Forbidden Games

Coming Clean

"Don't move, Sawyer . . . and don't start thinking. You're not allowed to ruin this moment."

Tristan wraps his arms around me, strong, warm and reassuring. There are no comforters, sheets or clothes covering our bodies. Just the half-darkness. And neither of us is thinking about hiding our bodies. We don't want to interrupt this sacred moment, whether out of modesty or pride. I feel incredibly serene and light. But I'm not floating. I'm anchored here, against his body, in this life. My exhausted body rests lazily in his arms, as if it had found where it belongs and could just let go. I turn just a little to sink into the sweet sleepiness, my back against his torso and my butt against his . . .

"Don't even think of getting out of my bed!"

"Geez, you're not getting possessive are you, Quinn!?"I tease, biting his biceps. "I'm not about to go anywhere."

"I just wanted to check," he whispers, feigning indifference.

"I'll go back to my bed though, before . . ."

"Shhh!"

Tristan lets out a manly, angry growl, then presses his hand over my mouth.

"I know they'll be home eventually. I know they can't find us here together, naked. But Sienna is married to her hotel. She'll be back late or maybe even tomorrow morning. And your dad said he was going to enjoy smoking all the cigarettes he wanted and having a good time with his buddies."

"I know all that, Tristan. I have a very talented informant!" I say happily.

"Hmm . . . long gray hair, rainbow dresses, comes sniffing around for information, pretending she's just passing through?"

"Alright, I have the most obvious informant in town!" I realize.

"But the best grandma on the planet," he smiles.

I turn around to face him. I slide one arm under the pillow we're sharing. I rest my head on his shoulder and slide my bare leg between his. I could lie here forever. I can't get enough of him – his messy brown hair, his soft, tan skin, his delicate features contrasted against his manly, square jaw, his straight, proud nose, that arrogant upper lip when he smiles, his sensual, irresistible lower lip . . . I look into his blue, piercing eyes. He's disarming.

"Have I told you you're the most unpredictable guy I've ever met? I never know if you're going to crack a joke, whisper dirty things or say the sweetest thing I've ever heard."

"Yeah, I gathered that you liked me, with your cardboard signs and everything . . ." he sighs with a smile. "But I've never actually heard you say what you wrote."

His shining eyes have just challenged me. And my heart skips a beat. My hand strokes his cheek, my thumb presses into his dimple and my lips shyly part, hesitating.

"I won't tell another soul," he murmurs, so close to my mouth.

"I love you . . ."

It was time to say it. My voice is extremely quiet, but it did make its way through the silence, here in the dark. He smiles and kisses me, pleased to have gotten what he wanted. I kiss him back, incredibly happy and relieved, as if I had just confessed something that had been weighing on me.

And I may be even more in love with him now that I've said it.

Then he breaks off our kiss, too soon. The smile leaves his beautiful face. He darkens all of a sudden. He sits up slightly and puts his index finger to my lips. I now hear the strange noise that made him jump. It's on the steps. My heart stops.

"What time is it?!"

"After midnight."

"Your dad wouldn't be back so soon."

"A burglar?"

"No, Sawyer!" he says, furrowing his brow.

"I have to hide, then!"

"Wait . . ."

"It's either my dad or your mom, Tristan . . ."

"I'll go see."

"No! Don't leave me!"

I hold onto his arm, cold and scared to death. The floor creaks and stops my protesting.

"There's definitely someone there," I whisper, clutching my arms to stop myself from shaking.

"Get dressed!"

He throws on his clothes and I do the same. Then he tames my messy hair and rests his big hand on my neck, like he does every time I need to be comforted by his presence, warmth and confidence. After a long silence, the front door opens and closes.

"Stay here . . ."

He runs his hand briskly through his hair, then slips out of his room gracefully, barefoot and as quiet as a cat. It feels like he's been gone for ages. But he comes back a few seconds later, nonchalant, his deep voice whispering:

"No one's there."

"You sure?!"

"Wait, I'll just check that Harry didn't get out of bed."

I follow him down the dark hall, trying to understand where the noise could have come from. We weren't dreaming. And there are goosebumps all over my skin.

"He's not there, Liv! Harry's not in his bed!"

Tristan's voice breaks as he starts running around like a crazy person. He opens all the doors upstairs, slamming them as he yells for his brother. I hurry downstairs and do the same thing. But I can already feel a dark helplessness settling in. The kitchen, living room, den and bathrooms are all empty. The house is big, but not that big. I think I must have been through every room at least three times. I scream Harry's name over and over. I go back and check again. Tristan rushes out of the safe room, about to explode.

