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 it has happened. 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 here! 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, it didn't necessarily automatically make them attractive, at least not to him. 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,” he 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.
At my father ...
“I'm very sorry,” Sanders said in a soft voice.
Jameson turned around and Sanders halfway expected anger, but the other man just sighed and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him into a hug. Jameson was a lot bigger than Sanders, taller. Broader. They were only ten years apart in age, but he always felt like so much more to Sanders. Stature, size, age. Everything. Sanders felt like he could fit inside him.
It's where I've been living all these years.
“I'm sorry,” Jameson whispered, his arms tight around Sanders. “I should've ... I should've been more careful. I'm not mad. Never think I'm mad. And you don't have to go. We can work something out, we can try.”
Sanders shook his head.
“No. It wouldn't be right. I am the problem, I am the one in the way. I am twenty-one years old. It is time I do something for myself,” Sanders replied, wrapping his arms around Jameson's middle.
“You can do that from here. She'll miss you, you know,” Jameson pointed out.
“I know. But it's necessary,” Sanders stressed.
“I'll miss you.”
“And I can guarantee I will miss you more. But I am not dying. I will come home for Christmas,” Sanders promised.
Jameson barked out a laugh and pulled away. Held Sanders at arms-length and looked him over. They had been in each others lives for almost nine years, and for the first seven, it had only been the two of them. Always the two of them. Sanders missed those times, he was startled to realize.
“She's going to be very upset. Would you like me to break the news?” Jameso
n asked. Sanders shrugged.
“Eventually. I still have some preparations to make, things to set up, before I leave. We can continue as normal until then. I would never try to ...” Sanders' voice trailed off, not sure how to end that sentence.
“Don't be stupid, I wouldn't ever think you would. Are you going to just avoid her till you go? You know she won't take that, she'll just come find you,” Jameson warned him. Sanders nodded.
“I know. I won't avoid her. But I think it would be best if I didn't spend as much time in the main house,” he suggested.
“Fair enough. If there's anything you need me to do. Or ... not do ...” Jameson was obviously struggling with words, as well. Sanders waved the suggestion away.
“Of course not, I would never ask that of you. Do as you have always done,” he instructed. Jameson sighed, dropping his arms.
“God, this is awkward as fuck. Why can't things ever be normal for us?” he grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.
He didn't get an answer. Tatum pranced back into the room, wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top over her bikini. She had yanked her hair up into a sloppy ponytail and hadn't bothered with any makeup or shoes. She skipped across the room, to Sanders' side, and kissed him on the cheek. He managed a tight lipped smile as she made her way to Jameson's desk. Both men stared at each other.
“Did you remember to get my veggie spring rolls?” Tatum asked, picking through the food boxes.
“Of course,” Jameson replied. She smiled and grabbed a styrofoam container before turning towards him.
“You take such good care of me,” she sighed in a sappy voice, before standing on tiptoe and kissing his cheek, too.
“Always, Liebe. Go wait in the kitchen, we'll bring the food,” Jameson said in a soft voice, kissing her quickly. She headed off into the kitchen, but not before stealing another kiss.
Liebe. German for love. His love. The only woman he's ever loved.
“I don't want things to be awkward. I would be very uncomfortable,” Sanders said quickly. Jameson rolled his eyes.
“I think it's a little fuckin' late for that. C'mon, Cassanova, carry some boxes. We'll figure this shit out eventually,” Jameson grumbled, then picked up some of the food cartons.
A WEEK LATER, SANDERS told Tatum his decision. She did not take it well, as predicted. There was crying and begging and cajoling. Then pouting. Then the silent treatment. She didn't want him to go, and she was willing to go to great lengths to convince him to stay, even if it meant guilt tripping him. Sanders, however, had unshakable reserve.
She cracked after another week, and Sanders woke up in the middle of the night to her crawling into bed with him. He was a little shocked; she had never stayed over at the guest house while Jameson was in town. But she snuggled up against him, cried into his shoulder, and wished him well. Made him promise that she could visit him, wherever he ended up.
Maybe not such a good thing.
It took him an additional month, but Sanders finally figured out what he was going to do. If he was going to “leave the nest”, as it were, then he decided he might as well make it meaningful. He would go back to his roots. He would go to Russia. He knew that his grandparents were originally from Moscow, and though he had no desire to look up his family in Belarus, he lined up a tutoring job with Lomonosov Moscow State University – it wasn't hard, with his ability to speak multiple languages and his grades.
So six weeks after his confession to Jameson, Sanders Dashkevich was ready to leave everything he had known for the last nine years and move halfway across the world.
All because a woman with dark eyes and a teasing smile had dared to kiss him.
“Sanders,” Jameson's voice called out. Sanders had been walking out of the kitchen and turned back around. Walked into the library. It was late at night and all the lights were off. Just the fire was raging, as it always was when Jameson was at home.
“Yes?” Sanders asked, taking a seat in front of the desk. Jameson sat behind it, shadows flickering across his face. Tatum often teased that he looked like Satan. At that moment, Sanders couldn't argue with the description.
