Forbidden Games

A Fine Mess

That amazing kiss . . . the screen going up . . . Tristan and me, trapped, in front of all of those horrified faces.

If only I could erase that image. Tear it out of my mind, where it's taken root forever.

Sienna is furious. The brunette hurricane is humiliated by our sin and rips through the crowd in the country club, ordering us to follow her in an icy voice. Tristan obeys, jumping to his feet and holding out his hand as if to encourage me, with a serious and protective look in his eye. My heart tells me to trust him, to believe in him, in us, but I stand there motionless, unable to move. The whispers in the crowd grow louder. Craig steps in, making his way to me under the accusing eyes of onlookers, and he gently takes my wrist, convincing me to follow him to the parking lot. I finally get my legs to work, but I can't speak.

A deadly silence falls over the car. I fight back my tears and feel like I'm in another world. Harry quickly falls asleep, tucked into his car seat. Tristan is facing away from me, his broad shoulders forming a barrier between us. When I get out of the SUV, I realize the worst is yet to come.

"Not only did you two ruin my award ceremony! You had to make it so I'll NEVER leave the house again. I've never been more ashamed in my life."

Sienna's screaming echoes through the house for a good hour. My dad is silent, looking out the window as his wife continues to yell, showing no sign of stopping. Despite the ringing in my ears, despite everything I can't stand about her, I still feel guilty. I'm angry with myself for ruining her evening. I'm mad that I've disappointed my father, made a spectacle of myself, dirtied the perfect family portrait. And subjected Tristan to all of it. But more than anything, I'm angry with myself for falling in love with the only boy I'm not allowed to love. "Not allowed." It's what they all must be thinking. And I had just managed, or almost managed, to tell him I loved him. It feels like we're back to base one.

Tristan hasn't looked at me or said a word since we left the country club. His eyes are hard and he seems untouchable. He's staring at the dark television screen, as if he could escape by diving into it.

I know exactly how he feels . . .

And Sienna is still raging as she paces around me:

"Say something, damn it! You owe us at least that much! Craig, do something! Do you understand what they've done?"

"Was it just a kiss?" my dad suddenly asks, seeming weary, looking away. "Just one. Nothing more?"

I'm exhausted. Tired of lying, playing a role, tired of hiding. I'm about to confess everything, when Tristan finally turns toward me. My heart stops and I realize he's not the same. Our bubble, our serenity, our osmosis really, really just exploded. Did we really come all this way for nothing? His arms are crossed, his jaw tight. He stares at me with a certain hint of softness. I was expecting him to be angry or distrustful. But I was wrong.

He seems to understand that I'm about to tell all. It's like he can see the distress in my eyes. And with a tiny movement of his head, he tells me no. He stops me from doing it. I'm not sure I understand why. I feel lost. A tear rolls down my cheek and Tristan turns away, taking control of the situation. His husky voice comes to my rescue.

"It was a mistake," he whispers to my dad. "I'm sorry for what happened. I'm the one responsible. Don't be too hard on Liv. It won't happen again. Ever."

My heart breaks into a million pieces. I know he doesn't really believe what he's saying. I know he's just trying to get us out of this black hole, but I can't just stand here and pretend anymore. I have to get out of here. Once I get to my room, I let myself sob, all night long.

***

The news spread throughout the island in less than 24 hours.

Bonnie and Fergus showed up the next day and Tristan was nowhere to be found. He seemed determined not to run into me or speak to me. The house is deserted. But it's about time I spilled my guts. My best friends got the whole story, the entire Tristan and Liv saga, from the start. Bonnie was furious and Fergus in total shock. They were both convinced I hated Tristan. They were disappointed that I lied to them for so long. But then they slowly came around to the idea, though obviously a difficult concept for them. I'm sure my non-stop flow of tears helped them drum up some compassion. After asking about a million questions, Bonnie concluded that as my best friend, she should have known. Fergus just sighed, lamenting that he was officially the last loser of the bunch. And we all agreed: no talking about any of it again until I have a chance to see things more clearly. And until life is back to normal.

Does he feel this emptiness inside too?

Going to the beach with my two best friends and leaving the villa is like torture. I have to confront the stares, people's knowing smiles and hasty judgments. Paranoid or not, it feels like nothing is the same as before.

"Just dye your hair and get a boob job. They'll think nothing of it," Fergus says as he slathers his pale, freckled body with SPF 50.

Bonnie glares at him and props her sunglasses up on her head.

"No one is looking at you, Liv, it's in your head."

"What's that then?" I grumble.

I point to the group of guys just a few yards away, and more specifically at the short brown-haired one who is taking a photo of me as he laughs.

"Fuck off, vultures!"

