Separation (The Kane Trilogy Book 2)

by Stylo Fantome

  But he didn't. Their appetizers were brought out, and they chatted over normal things. Sanders was an avid horse rider, and Tate had ridden all through school, so they talked about horses and stables, the best places to ride. He complimented her hair and she complimented his suit. He promised that after dinner he would take her to McDonald's, so she could get a Happy Meal with a toy – she should have something to unwrap on her birthday, after all, and she could never resist a milkshake. She hugged him from across the table.

  “This was awesome, Sandy, thank you so much for taking me out,” Tate said as she scraped the last little bit of cake off her dessert plate. It was promptly whisked away, and two tiny glasses of port appeared in front of them.

  “Of course. I always enjoy our dinners. Which leads me to ask, I was wondering something. You can say no, I won't get mad. It was just an idea I had,” he started, sipping at the dark wine. Her defenses immediately went up. Apparently the conversation from earlier wasn't over.

  “Alright. What is it?” she asked slowly.

  “I am a fairly accomplished cook. I thought it would be nice to make you dinner one of these nights,” Sanders told her. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Of course! Just tell me when, and I'll come over to your place -,”

  “I moved out of the hotel,” he said quickly. Her breath caught in her throat. There was only one other place he would go.

  “Sandy, I know, I know he's your family, but I can't. I just can't go sit and have dinner with him. I'm not making you choose, really, I just can't be in that house, with him. I can't, I can't,” Tate was speaking at supersonic speeds. Sanders reached out and rested his hand on her arm, and she was instantly soothed. He never touched anybody, so any display of affection from him was a massive one.

  “He's not there. He left the country. He hasn't been home for almost six weeks,” Sanders explained.

  Six weeks. Tate had been out of the hospital for almost exactly six weeks. Apparently when she had said she wanted him gone, Jameson had taken her very literally. She was such a stupid girl, her stupid heart had believed him again. So much for seeing her around. Kind of hard to do from 3,000 miles away. Or was Berlin 4,000 miles away? She wasn't sure.

  Goddamn fucking stupid Danish beauty FUCK. FUCKER.

  “Oh. I just ..., I don't know. Let me think about it? It's hard, Sandy. It's ..., hard,” Tate's voice fell in to a whisper.

  Jameson's house had become home to Tate, in the short period of time she had stayed there. It was where she had met Sanders, a soulmate. It's where she had met her match, in Satan. More than her match, it turned out. She had left a piece of herself in that house, imbedded in the structure, buried in the foundation. She wasn't ready to get it back yet.

  “Of course, no pressure,” Sanders assured her. She smiled.

  “You could always come cook at our place. Nick has a really nice, commercial grade stove,” she told him. His lips quirked to the side.

  “May I ask you one more question?” Sanders ignored her suggestion.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you ever be ready to see him again?”

  Sanders just would not stop with the surprises. She wondered how long he had been planning this; Sanders would never do something without extensive planning, especially if it involved him going out of his comfort zone. This was so far out of his zone, he was practically a new person.

  “I don't know. I'm ..., he ..., I don't think I can explain it. I thought ..., I told him I felt a certain way. I didn't ask for anything back, but he led me to believe there was something. It was all a lie. A joke. A game. He didn't care about me, he just wanted to hurt me. Me, my heart. Why would a person do that? Why would he be so cruel to a person, just because she liked him?” Tate asked, wiping at tears again.

  “You know when I tell you something, it is completely unbiased, yes?” he asked. She nodded.

  “Are you even capable of being biased?”

  “No. And I am telling you, it was not all a joke to him. It was not a game. He didn't lure you in to 'falling for him' just so he could play some cruel prank on you. It wasn't like that. He is very stupid, I will agree, and he acted like a child, that is certain. As I said, I am not proud. But I also know that he cared about you,” Sanders stressed.