“You leave in four days.”
It was said as a statement. Sanders nodded in agreement.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to do anything special?”
“No, not really. I think that will just make it worse.”
“Alright. I'll take you to the airport on Sunday.”
“Just you?”
“Just me.”
“Is she ...” Sanders let his voice trail off, his gaze fixed on the flames. It hurt him to see her hurt – she was his friend. A kindred spirit. A soulmate. He didn't want to hurt her.
“No, we talked about it and felt it was best if she didn't come along. But she does have something special she would like to do for you, before you go,” Jameson continued.
“And that is?”
“A surprise.”
Sanders looked away from the fire, back to Satan.
“What kind of surprise?”
“One we both think you'll enjoy.”
“Oh god.”
Jameson laughed and stood up from his chair, came around the desk. Clapped Sanders on the shoulder.
“I will miss you, mijo. More than I can tell you,” he said softly. Sanders nodded. Cleared his throat.
“Claro – and I will miss you, too.”
There was silence for a moment, then Jameson squeezed his shoulder one last time before walking out of the room. Another moment later, and the door slowly swung shut. But Sanders wasn't alone in the room. He finally turned in his chair and took in Tatum standing in front of the door, her hands behind her back.
“How are you?” she asked, smiling at him. He frowned.
“I am well. And you?”
“Good.”
“What is going on?” Sanders demanded.
Tatum laughed and finally walked forward, taking Jameson's seat on the opposite side of the desk.
“Nothing bad, I promise,” she assured him.
“I don't believe you.”
“Not a shocker. Look. You're leaving soon. Jameson and I were trying to figure out something to do for you, something ... something ...” she was clearly searching for the right word.
“Something what?” he asked, looking around the room.
“Something special,” her voice went soft.
“Special how?” he pressed.
“Things are going to change a lot. You've never lived alone. You'll be surrounded by people you don't know. I worry about you,” her voice got even softer.
“Pardon me, but I lived on the streets of London for over six months – behind a dumpster, no less. I think I can handle living in the house I've rented,” Sanders assured her. She laughed.
“Not what I mean, Sandy. Look ... just ... hear me out, alright?” she begged.
“Oh god.”
“I want to give you a send off that will help you in your new life, help you adjust,” she kept stumbling over her words. Sanders sighed.
“Please just say it. I have heard many strange things come out of your mouth before, and I have yet to be truly disgusted or offended. So there's no need to be afraid,” he promised. She leaned across the desk and smiled, but it was decidedly dark. Almost a little evil. Satanic.
“I want to give you a present ...”
~8~
They went to Gloucester, Massachusetts. Sanders wasn't entirely sure why – the beach during the summer was awful. So many people and tourists. But Tate loved Good Harbor Beach, so he'd allowed himself to be dragged to the coast.
He was somewhat regretting it now. He'd assumed she'd booked a house for them. Money was no object for people like Jameson and Sanders, so even at the height of vacation season, they could have found something. Silly man, he'd forgotten who he was dealing with, though. She'd booked them a room at a quaint but cheap motel that was directly on the beach.
When they'd checked in, he'd kept calm an
d collected, but inwardly, his skin had been crawling. So many people, all around him. Being loud and rude. Flip flops clacking away, the smell of sunscreen everywhere, hairy backs as far as the eye could see.
“We could have gone to Saint-Tropez,” he'd pointed out. She'd laughed at him while she'd signed them into their room.
“And waste half a day getting there and then again coming back? I only have you for four more days, I'm not wasting any of them.”
The room had been small. One king sized bed with an ugly comforter. A scratched dresser against the wall, and a worn but comfortable sitting chair near the bed. Surprisingly enough, the bathroom was very large. A spacious, but dated, tub took up most of one wall, and a shower stall, vanity, and toilet were across from it. There was lots of floor space, and he assumed it was because of the beach. Giving the motel dwellers ample space to clean off all the sand.
I wonder if there is a Hilton nearby. I cannot be expected to shower here.
Though Sanders loved any time he got to spend with Tate, he couldn't quite figure out her game. Good Harbor Beach wasn't exactly anywhere special. They put their overnight bags in a corner in the room. They had a normal dinner at a plain restaurant. All things that could have been done at home.
“Will you tell me now?” he finally asked.
It was almost midnight and they were down on the beach. There were some bonfires in the distance, and once in a while a couple people sauntered around up closer to the street. But they were down in the water line, letting the ocean lap at their legs. It was also unseasonably chilly out, so that seemed to be keeping people away.
“Tell you what?” Tate asked, staring out over the black sea. The wind was whipping some loose strands of her hair around and she kept trying to tuck them behind her ears, almost absentmindely.
“Why we are here,” he said, looking down at her. She was to his side and a couple steps in front of him. Her sandals were dangling from one hand and she had her other hand up by her face, still fighting with her hair. Though it was cold, she hadn't bothered changing out of what she'd driven up in – high waisted black shorts, which were very tiny. Almost more like bathing suit bottoms. On top was a loose black crop top. Ridiculous for the weather, really, but so perfect for her.
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