He never did handle change well.
“It's time for me to go,” Sanders said simply. Jameson looked completely bewildered.
“What the fuck are you on about?”
“I have been taking correspondence courses, this past year. I have gotten my master's degree in Russian historical literature,” Sanders confessed. Jameson went from bewildered to … a look Sanders had never seen before. Didn't know how to decipher.
“You're shitting me. Why didn't you tell me? For fuck's sake, Sanders, you got offers from MIT and Yale when you were eighteen! Correspondence courses!?” Jameson exclaimed, sitting back against his desk. Sanders cleared his throat.
“I didn't want to leave home until I absolutely had to,” he responded.
“Well, I'm very happy for you, but why do you need to leave? What are you going to do with a degree in Russian historical … literature!? Jesus, Sanders,” Jameson grumbled.
“I can teach. I can tutor. I have also saved every single paycheck you have ever given me. I don't have to work at all, if I don't want to,” he explained.
“But why? Why do you need to go? Harvard is right next door, teach there, tutor there. You don't need to leave home,” Jameson told him.
“I do.”
“You don't. Do you have any idea how much this is going to upset her? She's -” Jameson started to point out.
“She is the reason I need to go.”
The silence was heavy. She had always been a double-edged sword between them, slicing right through their bond, seamlessly and effortlessly. Sanders was her best friend. Jameson was her lover. At any given point in time, it was impossible to tell whom she would choose, if it ever came down to it. In the beginning, the answer was easy – Jameson. In the middle, there was no question – Sanders. Now? It was like Solomon's Choice, and Sanders was prepared to be the one to let go.
Jameson certainly wouldn't.
“And may I ask why she is a reason for you needing to go?” Jameson's voice was soft. Full of steel. His eyes were locked onto Sanders', and they weren't happy.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because … things have changed. I am no longer comfortable being here,” Sanders went on, adjusting his tie. The movement wasn't lost on Jameson.
“Cut the bullshit. What the fuck is the problem? Maybe it can be fixed,” Jameson snapped.
“I think I might be in love with her.”
Jameson lurched away from the desk, away from Sanders. Paced to one end of the room, shoving his hands into his hair. Paced back. Gave an evil stare to Sanders, then paced down again. Came back.
“I'm sorry. I … wait. Are you serious? Is this a joke? Because if it is, I have to tell you, it isn't fucking funny,” Jameson hissed, getting close to him. Sanders shook his head.
“I would never joke about this, sir,” he assured him. Jameson got even closer, having to tilt his head down to stare Sanders in the eye. Like a predator. His eyes were narrowed, his anger alive in his glare.
“And when did this happen?” his voice was soft.
“I'm not sure. I'm not even sure I am. But I do know that … something is different, and I think it would be best, for all of us, if I wasn't here anymore,” Sanders said.
“I don't understand how this happened. You two are friends. You know what she means to me, what we are to each other. How did this happen?” Jameson demanded.
“I don't know. I didn't realize it was happening, and then the other day … I just realized it.”
Jameson went to say something else, but there was a sound in the hallway. A thud, then a crash, followed by laughter.
Even her laugh is bawdy. Loud. Sexual. Inappropriate. I will miss it so much.
“God, I just bit it so hard out there! I think I broke my ass!”
Tatum O'Shea was a very beautiful girl. Sanders had always thought so – he wasn't blind. But just because someone was beautiful didn't necessarily automatically make them attractive, at least not to Sanders. No, it had taken a while for Tatum to grow on him as a friend.
There had been a turning point, though. When she had run away the very last time and Sanders had gone with her. A hotel room. A confusing night. A heavy kiss. He had stopped it, and she wouldn't have gone through with anything more, but still. He'd never said anything about it, but it had stayed with him. Suddenly, Tatum wasn't just Tatum anymore. Wasn't a silly girl he was friends with, a girl he had to be around. No, suddenly she was a woman, with curves, and skin, and lips, and a tongue. A tongue he'd experienced firsthand.
Not good.
She walked into the room, rubbing at her backside as she laughed. She had obviously slipped and fallen, most likely because she was soaking wet. Jameson had mentioned that she'd been in the pool – she had probably come straight from it. She was wearing a bikini, holding a towel in her free hand.
Sanders and Jameson exchanged glances.
“Tate, maybe you should -” Jameson started.
“Sandy!” she exclaimed, finally spotting him. He cleared his throat. Looked away. “Where have you been? I called you like a hundred times yesterday! We made pizza.”
As she babbled, Tatum suddenly bent at the waist, rubbing the towel over her wet hair. Sanders was no lech, she probably could've walked into the room naked and he would have maintained his cool. But having just confessed his feelings to Jameson, and having Jameson standing right next to him, and her bent over, in a bikini …
This is very awkward.
“I had a lot of things going on, I'm sorry,” Sanders managed. Tatum stood up, whipping her hair back.
“Well, you should be, you missed out on awesome pizza,” she laughed, starting to march towards him, her arms out for a hug. Jameson smoothly stepped in between them.
“Hey, go get changed so we can have lunch,” he said, running his hands up and down her arms.
“I didn't realize it was a formal occasion,” she snorted.
“Why do you have to make everything an argument, baby girl? Just go put on some clothes, I'll get plates,” Jameson instructed.
“I still don't -,”
“I wasn't asking, Tate.”
There was some huffing and grumbling, but she finally left the room, throwing the towel at them as she went. They listened to her stomp up the stairs, then Sanders turned to stare at the back of Jameson's head. At his guardian. His best friend.
