“Tatum, listen to me,” Jameson came around the couch, squatting down in front of her. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the television screen. “She is lying. If she's pregnant – if – it's not mine.”
Aaaaaand cue the ugly truth ...
“... it would be the first child for both twenty-seven year old Ivanovic and thirty-one year old Kane. There were reports of their break up last year, but they have been spotted together several times since then, in New York, and they spent most of October together, in Berlin. Several people report seeing them together in Spain ...”
And there it was, a picture of him and Pet together. In Spain. It was taken from a distance, probably with some huge telescopic lens. They were standing in a parking space, in front of the marina where his boat was docked. They were facing each, obviously in some sort of conversation.
So much for not having contact with her. You got one wrong, Sandy.
“Stop thinking whatever it is you're fucking thinking!” Jameson shouted. Sanders walked in the room and Jameson leapt to his feet.
If he would have just said it in the beginning, that he wanted to sleep with her, couldn't not sleep with her, we could've been cool. One conversation. One sentence. There would have been no us. No hurt. No burning. No scars. God, why does this hurt so much? You knew it was coming.
“What's going on?” Sanders demanded.
“I don't know,” Tate managed to say. “He's freaking out.”
They both stared at her like she was insane.
“Tate, stop it. I have never -,” Jameson started, when she barked out a laugh.
“I'm not mad. Why would I be mad? It's not a big deal,” she assured him.
“Shut up, Tate. You're freaking out about something that I -,”
“I'm not freaking out!” she insisted, holding up her hands. “Do I look like I'm freaking out? Why would I freak out? I mean, it's fine. We're allowed to -,”
“Shut her up. Just shut her the fuck up, I have to call my lawyers!” Jameson barked, striding back towards his desk. Sanders knelt in front of her. She was still babbling.
“Honestly, I don't care. I mean, it's not like we were together right? We're not together now. We weren't together then. I have no right to ...,” she continued, talking at light speed. Sanders put his hand on her knee.
“Tatum. It's not true,” he insisted. She shook her head.
“... he can sleep with whoever he wants, I'm not the boss of him. I'm not even his girlfriend. It's just fun right, Sandy? Fun, fun, fun. Though it can't call me Auntie. The baby. That would just be weird ...”
“Shut up!” Jameson roared from behind her.
“Tatum, please,” Sanders whispered.
“... but I hope it does have his eyes. God, he has amazing eyes. And her bone structure. It would rule the world with those kind of looks. But it can't call me Auntie. Probably best if I'm not here when it comes over for visitation rights. That would be double weird. I'm not mad, Sandy. Do I sound mad? I'm fine. I'm fine.”
Sanders actually picked her up. Scooped her up off the couch, like she was a baby. Jameson was yelling into his phone while she was carried away. He had his back to the room, slicing an arm angrily through the air.
“No! No! I want this stopped, now! Any kind of lawsuit you can think of, just shut this bullshit up! I want a paternity test. I don't care, she can't claim it's mine without pro-,” he was ranting, but then Sanders whisked Tate through the door.
“You're awfully strong, Sandy. Do you work out?” she asked, resting her head against his chest, trying to catch her breath.
“Pilates. I also run every morning. Weight training in the evenings.”
“Pilates, huh. I wish I would've known. I love pilates.”
“I would be very glad to work out with you sometime.”
“Can we stop talking now?”
“Of course.”
Tate closed her eyes while he carried her up the stairs. Clung tighter to his shoulders. When they got to the bedroom, he tried to sit her down, but she wouldn't let go. He wound up sitting on the side of the bed, resting her against his chest.
“He has never lied to you,” Sanders whispered.
“Except one very important time.”
“Technically, he -,”
“A lie by omission is still a lie, Sanders,” she snapped. He took a deep breath, and his arms around her got tight.
“He is not lying,” he insisted. She took a deep breath.
“I know. I know, I'm just ..., upset. I'll be fine,” she whispered.
“Please. Please, just talk to him,” Sanders urged. She nodded, not lifting her head from his chest.
“Of course. Of course I will,” she replied.
“You need to trust him. You said you loved him,” he reminded her.
“I know what I said.”
That's what makes it so much worse. Why did I have to say it out loud?
By the time Jameson stormed up the stairs, she had gotten off Sanders' lap. Though she was holding his hand. Jameson burst into the room, glanced at them, and continued on into his closet. Sanders and Tate glanced at each other.
“We're going to New York!” he shouted.
“Excuse me?” Tate asked.
