“I had the very bad idea of doing something nice for you,” she told him, folding her arms across her chest.
He narrowed his eyes, but he leaned forward and untied the balloon. It floated up to the ceiling while he opened the brown paper bag. He cocked up an eyebrow, glanced at her, and then back at the bag before pulling out a bottle.
“Very original, Tate. No one's ever gotten me one of these before,” he said in a snippy voice, holding a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey.
“Not like that, they haven't,” she replied, slipping into her seat. He flicked his eyes up, then back to the bottle. He turned it over in his hands, and finally realized she had scrawled across the label in black marker. He lifted his eyebrows.
“Sanders?” he called out, not looking up.
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you, for the surprise.”
“It was nothing, sir.”
“Good. Now you can leave,” Jameson ordered. Sanders nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“You like it?” Tate asked, smiling as she slunk lower in the chair, her arms resting over the sides.
“It's interesting. You're right, I have never gotten a bottle quite like this,” he chuckled, looking over the label again.
“Do people buy you a lot of bottles of Jameson?” she asked. He nodded and pointed across the room. Behind her was a large bookshelf. On the top of it were all different kinds of bottles, with labels in different languages, colors, styles.
“Everyone thinks they're clever,” he replied.
“What's the most expensive one?”
“Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve, only about $250.”
“Only.”
“Tatum. What brought this on?” he asked. She turned back towards him.
“I've been thinking, about what you said. About needing to get over it. About you bending over backwards for me. While I don't agree entirely with that last part, I still want to call a truce,” she offered.
“Oh really?” his voice was soft, and he finally set the bottle down.
“Yes. You need to not be such a dick to me. If you have a problem with me, or you think I'm lying or bullshitting or fucking around, then you need to say it – not hide in a different country and get mad about things you don't know anything about,” she told him bluntly.
“Bold words, baby girl,” his voice held a warning in it.
“And I need to deal with the fact that this is you. You are a dick. If I can promise not to freak out every ten seconds about it, then you have to promise to at least check with me before you decide to rip me in half again,” she laid out her deal.
“I don't have to check with you for shit. But maybe, if I'm feeling generous, I'll give you a heads up,” he replied, but he was smiling.
“I never want to deal with Petrushka again,” Tate warned him, and she hoped her voice conveyed just how much she meant that.
“Me, neither. I won't use her against you, ever again.”
“I have never dated Nick. We are not boyfriend and girlfriend, and we never were. I haven't slept with him, since that very first time,” she said.
“I knew he couldn't handle you,” Jameson chuckled.
“You can't even handle having me as a girlfriend,” she snorted.
“So if everything between us is all good, does that mean I get to fuck the secretary downstairs?” he asked.
“I don't think things between us ever were, or ever will be, 'all good', and no, you cannot fuck that secretary,” she replied.
“What if I fire her? Could I fuck her then?”
Tate snorted again.
“Would you like to see what you got me for your birthday?” she changed the subject. His eyebrows shot up.
“What I got you?” he clarified. She nodded.
“Yes.”
“Christ, I'm scared to ask,” he groaned, leaning his elbows against his desk. She scooted even lower in her chair and stuck her leg up, jutting it over his desk so her shoe was in his face. It took him a second, and then he saw it. He curled his fingers around her ankle and pulled it closer.
“Like it?” she asked. He shrugged.
“It's okay. At least they're real this time. Why did I buy you the tiniest pearl bracelet you could find?” he asked, still examining the pearls she had strapped around her ankle.
“I'm not comfortable spending money the way you do, I needed it to be cheap,” she explained.
“Why did you do this?” he asked, letting go of her ankle. She sat upright and put her foot back on the floor.
“I bought it so ..., you would know that I can remember things, too. Good things. You said I deserved them. I listened. I did it so you'd know that I hear you. I'm not very good at it, I'm still trying to figure out how to speak your language, but I'm trying. It isn't necessary to spend $50,000 on a necklace for me. Don't get me wrong, it's nice to know you would have, that you think I 'deserve' them. But real pearls or fake pearls – I wouldn't know the difference anyway. One is just as good as the other to me,” she explained, laughing a little at the end.
“Depending on the intent with which the gift is given,” he repeated what she had told him so many months ago. She nodded.
“Yes. You don't have to spend $50,000, Jameson. Sometimes it's okay to get me the crappy, junior high prom style, pearl necklace. It's okay to just say you like me. You don't have to buy me,” she told him.
