Forbidden Games

All the Doors Slam Shut

" . . .your darling little daughter . . .! . . .always comes first . . .! . . . incapable of loving anyone . . .!"

Sienna's angry words shake the house. Again. The parental pair doesn't just seem to be fizzling; they are going down in flames. For a few days now, my dad and my stepmom have been at war. While Tristan and I are somewhat responsible for the tension in the household, it's not like they waited for us to screw up to stop loving each other.

It's not even 7am yet. Sienna's rage is resonating through the kitchen, climbing the steps like a huge, deafening wave and crashing against the door to my room. I jump out of bed and hurry to the landing, my eyes barely open, but my heart racing. I hear my dad's reply, a calm but firm voice, almost unfeeling:

"Keep your voice down."

" . . .take your things . . .! If that's what you want! Vigliacco! . . . your cowardice . . . !"

My step mom's furious monologue continues and I catch bits and pieces with insults in Italian interjected here and there, as if she were too tormented to form a full, comprehensible sentence.

Upstairs, Tristan's door violently opens. I see him step out, still half asleep, his hair a mess. He walks quickly past me, his brow furrowed. The air in his wake is icy, giving me goosebumps. He goes straight to Harrison's room, leaving the door wide open as he bends over his brother. I see his large, graceful hand run through the bowl cut on the little innocent head. Harry sits up and reaches his arms up toward Tristan. Then they wrap themselves around each other.

Tristan's back is to me, dressed in a black tee-shirt and boxer briefs. Harry rests his head over one of the strong shoulders. He looks at me with his big blue eyes and I see fat tears rolling silently down his cheeks. My heart breaks.

After he cradles his little brother for a few minutes, Tristan puts him back to bed and closes the door. His stormy blue eyes finally meet mine. I see a mixture of anger and vulnerability, a cry for help and a threat of imminent explosion.

" . . .your responsibilities . . . di merda . . .! Be a man, Craig . . .!"

"Jesus, would you shut up?!" Tristan screams at his mother, leaning dangerously over the railing. "Your other son is scared to death up here, in case you forgot about him!"

Sienna's voice is suddenly cut short. And Tristan's torn voice resonates in the silence. We hear high heels pounding the wooden floor as she goes into the entry, picks up her purse and keys and slams the door behind her. My dad walks slowly up the stairs, his steps heavy and weary. He hasn't even reached the top when Tristan starts to attack:

"Why don't you make her shut up, damn it?!"

"I know you're angry. But let me handle this my way, Tristan. How is Harry?"

"Not good! You're not handling anything, Craig, you're just letting her get away with it!"

My dad opens his mouth to reply, but Tristan has already locked himself back in his room, slamming the door. I can't help but jump.

"We may need to move, Liv. The situation is becoming unbearable for everyone. I need to think about things."

"What do you mean?" I say, my voice trembling.

"I don't know," he sighs as he leaves to go console Harrison.

My dad's admission of powerlessness crackles in my heart. I imagine Tristan on his bed, his hands behind his head as he desperately searches the ceiling for a solution. Or maybe he's on his stomach, his head buried in the pillow to keep from screaming. I want to go to him and make myself a little place by his side, not saying a word. I just want to snuggle up against him and feel the beautiful heat between us. Instead, I go back to my room and sit on the floor with my back against the door. I have to try and weed through all the questions in my head.

Is my dad going to separate us?

Is he going to leave Sienna for good?

Are we going to move back to our old house, here in Key West?

Is he thinking of taking me back to France? As far away from Tristan Quinn as possible?

Will I be able to handle leaving this house? I know I've hated it since I moved here, but now . . . ?

Will I survive without him?

One night I dreamed that Sienna tore down the wall between our rooms and put up a deadly barbed wire fence in its place. My punishment was to see Tristan all the time; watch him sleep, get dressed, undressed, listen to him play the guitar, sing, talk on the phone and complain to everyone. Seeing how handsome, strong, sad, unbearable, fragile or terribly attractive he was. All of that without ever being able to get close to him.

My dad swore he didn't tell Sienna the secrets I shared with him – my feelings for Tristan, the fact that it meant something, that it still means something, more now than ever, despite the tangled mess we're in. I don't know if Sienna has stuck to the "it was just a mistake" version, but given the limited words and eye contact I share with her son, she has every reason to believe what we said. And given the limited words and eye contact she shares with her husband, I could say the same about their marriage – a mistake.

With Tristan, our feelings are as strong as ever, but it's more complicated than ever as well. We are officially in a living hell. When we're alone together, I feel strong, ready for anything. Our secret kisses make me wildly happy, and so crazy about him. Our glances make me believe anything is possible, that the storm will eventually blow over. But when I'm in public, my doubts take over. The mean looks people give me, their cruelty and shamelessness. Their constant judgments push me to the edge and make me keep my distance from him, even though it's the last thing I want. Gradually a mountain begins to rise between us, higher and higher, steeper and impossible to climb. And this distance makes me feel incredibly empty and dizzy. Yet it feels unavoidable. Almost like we deserve it. As if I had to pay. And yet, I don't feel guilty for loving him anymore.

