Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  My mind flashed the memory of Mom throwing Lenny across the room, his body hitting the wall with a thud, blood smears on the white paint as his limp form slid to the floor. Two minutes before, he’d tried to kiss me. I was twelve. “Don’t worry, he’s not dead,” she had said once we were in the car, driving to a new city. I shuddered at the memory. He was seedy and vile and, if they were related, it would explain her reaction to seeing Tristan. It would also explain his non-reaction when Mom said I was her daughter.

  But why did they hide this from me? Why all the secrets?

  The phone’s ringing startled me out of my thoughts and I blinked in the near darkness that filled the room—I’d lain there long enough for the sun to move to the west side of the house. I searched blindly for the phone on the end table.

  “Hello?” My voice sounded rough, thick from the big lump in my throat.

  “Is it safe?” Tristan’s lovely voice. “From Sophia, I mean.”

  I didn’t know what to say at first and briefly considered lying, but there was no point. After all, I hid just as much as he did, probably more. Besides, if my theory was correct, it wasn’t fair for us to hold Lenny or anyone else against him. And whatever Mom was so concerned about, it couldn’t be too bad—she’d made it clear to him she was leaving me home alone.

  “Yeah. Actually, she’s gone for the weekend.”

  “Ah.” The line fell silent for a moment, then, “Would you like to go to the beach with me? The sun will be setting soon.”

  Such a banal question. He wasn’t asking me to go clubbing or jump in bed with him. He asked me to go to the beach and watch the sun set. So insipid it was almost clichÉ.

  But, for me, it was the question of my life. At least to this point of it. Tristan had asked me out. Asked me out! Well, sort of. Close enough. It was certainly a step in a new direction from hanging out on campus and running into each other around town.

  My answer could literally be life-changing. Mom had just asked me not to see him until she returned and we could discuss it. Going out with Tristan, even just to the beach, meant once again disobeying her. This was beyond some teenaged rebellious stage, though. Just like my fruitless research project, this was about growing up. Making my own decisions for me and my life. Being an adult. My answer had to be mine, not my mother’s.

  Saying “yes,” however, could be my biggest mistake ever. Perhaps he was dangerous, as Carlie had said. Perhaps he would hurt me, as Mom had warned. Taking this next step with him was opening my heart up—just a tiny bit, but more than I had since James had caused me to seal it shut. And if he did hurt me, I’d have no one to blame but myself.

  But rejecting him likely meant losing any chance with him whatsoever. Missing out on something that could be truly amazing. Always wondering what might have happened. And going back to living in solitude and having to watch him from a distance as he moved on to the next girl. That thought bothered me, more than it should.

  I could either walk through this door that he’d opened or I could shut it forever. Either way was a risk. But taking such risks, making such decisions was part of being an adult. Sometimes being an adult sucks.

  Chapter 6

  “Alexis?” Tristan asked, still waiting for my answer.

  I swallowed, my throat dry and sticky. Then I made my decision—I followed my heart and gut, hoping I wasn’t about to do irreversible harm to my relationship with Mom. Or about to destroy myself.

  “Um, yeah. That’d be great.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

  Not able to sit still, I waited outside, pacing the driveway. I heard the Harley from more than a block away and butterflies fluttered in my stomach by the time Tristan arrived.

  “Ride or walk?” he asked over the rumble after pulling into the driveway.

  “Let’s walk.”

  Our cottage was less than two blocks to the beach, the street covered with the broad canopies of the many-legged banyan trees that were larger than the Old Florida-style cottages they guarded. It was a gorgeous evening, the warmth of the afternoon still hanging in the air. We walked in silence the entire way.

  I tried to ignore all the questions soaring through my mind, because they all had to do with a conversation I probably wasn’t supposed to hear. I wished I had the chutzpah to just flat out ask him who he was and what happened between him and my mother. But I didn’t. Besides, I’d realized this afternoon, there were two problems with seeking the answers to my questions.