He narrowed his eyes, but he leaned forward and untied the balloon. It floated up to the ceiling while he opened the brown paper bag. He cocked up an eyebrow, glanced at her, and then back at the bag before pulling out a bottle.
“Very original, Tate. No one's ever gotten me one of these before,” he said in a snippy voice, holding a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey.
“Not like that, they haven't,” she replied, slipping into her seat. He flicked his eyes up, then back to the bottle. He turned it over in his hands, and finally realized she had scrawled across the label in black marker. He lifted his eyebrows.
“Sanders?” he called out, not looking up.
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you, for the surprise.”
“It was nothing, sir.”
“Good. Now you can leave,” Jameson ordered. Sanders nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
“You like it?” Tate asked, smiling as she slunk lower in the chair, her arms resting over the sides.
“It's interesting. You're right, I have never gotten a bottle quite like this,” he chuckled, looking over the label again.
“Do people buy you a lot of bottles of Jameson?” she asked. He nodded and pointed across the room. Behind her was a large bookshelf. On the top of it were all different kinds of bottles, with labels in different languages, colors, styles.
“Everyone thinks they're clever,” he replied.
“What's the most expensive one?”
“Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve, only about $250.”
“Only.”
“Tatum. What brought this on?” he asked. She turned back towards him.
“I've been thinking, about what you said. About needing to get over it. About you bending over backwards for me. While I don't agree entirely with that last part, I still want to call a truce,” she offered.
“Oh really?” his voice was soft, and he finally set the bottle down.
“Yes. You need to not be such a dick to me. If you have a problem with me, or you think I'm lying or bullshitting or fucking around, then you need to say it – not hide in a different country and get mad about things you don't know anything about,” she told him bluntly.
“Bold words, baby girl,” his voice held a warning in it.
“And I need to deal with the fact that this is you. You are a dick. If I can promise not to freak out every ten seconds about it, then you have to promise to at least check with me before you decide to rip me in half again,” she laid out her deal.
“I don't have to check with you for shit. But maybe, if I'm feeling generous, I'll give you a heads up,” he replied, but he was smiling.
“I never want to deal with Petrushka again,” Tate warned him, and she hoped her voice conveyed just how much she meant that.
“Me, neither. I won't use her against you, ever again.”
“I have never dated Nick. We are not boyfriend and girlfriend, and we never were. I haven't slept with him, since that very first time,” she said.
“I knew he couldn't handle you,” Jameson chuckled.
“You can't even handle having me as a girlfriend,” she snorted.
“So if everything between us is all good, does that mean I get to fuck the secretary downstairs?” he asked.
“I don't think things between us ever were, or ever will be, 'all good', and no, you cannot fuck that secretary,” she replied.
“What if I fire her? Could I fuck her then?”
Tate snorted again.
“Would you like to see what you got me for your birthday?” she changed the subject. His eyebrows shot up.
“What I got you?” he clarified. She nodded.
“Yes.”
“Christ, I'm scared to ask,” he groaned, leaning his elbows against his desk. She scooted even lower in her chair and stuck her leg up, jutting it over his desk so her shoe was in his face. It took him a second, and then he saw it. He curled his fingers around her ankle and pulled it closer.
“Like it?” she asked. He shrugged.
“It's okay. At least they're real this time. Why did I buy you the tiniest pearl bracelet you could find?” he asked, still examining the pearls she had strapped around her ankle.
“I'm not comfortable spending money the way you do, I needed it to be cheap,” she explained.
“Why did you do this?” he asked, letting go of her ankle. She sat upright and put her foot back on the floor.
“I bought it so ..., you would know that I can remember things, too. Good things. You said I deserved them. I listened. I did it so you'd know that I hear you. I'm not very good at it, I'm still trying to figure out how to speak your language, but I'm trying. It isn't necessary to spend $50,000 on a necklace for me. Don't get me wrong, it's nice to know you would have, that you think I 'deserve' them. But real pearls or fake pearls – I wouldn't know the difference anyway. One is just as good as the other to me,” she explained, laughing a little at the end.
“Depending on the intent with which the gift is given,” he repeated what she had told him so many months ago. She nodded.
“Yes. You don't have to spend $50,000, Jameson. Sometimes it's okay to get me the crappy, junior high prom style, pearl necklace. It's okay to just say you like me. You don't have to buy me,” she told him.