Bonnie rushes toward them yelling and waving her straw hat in the air. I gather my things, determined to go back to my hiding place. At this point, nothing could comfort me, except maybe Tristan's arms. But they're not open to welcome me anymore. I lost that privilege when I kissed him in front of everyone. And now we have to pretend more than ever. Never get close to each other. Pretend we hate each other again. And run away so we don't slip up again.

"Liv, stay with us," Fergus smiles sadly. "Things are going to be tough for a while, but it'll all settle down soon. People will find something new to latch onto in a couple of days. Look, Bonnie and I accepted the situation; it'll be the same for everyone else."

"Thanks . . . for understanding . . ."

I clench my fists and bite my lip. I'm determined not to cry. I stare out at the ocean. The water is especially clear today and, despite a few clouds, the sun is lazily reflecting off the surface. But this sudden serenity is quickly interrupted by the diva who is back, loud as ever and out of breath:

"That nosy bastard got what was coming to him! I went after him a little too forcefully and my bikini top slipped."

"I hope he captured the Kodak moment!" laughs the only male member of our little group.

"Yeah, me too . . ." she smiles rebelliously.

The sun is dipping lower in the sky when I hop out of Bonnie's car and walk through the front gate of the house. Before I've even crossed the yard, I can hear Sienna's unrelenting voice. I accelerate, sensing the urgency, and once I'm on the driveway, I stare at the same thing she's looking at, next to the double garage doors. My blood runs cold. In big, dripping black letters, someone has painted the word, "INCEST."

"I've worked so hard, my whole life, to get where I am today," my stepmother complains. "People respect me, fear me . . ."

She's talking to herself, her voice trembling as she stares at the spray-painted message. This new terrifying accusation is making me feel like I'm dying inside – a slow, painful death. The entire city must be thinking the horrible thing that someone has just painted on this wall.

Did Tristan see it? Did it make him crazy?

"How did they get in the gate?" I murmur, as if to myself.

I'm in shock. Lost in thought, Sienna turns around and finally notices me. It's like she's possessed. Her eyes narrow and her mouth opens wide as she barks:

"Clean it up, now! I want it gone, even if it takes you all night! And I swear, if you and Tristan make this situation any worse, you can find yourselves a new place to live!"

"That would basically be a blessing . . ."

My sudden rebellion does not go unnoticed. My last remark makes her even more furious, but she storms off instead of prolonging the conversation. I drop my beach bag on the ground and go find a bucket of water, a scrub brush and some detergent. I head back to the yard and start scrubbing the rough surface until each of my fingers is red and aching. I take a step back and realize I haven't even reached the end of the second letter. I start crying yet again, this time out of frustration and solitude, and just because I miss him.

Tristan, help me . . .

Not seeing I have much choice, I get back to work. I don't even notice the figure behind me.

"A little higher to the right, Sawyer . . ."

His voice, so deep and serious, makes me jump. I drop the brush and turn around, my eyes full of tears:

"You think this is funny?"

Tristan stands there motionless, staring at me with a strange look in his eyes. Something is bothering him. Something besides this disgusting graffiti.

"Why are you crying, Liv? Talk to me . . ."

A thousand-pound weight is lodged in my chest.

Because since I fell in love with you, everything has been a disaster?

Because I'm dying to touch your mouth, your skin, your soul, despite how much it could cost me?

"I don't know. Because of this," I say, pointing to the paint. "Come help me."

My sniffling voice is too weak to be convincing. But I can't tell him what I was just thinking. It hurts too much. I pick up the brush and turn to face the wall so as to avoid looking him in the eye – he's not stupid.

"I did it for you, Liv. Telling Craig and Sienna it was a mistake. To keep you from confessing everything."

"But why? I thought that's what you were waiting for!" I say, turning back to face him.

"Because you weren't ready."

" . . ."

"The day you tell them the truth, I want you to do it with pride. Not because your dad had you up against a wall."

"I am proud to be with you, Tristan. I have faith in us. I'm just scared . . . of everything," I murmur.

"So I'm going to teach you how to stop being afraid. It'll take some time, but until then, don't run away from me," he sighs as he comes closer. "Jesus, Liv, stay with me. We have to face this hell together."

His voice is so low and deep, I can barely hear him. His lips are dangerously close to mine, and his hand moves to take the brush, forcing me to drop it. With my back to the wall, I give myself over to a moment of weakness. His shining eyes are an invitation to commit another crime, as is his confidence, that mussed hair, the parted lips, his warm breath, tan skin and intoxicating scent . . . So I tell all the voices in my head to shut up and kiss him savagely. My lips meet his and I taste him, devour him, and for a few seconds, I'm flying. I'm free. Alive.

