Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  At the slower speed, the ride was spectacular. The sun shone brightly in the clear October sky and the smell of oily warmth rose off the pavement. After a while, we crossed the causeway to Gasparilla Island. I rested my chin on Tristan’s shoulder as we cruised along the tree-lined boulevard, catching an occasional glimpse of the Gulf of Mexico on one side and the bay on the other, between the large houses. We rode through the quaint little town of Boca Grande, which reminded me a lot of Cape Heron. He stopped the bike in a parking lot at the end of the island and we gazed over the sugary sand and steel-blue water as pelicans dive-bombed for their dinner. Two dolphins jumped and twisted in the air, playing with each other.

  “Nice, huh?” Tristan asked.

  “Perfect,” I breathed. I was still close against him, my arms wrapped around his waist. He held my hands in front of him.

  “Let’s take a walk and stretch our legs, then I’ll take you to this great little seafood place I found.”

  As we rode down my street later, sadness grew within me, knowing our perfect day was coming to a close. Night had fallen and the street was quiet except for the Harley’s engine. As we pulled in front of the cottage and I saw Mom’s car in the driveway and a light on inside, I was sadder still that our perfect weekend was over. We both took a deep breath and sighed heavily after he cut the engine, knowing the next few minutes, at least, wouldn’t be pleasant. I leaned against the backrest, not wanting to get off yet.

  “Do you know why she doesn’t like me?” Tristan asked.

  “No, not really.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I’m sure she’s worried about you because she loves you. And she has valid reasons for feeling the way she does, so you should probably listen to her.”

  That sounded like a warning. Of what, I wasn’t sure and I didn’t want to know. Not now.

  I leaned my forehead against his back and whispered, “Please don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t be honest?” His voice was low and heavy.

  I sighed. Why should we start now? But that’s not what I’d meant.

  “Tristan, I don’t know what will happen as soon as we walk in there. I’ve never seen her like this. But I had an amazing weekend with you and that’s how I want to leave it. Let her be the one to ruin it. Not you. Please?”

  He didn’t respond right away.

  “Understood,” he finally said. I reached my arms around him and he took my hands in each of his and gave them a squeeze. “Just one thing, though. Just remember it’s your life, Alexis. Do what you need to do for you. Not for me, not for her. Okay?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I answered simply. I’d already decided that Friday but guilt still filled my heart. So did anxiety. If she reacted as badly as she had before, I could be living on my own in a day or two. But I didn’t regret my decision. Not yet anyway.

  “You had an amazing weekend with me, huh?” Tristan asked, his voice light and lovely again as we walked up to the cottage hand-in-hand.

  “Very amazing.” I smiled at him. “No matter what happens, it was worth it.”

  “I agree.” He squeezed my hand, smiling back. “And thank you for telling me how you feel.”

  The door flew open before we reached the front porch. Mom stood in the doorframe, crossing her arms and glaring at us.

  “Alexis,” she said curtly. “Tristan.”

  “Hi, Sophia, how was your . . . uh . . . convention?” I asked, trying in vain to sound relaxed and nonchalant.

  She glared at Tristan and I saw him shake his head out of the corner of my eye, answering her silent question.

  “Not what I hoped it would be,” she answered coldly, still staring at Tristan. Her eyes softened just a bit, though, as if his keeping her secrets meant something to her.

  We all stood there awkwardly in deafening silence.

  “I think I better go . . .” Tristan broke it first. It was almost a question, though.

  “That’s a good idea.” Mom leaned inside the door, picked something up, and held his backpack out to him.

  He took the bag and squeezed my hand. “See you in class tomorrow.”

  Mom closed the door and followed me to the kitchen table, where my books were still spread out, waiting for my return.

  “Alexis, I need to talk to you.”

  “I really need to study. Mid-terms tomorrow.”

  “Please. Just listen for a minute.”

  I plopped onto a chair and looked at her expectantly, waiting for the lecture or tirade or whatever was coming. But she surprised me.

  “Listen . . . there are apparently things I just need to work out with myself. There’s obviously nothing I can do about this.” She threw her hands in my direction, but I knew she meant “this” to mean Tristan and me together, as a couple. “Did you spend a lot of time with him this weekend?”

  I hesitated before answering, but I couldn’t lie. “Yes.”

  “And you obviously still like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything more?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” I sighed. “I think so.”

  She pursed her lips together and stared at me for a long moment. “Just don’t rush into anything too serious, okay?”

  I didn’t answer and she blew out a heavy breath.

  “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said that. You do what you feel is right and I’ll just have to accept it. I knew it was coming. It was just a matter of when.”

  She lost me. “Is this specifically about Tristan or just about me getting serious with anyone in general?”

  She pondered this question. “Both. But, in the end, it doesn’t matter. You’re going to do what you want and so is he. I know everything will go the way it’s supposed to. It will be good.”

  She said those last two sentences as if trying them on, feeling for their meaning, deciding if she truly believed them. Her face showed she didn’t, but wanted to, kind of doubtful and hopeful at the same time. I debated whether to force an explanation and decided to let it go, for now, anyway.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I threw myself at her in a grateful hug—grateful for her blessing and her return. She didn’t let go and I knew she missed me, too. “There’s just one other thing.”

