“I will try my best.”

“That's all I can ask.”

“Are you sure you're not -,”

“I love you, Sanders,” she breathed, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “There is very little you could do to make me mad at you.”

“You were mad at me in Spain,” he reminded her as he leaned back into the couch. She snorted.

“You practically kidnapped me and handed me over to the devil, I get to be mad when you do things like that. But see, that was pretty fucking awful, and I still love you. So we're good,” she assured him. He nodded, though he continued to fidget.

“Are you going to leave Jameson?” he blurted out. She blinked at him.

“Why do you ask?” she countered, propping her knees up over him.

“Because I think you are planning on it, and I really would like you not to do that,” he answered, and there was definitely a slur to his voice. She sighed.

“Are you going to repeat this conversation to him?” she asked.

“If you ask me not to, than no, I won't.”

“Don't repeat this.”

“I won't.”

“Sandy, I ..., what he did, with Petrushka. That's a hard thing to let go. I say I'm fine, and I mean I'm fine, and then it's like ..., like I'm back in that pool,” she whispered. “Like I'm eighteen again, and he's looking at me like I'm trash. I don't know if I want to live life this way, waiting for the next thing Jameson's gonna do to me, and I don't think he'll ever change, or ever admit anything is wrong. I'm not leaving today, or tomorrow, but ..., I can't make any promises.”

“Then I guess that's all I can ask. But Tatum, he does not think you are trash. He has strange ways, and he doesn't know how to talk to you at all, but he cares very deeply for you. If you left him, he would be devastated, in his own way. I know this,” Sanders replied, resting a hand on her knee.

“'In his own way' loosely translates to 'so devastated, he fucks every woman in the tri-state area',” she joked. He made a face.

“I wouldn't have put it quite like that, but yes, pretty much like that,” he said, but she knew he was joking.

“What about you? If I decide I'm not strong enough for Mr. Jameson Kane, are you going to disown me? Let me go? Or would you run away with me?” she asked. He thought for a long while.

“I would never disown you, because I don't own you, and if you have to go, then I have to let you go. Sometimes, running away sounds very appealing, but in my experience, it just makes things worse. I suppose we could be penpals,” he offered, and she burst out laughing.

“Okay, I'll take that.”

She pulled him close and hugged him, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. For once, there was no tensing up, no hesitation, he just hugged her right back. Sighed into the side of her hair.

“I used to hate it when you touched me,” he said softly. She laughed.

“I know, I think that's why I liked doing it so much,” she replied, scratching his back.

“Now I almost think I like it. Sometimes. Thank you, Tatum.”

“You're very welcome, Sanders.”

She squeezed him tight, and he finally pushed her away when she tried to leave a hickey on his neck. He walked her to the door after that, though she hesitated to leave him. He waved her away, assuring her that he would be perfectly fine, that he would just go to bed. They said goodbye and she made her way back around to the main house, using the path he had pointed out. She shoved her hands in her jacket, guarding against the cold as she made her way home.

Home.

Her universe had, once again, shifted a little. So many things she had been holding against Jameson, poof. Gone. So angry at Jameson, all because Sanders was loyal to a fault and because she was a crazy bitch.

She was telling the truth, though; the incident with Petrushka would probably never sit right with her. Jameson had done that to hurt, had no regard for her feelings. He still had never officially declared how he felt, probably because he didn't feel any certain way towards her. Sure, he wanted her, wanted to own her, wanted to be the only person to own her. But that didn't equal feelings, or caring.

Or love.

As Tate stomped up the porch, she decided she needed just a little more time. She had learned a lot of new things – from Ang, from Sanders, from herself. She felt like one more blow, and she would be thrown irrevocably into crazy-fucking-bitch land. Then no one would want to be her friend.

As she pushed in the front door, she took a deep breath. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Then she would have a nice, long, chat with Mr. Kane and he would definitely -,

“Where the fuck have you been!?” his voice snapped from behind her. But before she could turn fully around, she was being grabbed around the waist. Thrown over his shoulder. Carried down the hall.

“Out to dinner! What the fuck are you doing!?” she demanded.

“It's almost midnight. Who the fuck has dinner from eleven o'clock in the morning until midnight?” Jameson demanded.

“Apparenly I fucking do! What is your problem!? Wait, stop. What are you doing!?” she all but shrieked as she heard a door get kicked open.

“It is most definitely time to rip off the band aid,” he growled, and then he was walking through the door he had just opened.

I just needed a couple more days, then I would've done anything you wanted.