So why close myself off? Why gradually shut down? It's like I want to disappear, just to get away from being an easy prey. Unlike Tristan, I can't stand people staring at me. I can't stand their insults and raunchy jokes, the whispering behind my back, the incessant, disapproving side glances, the disgusted expressions on their faces. Entire families who turn to watch me pass. Cars that honk at me. One day at the grocery store, a guy I vaguely knew in high school followed me through the aisles with a cucumber, whispering:

"You wanna taste, Sawyer? Or do you only eat what grows in your backyard?"

I threw a bottle of milk at his head and ran away so he wouldn't see me cry. Another time I ran into one of my old teachers in the street – A woman I'd always admired because she was intelligent and kind. She with an entire class of students, on their way to the museum or something. When they saw me, the teenagers started whistling, laughing and miming suggestive poses, yelling, "my brother, oh yeah, brother!" She made them cross over to the other sidewalk. As she brushed passed me, she muttered, "sorry," and then looked around to make sure no one saw her talk to me. I think I'd rather she ignored me.

At the library, when I was borrowing some books on real estate law for my classes, someone slipped another book into my pile: Incest: how to rebuild your life. At the bakery, they asked me if I wasn't ashamed to show my face after "everything." Clients refused to visit houses at the agency because they found out I'd be showing them around. Romeo came to my rescue. My dad kept telling me it wasn't my fault and that I shouldn't feel guilty about it. But I know that at least two sales were canceled due to the "bad reputation of Luxury Homes."

I tried so hard to not let it get to me. Until a final humiliation occurred. At the gas station, a guy in his thirties, wearing a wedding ring – which is an important detail – kindly offered me his help when he saw I was crying. I thought it was a real act of kindness. A chance meeting in my favor. An exception to the rule that would boost my confidence, or at least brighten my day. But the smiling man ended up propositioning me in a low voice, saying he'd like to "put his nozzle in my tank, if you know what I mean." I knew exactly what he meant, so I got back in my car. He added:

"If you can do it with your brother, a married guy shouldn't be an issue!"

I almost had an accident on the way home, I was crying so much I could barely see the road. So I decided not to go out anymore, ever. Online classes and books purchased online. A little bit of admin work for the agency, then back home. Bonnie and Fergus come hang out in my room. A few lazy games with Harry in the backyard – never out front where someone could see me from the street. Long conversations with Betty Sue over the phone. She even lets me talk to her four-legged friends so I can hear the pig's cute squealing and the cats' meowing – or hissing when she gets too close to them. And then the inaudible sound of the baby pelican asking to be fed.

My grandmother is the only one who can make me smile.

"Sawyer, can you hear me?" Tristan's muffled voice calls through the wall one night.

I thought no one was home. My book falls out of my hands onto the floor, the pages splaying out underneath the heavy cover. I don't bother picking it up.

"Am I imagining things or did you just throw something at my head?"

"No . . ."

"So you can hear me, then?"

"Yes . . ."

"You know what day it is?"

" . . ."

"February 14th."

" . . ."

"It's fucking Valentine's Day, Sawyer! Even Craig and Sienna went out!"

"Together?!"

"No idea. But they took Harry."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because we haven't spoken to each other since . . . Since when?"

"Since forever . . . " I murmur to myself.

"I didn't hear you."

"I know."

"No one's home and we're still talking through this damn wall!" he says, annoyed.

"Come here, then," I whisper, not daring to talk any louder.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't you miss me?"

His question is like a sharp knife stabbing straight through my heart. But his deep voice wraps me in a kind of warmth. It's like I can feel each of my cells waking up, coming back to life. But I don't want to believe what I hear. I don't want to fall into the trap. The impossible love story. Hoping for something else.

"What's that got to do with Valentine's Day, Quinn?" I ask, sighing.

"I couldn't care less about this stupid holiday! And neither could you. We never would have gone out to celebrate, if we were together, if we were free, in another life. But that's just it, we're not together! We're not free. And I don't even know why! It's driving me insane, Liv! All we have to do is decide to be together. Go out for a drink, eat out, like normal people do. Show all those idiots they can go on thinking whatever they want, saying whatever they want, spray paint our house – it won't change what's happening here. To you and me."

I race to the door of his room, pulled in by the power of his magnetic voice, comforted by his certainty, fascinated by his strength of character, believing everything is possible. Transformed by some feeling that's much stronger and bigger than me.

"I'm warning you, I won't change."

Tristan looks at my ragged-edge jean shorts, my plain, blue and white striped tee-shirt and my messy ponytail. He smiles. I suddenly feel less confident. He comes closer, that damn dimple in his cheek. A spark of joy and mischief shines in his eyes.

"Just this, then," he says, gently pulling the elastic band from my hair to release it.

"You and your argumentative nature," I say, amused.

He rearranges my tangled locks and then holds my face in his hands, kissing me.

I feel like I could die of happiness, as if some amazing doctor just found the cure to my disease.