"Where is he, damn it?!"

He starts opening closets, pulling out chairs, lying down to look under furniture, checking behind cushions, curtains, checking every nook and cranny. I follow his lead, as if there were some spots I might have forgotten. I look in places that a three-year-old could never actually hide. I feel useless, empty and frozen. But I'm so desperate I keep looking.

Then Tristan stops and looks at me. A spark shoots through his blue eyes, now wide awake. He rushes out into the yard. "Harry!" The word resonates through the night, like a long sob. I follow Tristan outside, praying the little guy just had a craving for his skateboard in the middle of the night. And that this hell will end now.

"Hey, you!" Tristan calls out to a short, slim shadow, standing behind the gate.

The person starts to run.

"Stop!" he screams, as if it would help.

Tristan starts chasing the person, twenty or thirty yards ahead. The shadow runs under a lamp post and I notice his red hair. Not strawberry blond or coppery brown, but orange. Bright orange. Irish. Like no other.

"Fergus?!"

My high-pitched yelp doesn't reach Tristan or the person he's chasing. I feel like the earth is splitting in two beneath my feet. I can't take it in.

"Did you see who it was?!" Tristan says as he comes back to the yard, panting, his skin glistening with sweat and terror in his eyes.

"Yes . . . You couldn't catch him?"

"No, Liv! I lost the bastard!"

"Tris–"

"Call him!"

"He'd never hurt Harry, you know that. And he wasn't in the yard, he was behind the gate. He never came into the house . . ."

"What the hell was he doing here?!"

"I don't know . . . He's my best friend. He would never do anything."

"So why was he running? Why didn't he stop, damn it?!"

Tristan kicks the gate in rage. I don't want to leave him by himself. My brain is a jumble: take care of him? Call Fergie? Keep looking for Harry? I end up going to get my phone upstairs, and run back down, the phone to my ear. It rings and rings, but no one picks up. I call him three times, six times, ten times. The 11th time I get his voice mail. It takes all the strength I have not to throw my phone against the wall. A tiny doubt begins to form in my mind.

Could it just have been a coincidence?

What could Fergus O'Reilly possibly want with Harrison Quinn?

What's the link between my best guy friend, who wouldn't hurt a fly – and may even be afraid of one – and a little innocent three-year-old boy, as much of a coward as he is?

And why can't we fucking find him?!

I find a flashlight in a kitchen drawer and go back out to the street. Tristan follows.

"If Harry is here, he can't have gone far."

"What, you think he ran away?!"

"I have no idea! Maybe he just went out for a walk."

"All alone?! At this time of night?!"

"Or maybe he had a nightmare! Or he was afraid of something and wanted to escape . . ."

"He would have come see me, Liv!" Tristan grumbles, as if I had questioned his role as the big brother.

"We have to keep looking!" I yell, feeling my nerves begin to go.

"And Fergus?!" he suddenly remembers. "What was he doing behind the gate?! And why did he run away?"

"I don't know," I say, shaking.

"And what do you mean, 'if Harry is here'?! What's that supposed to mean? That maybe he's gone? That someone took him? Kidnapped him? Or worse?"

Tristan is shouting, as if I these possibilities are totally unthinkable. He runs both hands through his hair and turns around, then sets off for the house again. I want to believe him. I really want Harrison to just be hiding somewhere. I run to join him. He comes in from the backyard looking haggard and lost.

"He knows he's not allowed to go near the pool," I say softly. "And the gate is still closed."

I'm immediately annoyed at my comment. It's pointless. It doesn't help. I'm angry I have nothing better to say to comfort him or help him, to try and understand what might have happened.

"He knows everything, Liv. Harry has never misbehaved in his life. Ever. He's the only kid in the world who follows the rules, who listens to what you tell him, who never does anything bad, crazy or worrisome. He's so well-behaved, so serious and responsible. So much more than I am. So why isn't he here?"

Sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, Tristan crumples. His voice is distant and makes me shiver. His desperate eyes break my heart. It's like all the misfortune in the world has come to rest on his broad shoulders, shaking with sobs. I go to him and take his head in my arms. He buries his face against my stomach and stifles his cries.

It hurts so much to see him like this.

"We have to call the police," I whisper once he's calmed down.