  Tate squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried to remember the pool. Sometimes, she almost thought she could. Coldness, surrounding her, coming from everywhere. From inside of her. Like being dead. She knew that Jameson wasn't the one who put her there – she had done that to herself, she was the only one to blame. She had debased herself, she had degraded herself. She had done a lot of low down, dirty things in her adult life, but that night had taken the cake.

  But Jameson had been a part of it. Tate may have been responsible for her drunk driving descent into madness, but Satan hadn't helped, either.

  “I'm sorry, Sandy, but I just don't believe that. It's just wishful thinking.”

  “You are entitled to think what you want, but that does not make it accurate. So. If you don't believe he ever cared for you, then there is no chance of you two making amends, sometime in the future?” Sanders questioned further. Tate almost laughed again.

  “Is this for real? No, Sandy, I don't think there is any chance that we will 'make amends' sometime in the future. I can't even imagine speaking to him, and clearly he doesn't want to speak to me. It's better this way. It was a pretty toxic relationship, whatever it was – I think I need to just calm down for a while. Show a little restraint. Maybe try out a normal relationship for once,” she told him. He quirked up an eyebrow.

  “A normal relationship? Like something with Mr. Castille?” Sanders asked. She laughed.

  “You know what, yeah. Maybe. Maybe something exactly like that. Nice and normal,” she replied.

  There was a very long pause, during which Sanders stared at her the whole time. The table was cleared and the check was brought, but he still stared. She began to wonder if she should pay when he finally looked down to grab the bill.

  “Would you like your birthday present now, or at home?” Sanders asked in a lightning quick shift of topics. She blinked in surprise.

  “Oh, uh, whenever is fine. You didn't have to get me anything, dinner was fabulous,” she told him, standing up. He came around the table and guided her back to the front of the restaurant.

  “A birthday is not a birthday without at least one real present,” Sanders replied. Tate laughed.

  “Did you make that up?” she asked. He shook his head and held the front door open.

  “No. Jameson taught me that, after I came back to America with him,” he replied. She tried not to choke while he gave instructions to the valet driver.

  “It's a nice rule to have,” she managed to croak out. Sanders turned to face her and reached inside his jacket.

  “Besides, I bought this long before I made the dinner plans, so it is your real present,” he told her, then pulled a long envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  Tate couldn't make sense of it at first. It was just a simple e-mail that had been printed out. It took her eyes a second to sort out the tiny lettering, but when she did, she was shocked. She gasped and looked between Sanders and the paper.

  “Is this for real!?” she exclaimed. He nodded.

  “Yes. We would leave three days after Christmas, because New Year's -,”

  “You bought me tickets to Spain!?” Tate squealed. Sanders glanced around, obviously embarrassed by her outburst.

  “I bought us tickets to Spain, for New Year's. The winters here become too much for me, and I thought you would enjoy a vacation,” he explained matter-o-factly.

  She shrieked again, startling him, as well as several other customers. Then she pounced on him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him as tightly as possible. He squirmed and grumbled into her ear, but he finally hugged her back.

  “This is going to be so much fun. So much fun. We will have the best time. I am going to turn you out. Thank
you so much,” she breathed. Sanders pulled away a little, looking down at her.

  “I think, after everything you've been through, you need this trip, Tatum,” he assured her.

  Her name. He said her name. It didn't come out often.

  She figured that deserved another present, so she kissed him, as loudly and sloppily as possible.

  *

  Three days after Christmas, Tate stood in Logan Airport, feeling very uncomfortable.

  She had finally gotten a hold of her sister, and Tate, Ellie, and Ang all met up for Christmas dinner. It was one of the most awkward experiences of her life – which was really saying something. Ang and Ellie barely spoke to each other. Tate had originally wanted to get everyone together to open presents Christmas morning, as well, but she threw that idea out the window and called Sanders, instead.

  She tried. She had really tried. He didn't really do Christmas, but Sanders said he would buy a tree and everything, if Tate spent the morning at his house. At Jameson's house. She finally agreed. Sanders picked her up, drove her out there, held her hand as they walked to the house. But she didn't even make it to the front door – halfway across the broad porch, she lost it, and had to lean over a railing and puke.

