Reception
Page 18
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 seven of them, it had only been the two of them. Always the two of them. Sanders had missed those times, he was startled to realize.
“She's going to be very upset. Would you like me to break the news?” Jameson 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 three 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.
“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 seven of them, it had only been the two of them. Always the two of them. Sanders had missed those times, he was startled to realize.
“She's going to be very upset. Would you like me to break the news?” Jameson 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 three 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.
