Reparation
Page 47
She requested that Sanders stay behind, though, which made everyone happier. Sanders didn't like going to Germany. Jameson didn't like leaving Tate alone. Tate didn't particularly like being alone. So it all worked out.
It really wasn't so bad. That's what she kept telling herself. She tried to ignore the fact that the last time she had confessed her feelings to him, he had run away to Berlin. Awfully big coincidence. But it was just that, it had to be – she would have to trust that it was, trust him. So she did her best.
“What should we do without him?” she asked when Sanders finally came home.
“Same thing we usually do when he is not at home,” he replied, walking into the kitchen.
“I'm not making brownies. You called me fat a couple weeks ago,” she reminded him.
“You made me angry. I was provoked into saying that.”
“I didn't provoke shit. You were being a brat.”
“Though technically, you are a couple pounds overweight for your height.”
“Shut up! I am not!”
“Well, a couple more pounds, and you will be.”
“I WILL NOT!”
She laughed and threw flour all over him. A small baking fight ensued. Something about Sanders being messy just did her in. Perfect, pristine Sanders, coated in baking soda and canola oil, made her laugh endlessly. Even when she slipped in the oil and fell onto her back. Even when he dumped an entire ten pound bag of sugar on her. She couldn't stop. He finally pulled her up and dragged her to the bathroom, where he pushed her – fully clothed – into the shower. She shrieked when the cold water hit her.
“I am not amused,” was all he said before he stomped out of the room.
But he came back, clean and showered. He changed into pajamas and they enjoyed brownies while they watched a movie in the sitting room. She lamented about cleaning the kitchen, but he told her he would have a cleaning service come take care of it in the morning.
“Sandy, does Jameson know you have spooned with me? Multiple times?” she asked, shoving almost a whole brownie into her mouth.
“Yes. I tell him everything.”
“He doesn't mind?”
“No. Why should he?” Sanders asked, not taking his eyes off the television screen.
“He hates it when I so much as smile at Ang,” she pointed out.
“Mr. Hollingsworth is a threat. I am not,” Sanders pointed out. She nodded.
“Fair enough.”
They woke up the next morning, still on the couch. She was stretched across his chest, drooling. Attractive. He hid his disgust well when they got up, but she still laughed. Then he cooked them breakfast and they ate it outside, shivering in their pajamas. She found herself thinking that some of her happiest moments in life had been spent doing absolutely nothing with Sanders.
“Should I call him?” Tate asked, jumping up and down in the middle of Jameson's bed. Sanders stood in the doorway.
“If you want to,” he replied.
“Of course I want to. But I've never really called him before,” she told him.
“I know.”
“So, I kinda wanted it to be special, the first time I call him,” she tried to explain, jumping high and doing a toe touch.
“You are going to hurt yourself,” Sanders warned.
“Pffffft, no I won't.”
“Why would a phone call be special? Are you going to wait for his birthday?” Sanders asked.
“Don't be silly, it's because -, ACK!” she hit the mattress wrong and took off at an angle, almost bouncing clear into the closet. She hit the floor with a thud.
“I told you,” Sanders' voice called out to her.
She didn't have to worry about whether or not to call Jameson, though, because he called her.
“Have you been good, baby girl?” he asked. She was in the library and she looked across the hall, watching as people swept and cleaned in the kitchen.
“Uh ..., sure. You could say that.”
“Oh god.”
“Sanders is still in one piece,” she assured him.
“I don't want to talk about Sanders,” Jameson replied.
“What would you like to talk about?” she asked.
“How wet you are.”
“Oh my.”
“I'm waiting for an answer.”
By the time they got off the phone, she was laying on the floor behind the desk, her pants around her ankles. Breathing hard. The phone resting on her chest. She probably should've shut the library door, but she didn't really care.
Not when she was sitting on cloud nine.
The next day she and Sanders hit the town. She didn't want to go shopping, but she did want look into job options. She didn't tell Sanders until they were sitting on a bench, her perusing the want ads in a newspaper. He frowned when he realized what section she was reading.
“I don't think Jameson would like this idea,” he warned her. She shrugged.
“I have to do something, Sandy. I can't just sit in that house all the time, hanging on Jameson's every word. I need something,” she stressed, shivering and scooting closer to him.
“Jameson once mentioned that you were accepted to Harvard. That must mean you are smart,” he said. She snorted.
“Thanks, Sandy.”
“Why don't you go back to school? Surely, there is something you are interested in,” he suggested.