  Sanders didn't bother hiding the grossed out look on his face, but he didn't push her, either. They ate breakfast at an IHOP.

  The weeks leading up to her trip, she had been so excited, she could barely contain herself. What to pack, what to wear, what to buy. Looking up all sorts of things that she wanted to do. They were staying in Marbella, one of the southern most cities in Spain, close to Gibraltar. It was probably one of the warmer spots in Europe during the winter, which made her happy. She packed her bikini.

  But when Tate woke up the morning they were supposed to leave, she felt nervous for some reason. She didn't have any reason to, she had seen Sanders almost every single day since her birthday. He had shown her their flight itinerary to Spain, the pictures of the hotel they were going to stay in – had even bought tickets for a weekend trip to Paris. What wasn't there to be excited about?

  Something wasn't right, though; she just couldn't put her finger on it. As she waited on the other side of security for Sanders, Tate could feel it weighing heavy in her stomach. He had only checked one small bag, which seemed light for Sanders. The entire time she had known him, she had never seen him wear anything twice, so how could he go a whole week or two with just one suitcase full of clothing?

  Wait, one week, or two weeks? Holy shit, I have no idea when our return date is.

  “Sandy,” Tate started when he finally joined her. He glanced at her, straightening his tie as they walked away from security. “I can't believe I never asked, but when are we coming home?”

  “I haven't booked return tickets yet.”

  “What!?”

  She pulled him to a stop.

  “I haven't booked them yet. I figured when you grew tired of Spain, I would simply buy you a ticket home. Very simple. Can we continue?” Sanders asked, trying to pull his arm free of her grip.

  “That's insane, I don't even want to think about how much that ticket would cost, let alone the swanky resort you booked. How much is all this costing you?” Tate demanded. His eyebrows furrowed together.

  “This is a gift, I won't discuss the price. Just know that cost is never a problem for me. I had to cancel the hotel reservations, anyway. A more suitable location became available,” he informed her. She wouldn't let go of his sleeve, so he just started walking forward. Tate was forced to follow.

  “What? That place looked amazing – where are we staying that's better than that?” she asked, her mind whirling.

  “The area we are going to is referred to as the Costa Del Sol, renowned for its boating. I thought a yacht would be more in order,” Sanders replied.

  Tate knew what the Costa Del Sol was; her father had never taken them there, but she was well aware of its reputation. She wondered if she'd even be allowed in the town, or if they would request bank statements first.

  “You rented a yacht!? For just the two of us? This is insane,” she repeated her earlier sentiment. Sanders finally managed to pull his sleeve free.

  “This is all very carefully planned, just for you. I would ask that you trust me on all things,” he said, cutting his eyes towards her.

  Tate pressed her lips together and glared at him, but didn't say anything else. Ooohhh, Sanders was a clever man. She trusted him implicitly, but that was also a scary thing. Tate never wanted to offend him by not showing her faith in him, so of course, she went along with anything he said. She would go along with him for now.

  But something was most very, definitely, off.

  *

  The plane ride was long, and she slept fitfully through most of it. They had to switch planes in Paris, and she seriously considered making a run for it. Or asking Sanders if they could just stay there. But as they walked through Charles de Gaulle Airport, Tate couldn't help but notice something.

  Sanders looked happy. Sure, he wasn't smiling, but he had a lighter step. His eyes didn't look so intense. If she hadn't known any better, she would almost say he seemed excited. While she loved Sanders with her whole heart, and knew that he cared a great deal about her, Tate couldn't fathom him being excited about taking a trip with her. Half the time, she almost felt like he stuck around to make sure she didn't stick her finger in a light socket, like a babysitter.

  “How many times have you been to Marbella?” she asked as they waited to board their flight to Malaga. From there, he told her that they would drive to their final destination.