  She stepped back and studied my face, her own expression leery.

  “I feel really good with Tristan so—” I hesitated, bracing myself. “There might come a time when he needs to know about things . . . things I don’t know yet.”

  “Alexis—”

  “If he understands, maybe he won’t get mean or run.” My voice cracked on the last word.

  Mom put her hands on my shoulders. “You do really like him, don’t you?”

  I nodded. She sighed.

  “Let’s just see how it goes, okay? Maybe we can talk about this again later . . . or maybe it won’t be necessary.” With a kiss to my forehead and a turn on her heel, she clearly stated the discussion was over. I didn’t know if I’d won just a little or not.

  She went to bed and I reviewed my notes one more time. Just as I finished, there was a tap on the kitchen door. I nearly fell out of my seat at the seemingly loud sound in the dead silence. I sat there, frozen, trying to figure out what to do. My heart had jumped at the sound and now it raced. Should I run? I glanced over at the knife block on the counter. Fight?

  Another tap on the door’s window.

  Would Phil really knock first?

  “Alexis, it’s me.” Low, sexy voice muffled through the glass pane.

  I laughed internally at myself and hurried over to open the door.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Sorry.” He grinned, like he really wasn’t. “I just had to make sure she hadn’t killed you or planned to take you away or anything.”

  I smiled giddily. “No, actually, I think it’s all good.”

  “Okay, good.” It came out as sort of a whoosh of relief.

  “Is that it?” I asked when he just stood
there.

  “Well . . . I didn’t get to say a proper good-bye and I couldn’t sleep without this.” He bent over and brushed his lips across mine. Then he smiled and winked. I stared at him, dazed. “Okay, better. I can sleep now. Good night.”

  “’Night,” I murmured. He disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter 8

  Tristan sat on his motorcycle waiting for me when I came out of the cottage Monday morning, greeting me with his most stunning smile. “I thought we could save gas and ride together today.”

  I accepted the ride. And I accepted his hand when he took mine as we walked across campus and his offer to take me out to lunch. And I definitely accepted him as more than just a study buddy or whatever it was that we had been. I discovered the feeling of being so completely aware of someone that you can’t help but touch their hand or arm or, in Tristan’s case, just lean over and plant a quick, good-luck kiss right on my lips outside my calculus classroom. Every touch was electrical and I didn’t exactly get used to it, but I at least learned to expect it. I floated through exams, hoping I gave them the attention they needed but not remembering much about them when I was done.

  We did our own thing Tuesday—I tried to write but my mind wandered in pleasant places most of the day—until he showed up at my door just as the sun was getting low. After sitting on the beach for the sunset again, we made dinner for Mom. She watched us carefully at first but by the time Tristan left later that night, she seemed much more relaxed.

  We had planned to take a motorcycle ride to a different beach Wednesday, but I woke up late to a gray, wet day. So I worked on my book and could actually concentrate enough to write a whole chapter. Tristan did whatever Tristan does, but arrived again in the late afternoon, although the sun was blanketed in clouds and there was no sunset to watch. It was the perfect kind of evening to spend snuggling with your sweetie at home. And I actually had a sweetie to snuggle with. So, although we were on fall break, we lay on the couch together and read some articles for our women’s studies class. We had a paper due Monday when classes resumed.

  “Huh.” Tristan suddenly looked up from the article he was reading.

  It had been so quiet that the small sound startled me. “What?”

  Mom was reading a mystery in the leather recliner and she looked up from her book, curious about the break in the precious silence.

  “Just something I read in this article. Have you read it?” He held it up for me to see.

  “Oh, yeah, that one, the one about arranged marriages. Creepy, huh?”

  Mom went back to her reading, seemingly disinterested.

  “I find it . . . interesting.” He didn’t elaborate and lay there thoughtfully for a moment. “What are your thoughts on arranged marriage?”

  Mom’s head snapped up. She narrowed her eyes at Tristan for just a brief second. Then she shook her head and went back to reading.

  “Hmm . . . I don’t know,” I said. I sat up for the conversation and Tristan did, too. “Personally, I wouldn’t want to be told who I was going to spend the rest of my life with. I think that should be left to fate. And love.”

  I noticed Mom looking at me through her eyelashes, her head still down, but listening intently.

  “Yeah, that thing called love,” Tristan agreed. “But maybe the marriage is their fate. It was meant to be, but it was just planned by people, too.”

  I thought about that idea and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you could look at it that way. I still don’t know that I’d like it, though. It seems strange to grow up knowing you have no options.”

  “What if it’s a family obligation, like your family was depending on it?” Mom asked, deciding to join the conversation.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess it would be hard to turn your back on that.”

  “That’s usually the reason for those arrangements,” she pointed out. “Often the family’s survival is at risk and the arrangement holds the key to their continued existence . . . or, at least, their way of life.”