***

A few minutes later, we walk side by side along the road toward town. We ignore the honking horns and the horrible things people yell from their open windows – such cowards. But my heart is pounding. When we get to the Dirty Club, Tristan asks, "Ready?" I say no, but we go in anyway. He slides his warm hand under my hair, placing it on my neck, as if to reassure me of his presence, that he can protect me. He picks a little table near the wall, sits down to face the crowd and leaves me the "good" spot, where I can turn away from prying eyes. Then he leans in to say, over the loud music:

"Can you believe so many idiots go out for Valentine's Day? Even the coolest kids. The hard asses."

"It's like the whole city is here."

"That's what we wanted, right? To show them all!"

"I'm begging you, don't kiss me!"

"OK, I'll get you drunk first."

His mischievous smile is contagious. He leaves for a minute to go to the bar, whispering, "I won't be far away." It's the first time in my life that I've hated being alone, that it seemed so dangerous. Then Tristan comes back with two beers. He sinks into his chair and hands me a glass so we can clink them together. He's gorgeous in his dark gray tee. That face that's so audacious and provocative. His body language so sexy and nonchalant and yet a little unyielding at the same time.

"It's going pretty well, right?"

"I don't know. How many people are making obscene gestures behind my back?"

"Just three or four," he says, smiling at someone behind me as he flicks them off.

"Why are we doing this to ourselves?"

"Because we're not doing anything wrong! We're having a beer in a bar! And screw them, Liv!"

"You need help!" someone says from the back of the room.

"Should we leave?" I say right away.

"No, they'll get bored eventually."

"There are five guys in the Key Whys, Sawyer. Couldn't you have picked a different one?" says a female voice.

"Don't turn around, ignore her," Tristan says, clenching his teeth.

"I was allowed to sleep with him, not you!" says another desperate groupie.

"Too bad for you, Kayla!" he says, shrugging his shoulders.

"You're seriously fucked up!"

"You're disgusting!"

The insults continue to fly behind me. The yelling grows louder, higher, more and more agitated. The whistles and booing rain down over us, stinging my ears. It's crazy how human beings love the mob mentality, how they need noise and other people to raise their voices, as if they were ready to jump into the first fight they came across. It just took one person to start in for all the others to jump on board. My heart is racing and my head is pounding. Tristan finally stands up, knocking over the table, along with our beers, and screams up toward the ceiling:

"What's your fucking problem?! Why doesn't someone come tell me to my face?!"

He clenches his fists and my first reflex is to go restrain him. I wrap my arms around his waist, pressed against his back and pull him toward me, begging him to stop, to get out. Then the owner of the club comes and stands between Tristan and his adversaries, asking us to leave before things go downhill. On our way out, the burly boss whispers that he knows very well that I'm not 21 and I shouldn't be drinking so I better hurry up. This new attack cuts through my last barriers. Tristan's enraged, muscular body escapes me and I race to the exit, humiliated, panicked and overheated. The door slams behind me. The noise has finally stopped. I continue running in the street, letting the cool breeze slap my cheeks and calm my boiling blood. And the adrenaline in my veins keeps me from crying, or even thinking.

"You running away again, Sawyer!? Why are you running from me?!"

Tristan's hoarse voice rips through the night. I stop short and he catches up to me on the sidewalk. Then he pulls away, walking backwards on the street, pulling on the neck of his tee-shirt as if he were having trouble breathing. His mussed hair and the features of his beautiful face are contorted. The hurt on his face kills me. But it's not as bad as the words he says, his voice desperate:

"Why did you do that? Why don't you face them with me?"

"I can't . . . I'm not as strong as you are."

"But I want to help you! Be there for you! Protect you from all those bastards. I want to be your shoulder, your energy, your armor, anything you need! We're only stronger than them if we stick together!"

"We tried, Tristan. I came with you. We pretended we were the couple that couldn't care less, that was above all that, and it didn't work. They won't stop until they've destroyed us."

"And you're not even going to defend us! As soon as it gets hard, you hit the road! You leave me to fight by myself, for both of us, like . . ."

"Like what?"

"Like it didn't matter!"

"You don't mean that."

I stare defiantly into his eyes, wanting him to know how untrue that is. I ignore the tears forming under my eyelids, keeping my eyes locked with his. But his blue irises look away. He looks across the concrete that separates us.

"Yes, Liv," he sighs, his voice almost a whisper. "I always put you first. You protect yourself. You save your skin instead of saving ours. What people think, the image they have of you, your fears . . . all of that is more important to you than us."

Tristan stops and lets go of his wrinkled tee-shirt, looking up at the dark blue sky. I follow his line of sight without thinking, as if the solution could be found up there. As if I could hold onto this connection between us, just by looking up at the same stupid star. But he finally says:

"I was so stupid . . . to believe you were different. That we were different. Better than all the others! That I'd found my alter ego. Jesus, how could I have believed in all that soul mate shit, even for a minute?"

He keeps his head tilted back. I don't know if he's crying or smiling in that bitter way I hate. I can only see his Adam's apple, piercing through his skin. Like a sword right through my heart.

Then he turns around. His body tightens and he walks away, down the middle of the road. He shoves his fists into his pockets. His slow, gracefully walk carries him far from me. He becomes blurry, the lines of his silhouette grayed by my tears.

Did I just lose him?

For good?