"I'll kill him. Whoever took my brother, I'll kill him. And if it's that damn Fergus, I'll torture him first. He'll suffer more than . . ."

His jaws tighten and a fat vein pulses at his temple. I keep stroking his hair. I try to comfort him, as best I can, to absorb his anger and pain, and forget my own. To take control of the situation for once. To live up to his example. I'm convinced Fergus is not involved. The gate code is changed every week now, since the graffiti artist broke in, and I haven't given the latest combination to anyone. It can't be him. So is it someone else?

"You have to call your mom, Tristan. And I'll call my dad. We can't wait any longer. We can't keep this from them."

He silently agrees, gets up and closes his eyes as if he were dizzy, then wipes his face with his arm as if he had never been crying. He puts one hand in mine and pulls his phone out of his pocket with the other. I dial 911 while he calls Sienna. His fingers grip mine tightly. I hear him beg his mother to come home, without telling her why. I'm put on hold. I wait a few more minutes and then I can't take it anymore. I hang up to call my dad. He immediately understands that something is wrong. I tell him the truth, everything I know. He asks me to stay put and promises he'll get here as fast as he can. He'll call the police on his way over. What about Tristan and me? We should stay here, in the house, hoping the little boy and his alligator will show up.

When we hang up, our hands are still tightly linked. We sit next to each other on the steps.

"I should have checked sooner, as soon as we heard the noise," he sighs. "I waited too long . . ."

"I'm the one who held you back. I was scared . . ."

"I didn't believe you when you talked about a burglar."

"Because you were trying to comfort me . . ."

"Harry was my responsibility. It was the only important thing I had to do – watch over him. And instead, I . . ."

"Spent the night with me. Because I invited myself into your bed," I stutter, overcome with guilt.

"It's not your fault," he says, clenching his teeth.

"We'll find him," I say quietly, feeling tears rise.

An SUV slams on its brakes in front of the gate. My dad comes running into the house, a wave of cold, tobacco-scented air behind him. He comes over to us, out of breath. He explains that he called the police and mentioned Fergus running away. A patrol car is on its way over. Then he's quiet. He looks at us, from one to the other. There's profound sadness in his eyes, but no sign of anger or blame. I see only love, compassion and poorly-hidden anxiety.

Without letting go of Tristan's hand, I rush into my dad's arms. He hugs me. Almost cradles me, touching my hair gently. My arm is still stretched backward, holding onto the one I love. And the one I so badly want to share some of this paternal affection with, some of this comfort, even if it just temporary.

As if he could read my mind, Craig reaches out his hand to invite Tristan into our embrace. I feel him move, he stands up and lets out a hoarse sigh, as if just moving were painful. He steps down from the stairs as if it were a huge crevasse he had to cross. Then he slams into my dad's shoulder and lets go. Finally.

"What have I done, Craig?!"

"You haven't done anything," my dad reassures him firmly. "You haven't done anything wrong, either of you."

He wraps his arms around us. His hands are on our heads. And an image comes to mind, tender and cruel: Harrison curled up against his brother, his skinny little legs wrapped around Tristan's waist and his head on his shoulder. His favorite position – the place he feels safest.

"Where is he, Dad?" I sniffle. "He must be so scared . . ."

"We're going to find him," my dad says, just like I told Tristan earlier.

"What is going on?" Sienna angrily interrupts.

Tristan backs up, as if being caught in a moment of weakness was a crime, a forbidden embrace. Except this time I wasn't the one he was embracing. It was his stepdad, the only adult he can stand. Through the living room window, far down the street, we see blue lights flashing. And the sirens are growing louder.

"Mom . . ."

"What is she doing here?"

"Mom, listen to me . . ."

"Why are you all here, in the middle of the night?"

There's a mixture of confusion and anger on her face. As if she had just shown up to a party she wasn't invited to, but that is happening in her own house. As if we were all ganging up against her. As if we had finally decided to love each other, without her. And the cops are coming to arrest her and throw her out of this house. Her house. Out of this "family" she had dreamed about.

My stepmom seems to be thinking fast, not sure whether she should be angry at us for excluding her or beg us to include her. Her distress is sincere and touching. But I realize that out of all the horrible things she may be imagining, she hasn't thought of the worst possible thing. The truth.

"Harry's gone."

I wish he'd waited just one more second. But it was time to come out with it. Tristan's deep voice breaks the silence. Forever. And our hearts break with it.