“You fucking heard me. Pack a goddamn bag,” he growled. She let go of Sanders and stood up. Took a deep breath. Walked into the closet.
Aaaaaand cue the ugly truth ...
“... it would be the first child for both twenty-seven year old Ivanovic and thirty-one year old Kane. There were reports of their break up last year, but they have been spotted together several times since then, in New York, and they spent most of October together, in Berlin. Several people report seeing them together in Spain ...”
And there it was, a picture of him and Pet together. In Spain. It was taken from a distance, probably with some huge telescopic lens. They were standing in a parking space, in front of the marina where his boat was docked. They were facing each, obviously in some sort of conversation.
So much for not having contact with her. You got one wrong, Sandy.
“Stop thinking whatever it is you're fucking thinking!” Jameson shouted. Sanders walked in the room and Jameson leapt to his feet.
If he would have just said it in the beginning, that he wanted to sleep with her, couldn't not sleep with her, we could've been cool. One conversation. One sentence. There would have been no us. No hurt. No burning. No scars. God, why does this hurt so much? You knew it was coming.
“What's going on?” Sanders demanded.
“I don't know,” Tate managed to say. “He's freaking out.”
They both stared at her like she was insane.
“Tate, stop it. I have never -,” Jameson started, when she barked out a laugh.
“I'm not mad. Why would I be mad? It's not a big deal,” she assured him.
“Shut up, Tate. You're freaking out about something that I -,”
“I'm not freaking out!” she insisted, holding up her hands. “Do I look like I'm freaking out? Why would I freak out? I mean, it's fine. We're allowed to -,”
“Shut her up. Just shut her the fuck up, I have to call my lawyers!” Jameson barked, striding back towards his desk. Sanders knelt in front of her. She was still babbling.
“Honestly, I don't care. I mean, it's not like we were together right? We're not together now. We weren't together then. I have no right to ...,” she continued, talking at light speed. Sanders put his hand on her knee.
“Tatum. It's not true,” he insisted. She shook her head.
“... he can sleep with whoever he wants, I'm not the boss of him. I'm not even his girlfriend. It's just fun right, Sandy? Fun, fun, fun. Though it can't call me Auntie. The baby. That would just be weird ...”
“Shut up!” Jameson roared from behind her.
“Tatum, please,” Sanders whispered.
“... but I hope it does have his eyes. God, he has amazing eyes. And her bone structure. It would rule the world with those kind of looks. But it can't call me Auntie. Probably best if I'm not here when it comes over for visitation rights. That would be double weird. I'm not mad, Sandy. Do I sound mad? I'm fine. I'm fine.”
Sanders actually picked her up. Scooped her up off the couch, like she was a baby. Jameson was yelling into his phone while she was carried away. He had his back to the room, slicing an arm angrily through the air.
“No! No! I want this stopped, now! Any kind of lawsuit you can think of, just shut this bullshit up! I want a paternity test. I don't care, she can't claim it's mine without pro-,” he was ranting, but then Sanders whisked Tate through the door.
“You're awfully strong, Sandy. Do you work out?” she asked, resting her head against his chest, trying to catch her breath.
“Pilates. I also run every morning. Weight training in the evenings.”
“Pilates, huh. I wish I would've known. I love pilates.”
“I would be very glad to work out with you sometime.”
“Can we stop talking now?”
“Of course.”
Tate closed her eyes while he carried her up the stairs. Clung tighter to his shoulders. When they got to the bedroom, he tried to sit her down, but she wouldn't let go. He wound up sitting on the side of the bed, resting her against his chest.
“He has never lied to you,” Sanders whispered.
“Except one very important time.”
“Technically, he -,”
“A lie by omission is still a lie, Sanders,” she snapped. He took a deep breath, and his arms around her got tight.
“He is not lying,” he insisted. She took a deep breath.
“I know. I know, I'm just ..., upset. I'll be fine,” she whispered.
“Please. Please, just talk to him,” Sanders urged. She nodded, not lifting her head from his chest.
“Of course. Of course I will,” she replied.
“You need to trust him. You said you loved him,” he reminded her.
“I know what I said.”
That's what makes it so much worse. Why did I have to say it out loud?
By the time Jameson stormed up the stairs, she had gotten off Sanders' lap. Though she was holding his hand. Jameson burst into the room, glanced at them, and continued on into his closet. Sanders and Tate glanced at each other.
“We're going to New York!” he shouted.
“Excuse me?” Tate asked.
“You fucking heard me. Pack a goddamn bag,” he growled. She let go of Sanders and stood up. Took a deep breath. Walked into the closet.
