You don't want to be one."

"Is it your father who told you that?"

"No. I have 18 years of experience."

She sighs softly and I concentrate on the countryside. Tristan's popcorn is quickly consumed, just like my hope that this conversation would lead somewhere.

Over the next three days, I face the Breton cold and wind as I take long walks on the beach. Nature is king here, all-powerful. The water is dark and the tides capricious as they whip up waves full of foam that slam against the jagged rocks. I breathe in the pure salty air, filling my lungs. Marianne is very busy with work and I'm not angry with her. I think it may even be better this way: I have all my time to think of Tristan, wait for his replies without my mom noticing how nervous I am. I can laugh like a schoolgirl at the messages he sends and type frantically for hours, conversing with him. I admitted that my "vacation" was not turning out to be hell on earth. He proudly declared that it was thanks to him. I denied that statement vehemently, of course.

Up until now we hadn't really let ourselves send too many messages, being careful not to leave a trace on our phones, afraid we'd get caught by our parents. But the distance and missing each other changed everything. I was the first to cave. And I don't regret it.

Package number four contains yet another treasure. I let out a squeal of delight when I see the photo of the two of us. He took it without my knowing. You can only see our faces. I'm asleep and I look perfectly serene. He's smiling.

The night we spent in my bed . . .

Why do I look more beautiful when he's with me?

The last day of my exile in France, Marianne and I head back to Paris – to the airport, to be more exact. I shouldn't show it, or should try to hide it better, but I can't wait to get on a plane and go back to the US. The list of people I'm dying to see is not very long, but it doesn't matter. I finally feel in the Christmas spirit . . .

"I didn't know what to get you for Christmas, so you can do whatever you like with this," says my mom, handing me an envelope. "It's in two days, so you have to wait to open it! I'll call you in any case, it's our little tradition."

"Yes, thank you."

Two calls per year and a check, like every year since I was 12.

I sleep in the car and she talks on the phone or listens to the news. Once we're at the airport, we chat for a few minutes, force ourselves to smile and kiss goodbye before she leaves me to head to the check-in counter by myself. The fifth and final package from Tristan is in my purse. I was careful to save it for the plane.

It's the result of the blood tests we had done two weeks earlier. Surprised, I hold the pieces of paper to my chest, careful to hide them from the passenger next to me. That was the last thing I was expecting! My heartbeat accelerates and my brain overheats. I must be blushing. I finally dare to look at the pages again, careful to hide them from view, solemnly, as if my life depended on those several lines of text in bold. Everything is fine. Our tests came back negative. I want to cry out with joy, to celebrate a little victory in this overly complicated love story. I hold the paper against my pounding chest again. When I look for the third time, I see two big smiley faces in red ink at the bottom. And he's written:

"Just you wait, Sawyer . . ."