“Harvard costs an awful lot of money, Sandy. You gonna float me fifty grand?” she asked.
It really wasn't so bad. That's what she kept telling herself. She tried to ignore the fact that the last time she had confessed her feelings to him, he had run away to Berlin. Awfully big coincidence. But it was just that, it had to be – she would have to trust that it was, trust him. So she did her best.
“What should we do without him?” she asked when Sanders finally came home.
“Same thing we usually do when he is not at home,” he replied, walking into the kitchen.
“I'm not making brownies. You called me fat a couple weeks ago,” she reminded him.
“You made me angry. I was provoked into saying that.”
“I didn't provoke shit. You were being a brat.”
“Though technically, you are a couple pounds overweight for your height.”
“Shut up! I am not!”
“Well, a couple more pounds, and you will be.”
“I WILL NOT!”
She laughed and threw flour all over him. A small baking fight ensued. Something about Sanders being messy just did her in. Perfect, pristine Sanders, coated in baking soda and canola oil, made her laugh endlessly. Even when she slipped in the oil and fell onto her back. Even when he dumped an entire ten pound bag of sugar on her. She couldn't stop. He finally pulled her up and dragged her to the bathroom, where he pushed her – fully clothed – into the shower. She shrieked when the cold water hit her.
“I am not amused,” was all he said before he stomped out of the room.
But he came back, clean and showered. He changed into pajamas and they enjoyed brownies while they watched a movie in the sitting room. She lamented about cleaning the kitchen, but he told her he would have a cleaning service come take care of it in the morning.
“Sandy, does Jameson know you have spooned with me? Multiple times?” she asked, shoving almost a whole brownie into her mouth.
“Yes. I tell him everything.”
“He doesn't mind?”
“No. Why should he?” Sanders asked, not taking his eyes off the television screen.
“He hates it when I so much as smile at Ang,” she pointed out.
“Mr. Hollingsworth is a threat. I am not,” Sanders pointed out. She nodded.
“Fair enough.”
They woke up the next morning, still on the couch. She was stretched across his chest, drooling. Attractive. He hid his disgust well when they got up, but she still laughed. Then he cooked them breakfast and they ate it outside, shivering in their pajamas. She found herself thinking that some of her happiest moments in life had been spent doing absolutely nothing with Sanders.
“Should I call him?” Tate asked, jumping up and down in the middle of Jameson's bed. Sanders stood in the doorway.
“If you want to,” he replied.
“Of course I want to. But I've never really called him before,” she told him.
“I know.”
“So, I kinda wanted it to be special, the first time I call him,” she tried to explain, jumping high and doing a toe touch.
“You are going to hurt yourself,” Sanders warned.
“Pffffft, no I won't.”
“Why would a phone call be special? Are you going to wait for his birthday?” Sanders asked.
“Don't be silly, it's because -, ACK!” she hit the mattress wrong and took off at an angle, almost bouncing clear into the closet. She hit the floor with a thud.
“I told you,” Sanders' voice called out to her.
She didn't have to worry about whether or not to call Jameson, though, because he called her.
“Have you been good, baby girl?” he asked. She was in the library and she looked across the hall, watching as people swept and cleaned in the kitchen.
“Uh ..., sure. You could say that.”
“Oh god.”
“Sanders is still in one piece,” she assured him.
“I don't want to talk about Sanders,” Jameson replied.
“What would you like to talk about?” she asked.
“How wet you are.”
“Oh my.”
“I'm waiting for an answer.”
By the time they got off the phone, she was laying on the floor behind the desk, her pants around her ankles. Breathing hard. The phone resting on her chest. She probably should've shut the library door, but she didn't really care.
Not when she was sitting on cloud nine.
The next day she and Sanders hit the town. She didn't want to go shopping, but she did want look into job options. She didn't tell Sanders until they were sitting on a bench, her perusing the want ads in a newspaper. He frowned when he realized what section she was reading.
“I don't think Jameson would like this idea,” he warned her. She shrugged.
“I have to do something, Sandy. I can't just sit in that house all the time, hanging on Jameson's every word. I need something,” she stressed, shivering and scooting closer to him.
“Jameson once mentioned that you were accepted to Harvard. That must mean you are smart,” he said. She snorted.
“Thanks, Sandy.”
“Why don't you go back to school? Surely, there is something you are interested in,” he suggested.
“Harvard costs an awful lot of money, Sandy. You gonna float me fifty grand?” she asked.