But the kiss ends too quickly, too suddenly, when Tristan pulls back and picks up the scrub brush. His long, muscular arm stretches out and begins scrubbing the wall with determination, not paying attention to me or my chaotic breathing and frustration.

But not even Tristan can ignore Betty Sue's yelling. Running up to us from the gate, the hippie waves her arms up and down:

"Ah, there you two are," she cries. "I was afraid you'd be locked up in the dungeon . . . What is that nonsense on the wall?! CEST? It's nonsense!" she says, pretending she doesn't understand.

"What's with the tee-shirt?" Tristan laughs.

Surprised by her whirlwind entrance, I didn't notice what she was wearing. An oversized black tee-shirt with multi-colored letters scribbled over it: "Romeo and Juliette were innocent, too . . ."

I crack up laughing and squeeze my grandma in my arms, holding on a little longer than usual. Stupid tears.

"It'll be okay, sweetie," she whispers. "When you really love each other, you can face anything . . ."

I jump and turn to face Tristan, hoping he hasn't heard her. No such luck: just before he turns back to the wall, I think I see that dimple sink into his cheek.

"Mama Montague and Papa Capulet aren't being too hard on you, I hope?"

"Sienna can't stop yelling at nothing," Tristan explains, still scrubbing. "Craig is more careful. He's watching. I think he's worried about Liv, but he's trying not to smother us with all the questions that must be running through his head."

"Did you tell them everything?"

"Not yet," I say, looking down. "Soon."

Betty Sue looks at me with kindness, understanding the war I'm waging within.

"What about Harry?"

"Harry is the smartest out of all of us," says Tristan, reaching up to the top of the letters. "I think he's known what was going on for a long time already."

As he goes to work on the last letter, his voice is deep and jerky from physical exertion. It's like a balm to my soul, so in need of comfort right now. I realize I'm almost ready. That he is more important to me than everything else. My quiet little life, my reputation or my pride. Tristan is worth fighting for. We are worth fighting for.

But how do I fight without hurting my dad in the process?

***

Craig hasn't talked to me much since the incident at the country club. He's not exactly cold or angry, just not as present. He often seems distracted. He doesn't joke as much as usual. It's not horrible, but it's been going on for three weeks – three weeks that Tristan and I have been seeing each other in secret to protect everyone, including ourselves. But it has to stop. I miss my dad. The secret is weighing on me. The distance between us is unbearable.

That's why I head to his office one Sunday afternoon, a disgusting green slushie in hand like a peace offering.

"Craig Sawyer, we need to talk!"

I was trying to sound dramatic and confident, but the words came out in a trembling, high-pitched squeak.

"Liv? It's your day off . . ."

"I don't need a contract to come spend time with you."

"Good to know, he says, smiling."

My heart lifts slightly and I slide the chemical concoction over to him. He takes a few sips, sighing happily.

"I've missed you, Dad."

"I didn't go anywhere . . ."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. I've missed you too, Green Olive."

I sit down in the chair facing his and start to fiddle with a sheet of paper lying on the desk.

"Been a rough two weeks?"

"Fewer buyers, but nothing serious."

"Is it my fault? People not wanting to do business with you because . . . of me?"

"Don't beat yourself up, Liv."

"I'm sorry, Dad," I mutter, my throat tightening.

He stands up and walks around the desk to sit next to me. He places his huge hand over mine, which looks so small in comparison. He says softly:

"You don't have to apologize, sweetie, you've done enough of that."

Guilt rises up inside me again and I can't hold back the confession that is on the tip of my tongue.

"I didn't tell you everything. About me and Tristan . . ."

"I know."

My breath hitches.

"What do you mean?"

"Both of you are terrible actors. I simply had to open my eyes. These kinds of things are obvious. I don't know how I could have ignored it for so long."

"I've tried to fight my feelings for him, but they just keep growing," I sob, hiding my face in my hands. "And I don't want to fight anymore. I want to be allowed to love him . . ."

My dad wraps his arms around me, hugging me tightly. It's his way of telling me he'll always be there. No matter the choices I make, the mistakes or missteps. Always there.

"I love you so much, Green Olive," he whispers in my ear. "That will never change."

"I just wish all of this were easier . . ."

Craig sits up and looks at me, a loving smile on his face.

"I'm not the smartest man alive, but I don't think life was meant to be easy. Sometimes the messier, more unpredictable and different, the more beautiful it is."

I sniffle, wipe my tears and grab the slushie to take a drink. My dad looks at me, still smiling. The real Craig is back.

"Make the right choices, Liv, that's all I can say. Your life belongs to you."

Tristan! I choose Tristan!!

It's not our fault we love each other . . .