  “Many times, though I haven't been there in over a year,” Sanders replied.

  “Do you speak Spanish?”

  “Enough to get by.”

  “How many languages do you speak?”

  “Enough to get by.”

  She punched him in the arm.

  Sanders had booked them first class the whole way, but the plane they took to Malaga was so nice, Tate almost wondered if she should take her shoes off before stepping inside. She sank into her cushy seat and sighed, rolling her head back and forth. When she opened her eyes, Sanders was staring at her.

  “You do trust me, don't you?” he suddenly asked. She blinked, and guilt washed over her.

  “Of course I trust you, Sandy. You're the most open, honest person I know. Sometimes, I don't feel worthy of your friendship,” Tate replied, reaching over and holding his hand. He squeezed her fingers back.

  “You are very worthy of it, but thank you. I am glad you trust me. Everything I have ever done has been to help you, since that night,” he assured her.

  Where is this going?

  “I know that.”

  “Good. Just ..., I just wanted you to know that,” Sanders stammered a little, and then looked away from her. But he didn't let go of her hand.

  Tate hadn't really slept on the seven hour flight to Paris, but she conked out for the first hour of their next leg. When she woke up, the flight attendants were bringing around drinks. At first they tried speaking to her in Spanish, then switched to English.

  “Would you care for some champagne?” the attendant inquired in a lilting French accent. Tate shook her head.

  “No, no thank you.”

  “And your husband?”

  Tate almost burst out laughing, glancing at Sanders. He had his head tilted back and his eyes closed, dead asleep. His arms were folded across his chest. Prim and proper, even in his sleep.

  “I think he's fine. He's not my husband, just a good friend,” Tate explained. The attendant laughed.

  “Oh, madam, he is much too handsome to be just a friend,” she laughed, then winked at Tate before moving on down the aisle.

  Tate took another look at Sanders. He was a very good looking man. He had a slender frame and wasn't particularly tall, but his face had that Look – like a Louis Vuitton runway model. Fair skin, full lips, defined jaw. Almost androgynous, but not quite. Pretty was a word that of
ten came to her mind when thinking of him. Sanders was a very pretty man. She had never been physically attracted to him herself, but she thought it was funny when she was with him, watching other women do double takes. It was the same thing with Ang. Apparently Tate only surrounded herself with good looking men, because Satan was the best looking of them all, and Nick was no slouch, either.

  Nick. She sighed and glanced at her phone. He had texted her, during their brief stop in Paris. He had not been happy about her leaving. After their highly publicized little lip-lock, he had gone back to Iowa to spend Christmas with his family. He had invited her, but Tate had figured that was a bad idea on a cosmic scale.

  Apparently saying he wasn't going to press his attentions on her really meant he wouldn't bother her about it unless she was out of his sight. Now Nick was making his feelings known, very vehemently. He cared about Tate. He thought they made a great team, a great couple. They already knew they were physically compatible. What was the problem? Was it him?

  The problem was ..., she didn't know what her problem was, Tate just knew she couldn't be with him. Not that way. She hadn't told Sanders any of it, because she knew he would just tell her to end the friendship. And she didn't want to do that. She opened her text messages.

  Please tell me you have spent at least half as much time thinking about me as I have about you.

  Tate hadn't texted him back, because she hadn't been thinking about him. God, she was an awful person. A horrible, awful person. She cared about Nick a lot, but just as a friend. She had no desire for it to be anything more.

  She looked around at the other men sitting in first class. She wondered if she would ever want “anything more” with someone else. She hadn't slept with anyone in almost three months. Her longest dry spell since she had run away to Boston, seven years ago. Men and sex were so far off her radar, she was practically a nun.

  She actually laughed out loud at that thought.

  When they got off the plane in Malaga, Tate teased Sanders about falling asleep. He was such a highly strung person, imagining him nodding off in front of people was hard, but he'd been out like a light for the whole ride. He wouldn't meet her eyes as they picked up their luggage.