  “Yeah, this article debates that point. I just don’t understand how they work, though. I mean, they’re matched together when they’re very young, especially the girls. What if he’s a horrible person . . . or she’s a . . . a wretch? What if the man doesn’t want to be with her anymore, when she’s grown up and he sees what she’s really like? Or he turns out to be a wife beater?”

  “What if they’re not? What if they’re perfect for each other . . . meant to be together?” Tristan challenged.

  “That would be pure luck,” I scoffed.

  “Or fate,” he added, “you know, destiny.”

  Mom peered at us and then bent her head back over her book, her point made.

  I chuckled with skepticism. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that. But do you believe in destiny?”

  “Actually, I do.” He looked at me and his eyes were intense. “So, what if they were given the chance to get to know each other, fell passionately in love and then found out the whole thing had been arranged?”

  I pulled my eyes from his to consider this. “Well, I guess that would be their destiny. If they love each other all on their own, then I guess it wouldn’t make a difference if it was arranged or not, right? But they’d both have to be in the dark, I think. After all, if one knew about the arrangement and didn’t tell the other . . . that’s not a relationship built on trust.”

  Tristan’s brows furrowed. “Good point.”

  “On the other hand, whether people are involved in the arrangement or not, if they’re really meant for each other, if they’re true soul mates, then it was planned all along . . . by God.”

  I saw Mom’s head tilt as I said this. She was still listening but seemed to have nothing more to add. I couldn’t tell if she was really interested or annoyed that she couldn’t read in peace.

  “So . . . if you believe in true love and you were truly soul mates, then it wouldn’t matter,” Tristan summarized and added with doubt in his tone, “But you have to believe in the idea of soul mates first.”

  “And you don’t?” I peered at him.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t used to . . . ,” he said quietly, his eyes focused on the coffee table. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “What about you?”

  He had essentially voiced exactly what I was thinking. I wanted to believe but never could. Until . . . I felt another click of my heart settling.

  “I don’t know, either,” I answered instead. “I’d like to believe in it. The thought of two souls being made for each other and then actually finding each other in this big world . . . it’s a nice idea.” Shut up! Sharing too much, too soon. Contrary to my feelings, I added, “Just seems a little unrealistic, though.”

  He studied my face for a minute and then grinned. “And I thought all girls were sappy romantics, waiting for their soul mate.”

  “Sappy romantics, huh? Have you met Sophia?” I laughed. Mom aimed a throw pillow at me and, of course, hit me right in the head.

  “I think you two need to get back to studying, so I can read,” she said.

  “We are,” I protested. “We have to write a paper on this crap.”

  “Thanks to both of you for your points of view,” Tristan said. “Knowing what women think about this helps ensure I keep my A.”

  We quieted again and went back to reading about women’s roles in different cultures. I was the next one to break the silence. We were done with our articles, anyway, and I started gathering and straightening the papers.

  “So, based on what we read . . . all these different cultures and the woman’s role in them . . . which one would you most like to live in? As a man, I mean.”

  Tristan lifted an eyebrow. “Hmm . . . good question. Are you, perhaps, trying to find out what kind of woman I like?”

  I grinned. “You got me.”

  “I see . . . well, I think I might quite enjoy the Amazon culture. Big, strong, independent women . . . I could handle being a boy toy.” He laughed.


  “Hmph. I guess I don’t match up then,” I said. “I’m not big or strong. And I definitely don’t need a boy toy!”

  Tristan laughed again. “Yeah, you are little, but you’re also independent. And I’m pretty sure Sophia could take me on anytime, so if you’re anything like her . . . .”

  If he only knew! Then again, if he were related to Lenny, he probably did know.

  “Don’t ever forget it,” she said to Tristan. She was teasing, but a warning colored her tone. Or maybe it was just my imagination. She did seem to be warming to him. She folded the corner of the page over in her paperback and rose out of her chair. “I think it’s time for this little Amazon to go to bed.”

  “’Night, Sophia.” I stuffed my notebook into my bag and dropped it on the floor. I plopped back onto the couch and cuddled against Tristan’s side. He wrapped his arms around me. “Sure you don’t want your big Amazon woman?”

  “Sure you don’t need a boy toy?”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with him,” I said.

  “Mmm . . . I could show you.” He nestled his face in my hair and kissed my ear. I giggled and pulled away, lifting my shoulder as a barrier. “Ah, seems I found a ticklish spot.”

  “I think that could make me crazy,” I admitted, rubbing the goose bumps on my arm.

  “Nice.” He squeezed me. “Three points for me.”

  I tilted my head to see his face. “Points? For what?”

  He grinned proudly. “I get a point for learning something new about you, a point because you actually told me and a bonus because it makes you crazy in a way that I like.”

  He’s giving himself points? It took less than a minute for me to realize he wasn’t making a game out of us. The points—whether they were real or he just now made them up—marked the accomplishment of learning something about me. I shifted my position. He had to drop his arms, but I wanted to look at him. He turned, too, so we both sat sideways on the couch, facing each other.

  “So what makes you crazy?” I asked.