“It's time for me to go,” Sanders said simply. Jameson looked completely bewildered.
“What the fuck are you on about?”
“I have been taking correspondence courses, this past year. I have gotten my master's degree in Russian historical literature,” Sanders confessed. Jameson went from bewildered to … a look Sanders had never seen before. Didn't know how to decipher.
“You're shitting me. Why didn't you tell me? For fuck's sake, Sanders, you got offers from MIT and Yale when you were eighteen! Correspondence courses!?” Jameson exclaimed, sitting back against his desk. Sanders cleared his throat.
“I didn't want to leave home until I absolutely had to,” he responded.
“Well, I'm very happy for you, but why do you need to leave? What are you going to do with a degree in Russian historical … literature!? Jesus, Sanders,” Jameson grumbled.
“I can teach. I can tutor. I have also saved every single paycheck you have ever given me. I don't have to work at all, if I don't want to,” he explained.
“But why? Why do you need to go? Harvard is right next door, teach there, tutor there. You don't need to leave home,” Jameson told him.
“I do.”
“You don't. Do you have any idea how much this is going to upset her? She's -” Jameson started to point out.
“She is the reason I need to go.”
The silence was heavy. She had always been a double-edged sword between them, slicing right through their bond, seamlessly and effortlessly. Sanders was her best friend. Jameson was her lover. At any given point in time, it was impossible to tell whom she would choose, if it ever came down to it. In the beginning, the answer was easy – Jameson. In the middle, there was no question – Sanders. Now? It was like Solomon's Choice, and Sanders was prepared to be the one to let go.
Jameson certainly wouldn't.
“And may I ask why she is a reason for you needing to go?” Jameson's voice was soft. Full of steel. His eyes were locked onto Sanders', and they weren't happy.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because … things have changed. I am no longer comfortable being here,” Sanders went on, adjusting his tie. The movement wasn't lost on Jameson.
“Cut the bullshit. What the fuck is the problem? Maybe it can be fixed,” Jameson snapped.
“I think I might be in love with her.”
Jameson lurched away from the desk, away from Sanders. Paced to one end of the room, shoving his hands into his hair. Paced back. Gave an evil stare to Sanders, then paced down again. Came back.
“I'm sorry. I … wait. Are you serious? Is this a joke? Because if it is, I have to tell you, it isn't fucking funny,” Jameson hissed, getting close to him. Sanders shook his head.
“I would never joke about this, sir,” he assured him. Jameson got even closer, having to tilt his head down to stare Sanders in the eye. Like a predator. His eyes were narrowed, his anger alive in his glare.
“And when did this happen?” his voice was soft.
“I'm not sure. I'm not even sure I am. But I do know that … something is different, and I think it would be best, for all of us, if I wasn't here anymore,” Sanders said.
“I don't understand how this happened. You two are friends. You know what she means to me, what we are to each other. How did this happen?” Jameson demanded.
“I don't know. I didn't realize it was happening, and then the other day … I just realized it.”
Jameson went to say something else, but there was a sound in the hallway. A thud, then a crash, followed by laughter.
Even her laugh is bawdy. Loud. Sexual. Inappropriate. I will miss it so much.
“God, I just bit it so hard out there! I think I broke my ass!”
Tatum O'Shea was a very beautiful girl. Sanders had always thought so – he wasn't blind. But just because someone was beautiful didn't necessarily automatically make them attractive, at least not to Sanders. No, it had taken a while for Tatum to grow on him as a friend.
There had been a turning point, though. When she had run away the very last time and Sanders had gone with her. A hotel room. A confusing night. A heavy kiss. He had stopped it, and she wouldn't have gone through with anything more, but still. He'd never said anything about it, but it had stayed with him. Suddenly, Tatum wasn't just Tatum anymore. Wasn't a silly girl he was friends with, a girl he had to be around. No, suddenly she was a woman, with curves, and skin, and lips, and a tongue. A tongue he'd experienced firsthand.
Not good.
She walked into the room, rubbing at her backside as she laughed. She had obviously slipped and fallen, most likely because she was soaking wet. Jameson had mentioned that she'd been in the pool – she had probably come straight from it. She was wearing a bikini, holding a towel in her free hand.
Sanders and Jameson exchanged glances.
“Tate, maybe you should -” Jameson started.
“Sandy!” she exclaimed, finally spotting him. He cleared his throat. Looked away. “Where have you been? I called you like a hundred times yesterday! We made pizza.”
As she babbled, Tatum suddenly bent at the waist, rubbing the towel over her wet hair. Sanders was no lech, she probably could've walked into the room naked and he would have maintained his cool. But having just confessed his feelings to Jameson, and having Jameson standing right next to him, and her bent over, in a bikini …
This is very awkward.
“I had a lot of things going on, I'm sorry,” Sanders managed. Tatum stood up, whipping her hair back.
“Well, you should be, you missed out on awesome pizza,” she laughed, starting to march towards him, her arms out for a hug. Jameson smoothly stepped in between them.
“Hey, go get changed so we can have lunch,” he said, running his hands up and down her arms.
“I didn't realize it was a formal occasion,” she snorted.
“Why do you have to make everything an argument, baby girl? Just go put on some clothes, I'll get plates,” Jameson instructed.
“I still don't -,”
“I wasn't asking, Tate.”
There was some huffing and grumbling, but she finally left the room, throwing the towel at them as she went. They listened to her stomp up the stairs, then Sanders turned to stare at the back of Jameson's head. At his guardian. His best friend.