  One, it would likely lead to me being on the other end—the one answering questions instead of asking. If I wanted to know more about Tristan, then I had to be prepared for him to know more about me. And I wasn’t ready for that yet. At least, not the deep stuff. He already knew too much—one of my biggest secrets—Sophia was my mother. Surely he had to have his own questions about how that could be, which leads to the second problem. Two, getting into the deeper conversation about all of our secrets meant giving up any kind of normalcy to our relationship—or whatever it became. And I wasn’t ready for that, either.

  I was probably lying to myself, trying to make it all more than it could ever be. But, for now, I wanted to at least pretend this was a normal girl-meets-boy situation.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Tristan asked, breaking the silence as we crossed the boardwalk accessing the beach.

  “Hmph. They’re worth more than that,” I teased.

  He chuckled. “Okay, a Benji for your thoughts?”

  “Huh?”

  He pulled a one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. I raised my eyebrows and he put it away, laughing. “You’re right. Your thoughts are priceless.”

  We walked to the edge of the water, kicked off our shoes, and then turned and meandered along the wet sand. It gave me a chance to edit my thoughts before sharing them.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I finally said, “but . . . I was just thinking that we’ve been hanging out for a couple months now, and I hardly know anything about you.”

  “Ah. What do you want to know?” He peered down at me from the corner of his eye, seemingly hesitant—like I felt when someone asked about me.

  “Um, well, where are you from?” That was an easy one, especially in Florida. Hardly anyone was from here.

  He was silent for a moment, as if it was difficult to answer, and then said cryptically, “Lots of places . . . nowhere in particular.”

  I could relate to that. It could be my own answer.

  “So . . . you moved around a lot?”

  He shrugged. “You could put it that way.”

  “What do your parents do?”

  “They don’t do anything. They died a long time ago.”

  “Oh.” Oops. I didn’t know I was headed into heavy stuff. “I’m sorry.”

  He looked down at me and smiled gently. “You didn’t know. I hardly remember them anyway. It was a long time ago. I was raised by . . . distant relatives, I guess you could say.”

  “Did they bring you here?”

  “Oh, no, I came here alone.” There was that steely undertone again. “I’ve been on my own for quite a while.”

  More silence as I thought for a minute. I remembered what he’d told Mom . . . he’d never gone back and he never will. How awful it must be to lose his parents and then to have to live with what must have been dreadful relatives, people like Lenny. My theory must have been true. I decided to leave that subject alone.

  “So where were these ‘lots of places’ you grew up?”

  “Pretty much everywhere, but mostly Europe.”

  “Really?” That one surprised me. “But you don’t have any kind of accent.”

  He chuckled.

  “I’ve been in the U.S. for a few years and I adapt easily and pick up the local accent quickly.” He changed his tone and spoke with a perfect English cadence, “Would you rahther I hahd an ahccent?” Then he switched to French, rolling the R’s, “Or, pear’aps Francais eez better, ma lykita?�
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  I laughed. Although I couldn’t understand it all, the French accent was especially delightful with his lovely voice.

  “Do you speak other languages, then?”

  “Seven altogether.”

  “Wow,” I breathed with awe. I tried to imagine growing up in Europe, living as transient a life as we had, but in places such as London, Rome and Paris. I probably glamorized it, but it seemed much more exciting than my life.

  “If you came here by yourself, what brought you here?”

  He didn’t answer at first and kicked at a wave. Then he shrugged and said, “Just needed a change.”

  “Oh.” That was a non-answer.

  He looked down at me. “Actually, I want to be honest with you. I came here for a job . . . or an assignment is more like it . . . and stayed because I like the people.”

  “Oh, okay.” I hadn’t realized he had a job. I started wondering what he did besides a couple college classes. He had mentioned once he had lots of other things going on in his life, but he never talked about anything.

  “But if I told you any more, I’d have to kill you.” His tone was serious and I looked up in surprise. He laughed.

  “Oh, I see. CIA or FBI?” I played along, remembering the old secret-agent movies Mom liked to watch. “Oh, wait, probably Scotland Yard. Or maybe the KGB?” I widened my eyes in mock horror.

  He laughed again. “You’re way off.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” I promised lightheartedly.

  He frowned and his tone darkened. “Yes, I’m sure you will. Some day.”

  “Would that be bad?”

  The frown quickly disappeared, as if he hadn’t realized it was there until I said that. He peered down at me as we walked a few steps in silence. “I don’t know yet.”

  Honesty and seriousness filled his tone . . . and a bit of sadness. I sighed in frustration. He raised more questions than he answered.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  I wanted to tell him how annoyingly cryptic he was. But I didn’t. Because he could always turn that back at me.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “We better turn around,” he said.

  I looked behind us and saw we had walked much farther than I realized. We played in the water on the way back, kicking it up at each other and running away from the splashes, then he took my hand and pulled me to dry sand, where we sat to watch the sunset. We gazed in silence, both in the same position—knees pulled up, arms wrapped around our legs. I rested my chin on my knees.

  God displayed His divine artistic ability, painting the sky with brushstrokes of dark violet, lavender, magenta and soft pink against a light blue canvas, with a bright splash of gold at the horizon reflecting on the water. Waves gently lapped at the sand and seagulls cawed at each other. I inhaled deeply, trying to pull it all into my body and embed it in my memory as one of those perfect moments to be cherished forever. The brackishness of salt water and the sweet-tanginess of Tristan’s scent nearly intoxicated me.

  I turned and Tristan cocked his head to look at me, his beautiful eyes sparkling, immediately calming me. In fact, I’d never felt so content. His conversation with my mom seemed vague and nonsensical now. He was right. She needed to let go. Because I wanted to be nowhere else than right here with him.

  “Ready?” he finally asked.

  I frowned. Ready to go back to my empty house and spend the evening alone? No, not really.

  “I can hang out with you, if you want,” he said, as if reading my mind.

  “That sounds . . .” Wonderful. Fabulous. Perfect. “. . . good.”

  ***

  As soon as we entered the cottage, I panicked. I hadn’t been truly alone with anyone besides my mother in years. I suddenly realized just how inexperienced I was—not just in the whole man-woman thing, but in any kind of relationship. I stopped abruptly in the small foyer, not knowing what to do in my own house.

  “I’ll be right back.” I dashed into the bathroom and couldn’t close the door fast enough. I leaned against the back of the door and took deep, calming breaths. My stomach twisted itself into knots, untwisted and twisted again. What do we do? Eat? Watch TV? What if he’s bored? Oh! What if he’s expecting something? How much would I give?! I jumped at the knock on the door.

  “Alexis?” Concern filled Tristan’s voice. I could only imagine how terrified my face looked before I fled to the bathroom. “I was thinking . . . I’m actually kind of hungry. You want to go get a pizza at Mario’s?”

  I took a deep breath, picturing it. Public place. Lots of people. He seemed to know exactly what I needed. After another deep, cleansing breath, I opened the door and said, more calmly than I thought possible, “That’d be great.”

  Mario’s was a pizza-parlor-slash-bar. When we arrived at nearly nine o’clock, it took on more of a bar atmosphere. The lights were dimmed and neon beer signs glowed colorfully on the walls. The jukebox played oldies music and people talked and laughed loudly over it. We shared a sausage-and-mushroom pizza and, after eating, Tristan somehow convinced me to play darts.

  He was excellent at it. I sucked. He seemed to be able to easily zero in on his target—several times I swore he aimed away from the bulls-eye to prove he could “miss.” Most of the time I couldn’t hit the board, let alone any specific place on it.

  Tristan’s close eye on me didn’t help. He leaned against a table about halfway to the dart board and to my right, watching me with an amused expression. He made me nervous. I held the dart in my hand, up near my face, eyeing the board—no particular place, just the board in general. It’s a big enough area. Surely I can hit it at least once. Just before I let the dart go, my eyes slipped to Tristan.

  And the dart flew. And missed the board. By a long shot.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” Both hands flew to my mouth. Holy crap! I stabbed Mr. Beautiful!

  I stared at the dart lodged in his bicep. He raised his eyebrows with an I-can’t-believe-you-just-did-that look as I hurried over to him. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

  He grimaced. “I don’t know.”

  I lifted my hand gingerly to pull the dart out. He flinched and I jumped back.

  “Don’t touch it! Aren’t you supposed to leave these things for the doctor to remove?”

  I fretfully bounced on the balls of my feet. “Then what do I do?”

  The grimace disappeared and a huge grin spread across Tristan’s face as he easily plucked the dart out of his arm. He leaned forward and whispered, “You can kiss it and make it better.”

  I narrowed my eyes and scowled at him. He burst into laughter.

  “I’m . . . sorry . . . but . . . you . . . should’ve . . . seen . . . .your face!” He nearly fell over from his belly laughs.

  I crossed my arms against my chest and glowered at him. I couldn’t hold it for long, though. He was laughing so hard and he was so dang irresistible. I couldn’t help it. I started laughing, too.

  “I am seriously sorry,” I said again once we regained our composure. “I can’t believe I did that. Are you really okay?”

  He lifted his sleeve. The only evidence of my assault was a miniscule hole, though I was sure the steel-tipped dart had pierced at least half an inch, maybe more, through his skin. I exhaled with relief, expecting it to be worse.

  “I think I’ll live,” he said, grinning. “But you are rather dangerous. Let me show you how it’s done before you really hurt someone.”

  He stood close behind me and tried to teach me the proper way to hold the dart and when to let it go, but the electricity from every touch distracted me. We laughed at my absurd technique. I had more fun than I’d had in a long time—maybe ever.

  When he slid the bike into the driveway a little after midnight, though, the panic started to set in again. Not like earlier, but enough to make my stomach flutter.

  “Did you have fun?” Tristan asked as he walked me to the door.

  “Yeah, I did. Thank you.” I watched the ground.

 
“My pleasure. Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

  I took a breath to steady my nerves and looked up at him as we stood on the front porch. “Hmm . . . you’re brave.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll just be sure to stand behind you next time.”

  “You saw my throws. That doesn’t guarantee anything.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” He smiled. “But I’ll take my chances.”

  My heart raced as I looked into his sparkling eyes and wondered if he was thinking about kissing me.

  “I better let you get some rest,” he murmured.

  “Mmm, yeah. I do have to open the store in the morning.”

  He held my gaze for a moment and then cupped his hand gently around the side of my face. My skin tingled. Then he leaned over and ever so lightly brushed his lips across my cheek, then whispered in my ear, “Good night, ma lykita.”

  I closed my eyes as the sensations washed over me—his smell, the warm breath on my ear, the electric touch on my face.

  “’Night,” I breathed. He let go of me and when I opened my eyes, he was already half-way down the walk. Electricity still pulsed on my skin and throughout my body. Part of me wanted to call him back, but, with a heavy sigh, I turned and went inside instead. And I realized I didn’t get to ask what he called me. It couldn’t be bad, but it was annoying not to know. It had sounded like something in French. I made a mental note to research it.

  The two-bedroom cottage was quiet and usually comforting. It was one of the few places we lived that actually felt like home. Usually, our moves required leaving everything behind except the bare necessities, but since we actually brought our belongings this time, they were at least familiar, if not nostalgic. Mom decorated in browns and beiges, but with leather and wood furniture and chenille and silk throw pillows, the variety of textures kept it from being boring. Rather, it was cozy and calming, like “Mom’s place” should be.