Reparation
Page 8
She had a lot of catching up to do.
She had to plead and beg for a couple of days, but she finally got Ang to agree to come out. She didn't even have to give him a ride, as it turned out. Ellie loaned him her car. Barf. But Tate smiled and hugged him at the door, pretended like she didn't care. Not even one little bit.
“See, it's not so bad,” Tate pointed out, ushering him inside. Ang frowned while he looked around.
“It's worse.”
She had dinner delivered and they ate in the kitchen. That room had taken her a while to get used to, as well. She had some good memories in it, most of them burned into the island. But there were some bad memories, too. Ukranian-Danish monsters, stomping around Tatum's land.
“It's a lot, but you get used to it,” she commented as they walked out of the kitchen and he took in the huge hall.
“Maybe you get used to it – you grew up somewhere like this, I bet. I grew up in a shoe box,” he said.
“This is the sitting room,” she started giving him a tour.
“What do you do in a sitting room?” Ang asked, glancing in the large room. Two sofas faced each other over a large, flat coffee table, and a gigantic fireplace stood on the far wall.
“I have no fucking clue. On the other side is the living room,” she turned back to look behind them.
“My whole apartment could fit in here,” Ang breathed, walking into the room. Turning to the pristine couches. There was a bar at the back of the room and a door in the far corner. She led him through it.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, and she smiled, not turning on the lights in the conservatory. The lights around the pool and pool house were on, casting an orange glow into the room.
“I love this part of the house. In the summer, Ang, you would die. It gets so warm in here, almost like a sauna, and it looks right over the pool,” she explained, walking the length of the room.
“It smells amazing in here. Who takes care of all these? I gave you that bamboo once, and you killed it,” he reminded her.
“It's one of Sanders' hobbies. Jameson and I aren't allowed to touch anything. One time we overturned a table of American Beauties. He was able to save them, but he didn't speak to us for about two days,” she told him.
“And how did you two manage to overturn an entire table full of roses?” Ang asked, an eyebrow cocked up. She snorted.
“Shut up.”
“Slut.”
“You love it.”
She led him upstairs. She gestured to Sanders' old room, but didn't go inside. No one went in there, it was like an unspoken rule. Across from the main house was a guest house – a home still bigger than most average Americans'. Sanders was staying there.
She showed Ang the upstairs study, a den, a game room. Several very posh guests room. She showed him a bathroom so big, her old apartment could have fit inside it. They both laughed at the fact that their homes could fit inside just two rooms in Jameson's home. Rich people. Then they circled back to the main hall, worked their way towards the door at the very end.
“What's left?” Ang asked. Tate chewed on her bottom lip.
“My room,” she replied, and swung the door open. She went inside, but Ang stayed in the doorway, looking around.
“Your room, huh. Looks more like Satan lives here,” he commented, his eyes wandering over the dark decor. The heavy, oak furniture. The huge, black bedspread. She rolled her eyes.
“You scared of the devil, Angy wangy?” she teased, walking further into the room. He snorted and followed her inside.
“So this is where it happens,” he sighed, striding up to the bed.
“What?” she asked, standing next to him.
“The magic,” he deadpanned, and she cracked up.
“Sometimes. C'mon, look at this,” she said, and led him into the walk-in closet.
“If you're trying to impress me, it won't work. My sexual favors can't be bought,” he told her, fingering one of Jameson's blazers. Tate pulled the jacket down.
“Yes, they can. Try it on,” she offered, holding the jacket out. He looked like he was going to be sick.
“I'm sure you miss him, but I am not about to dress up like him and ride around on you while you wear a saddle, or whatever sick fetish you richies are into,” he said loudly. She burst out laughing.
“Ang. This is Dolce & Gabbana. It cost over $2,000. Have you ever worn an article of clothing that cost that much? C'mon, put it on, and we'll go get high, and then he can bitch about that time Angier made his two-grand-jacket smell like weed,” she suggested.
Ang put it on.
“I'm taller than him,” he commented, staring at his wrists where they jutted out of the cuffs.
“Duh. Haven't you noticed?” she asked, walking around, straightening out the material. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, let her touch linger.
“I mean, yeah, I guess. He's just ...,” he let his voice trail off.
“Larger than life?” she filled in for him. He nodded again.
“Don't tell him I said that.”
“Won't breathe a word.”
“Good. At least I've got something on him,” he commented, pushing up the sleeves.
“At least two and a half inches. He's like six-two,” she told him, coming back to his front.
“Short stuff.”
“You've got more on him than that,” she teased, winking at him. He nodded.
She had to plead and beg for a couple of days, but she finally got Ang to agree to come out. She didn't even have to give him a ride, as it turned out. Ellie loaned him her car. Barf. But Tate smiled and hugged him at the door, pretended like she didn't care. Not even one little bit.
“See, it's not so bad,” Tate pointed out, ushering him inside. Ang frowned while he looked around.
“It's worse.”
She had dinner delivered and they ate in the kitchen. That room had taken her a while to get used to, as well. She had some good memories in it, most of them burned into the island. But there were some bad memories, too. Ukranian-Danish monsters, stomping around Tatum's land.
“It's a lot, but you get used to it,” she commented as they walked out of the kitchen and he took in the huge hall.
“Maybe you get used to it – you grew up somewhere like this, I bet. I grew up in a shoe box,” he said.
“This is the sitting room,” she started giving him a tour.
“What do you do in a sitting room?” Ang asked, glancing in the large room. Two sofas faced each other over a large, flat coffee table, and a gigantic fireplace stood on the far wall.
“I have no fucking clue. On the other side is the living room,” she turned back to look behind them.
“My whole apartment could fit in here,” Ang breathed, walking into the room. Turning to the pristine couches. There was a bar at the back of the room and a door in the far corner. She led him through it.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, and she smiled, not turning on the lights in the conservatory. The lights around the pool and pool house were on, casting an orange glow into the room.
“I love this part of the house. In the summer, Ang, you would die. It gets so warm in here, almost like a sauna, and it looks right over the pool,” she explained, walking the length of the room.
“It smells amazing in here. Who takes care of all these? I gave you that bamboo once, and you killed it,” he reminded her.
“It's one of Sanders' hobbies. Jameson and I aren't allowed to touch anything. One time we overturned a table of American Beauties. He was able to save them, but he didn't speak to us for about two days,” she told him.
“And how did you two manage to overturn an entire table full of roses?” Ang asked, an eyebrow cocked up. She snorted.
“Shut up.”
“Slut.”
“You love it.”
She led him upstairs. She gestured to Sanders' old room, but didn't go inside. No one went in there, it was like an unspoken rule. Across from the main house was a guest house – a home still bigger than most average Americans'. Sanders was staying there.
She showed Ang the upstairs study, a den, a game room. Several very posh guests room. She showed him a bathroom so big, her old apartment could have fit inside it. They both laughed at the fact that their homes could fit inside just two rooms in Jameson's home. Rich people. Then they circled back to the main hall, worked their way towards the door at the very end.
“What's left?” Ang asked. Tate chewed on her bottom lip.
“My room,” she replied, and swung the door open. She went inside, but Ang stayed in the doorway, looking around.
“Your room, huh. Looks more like Satan lives here,” he commented, his eyes wandering over the dark decor. The heavy, oak furniture. The huge, black bedspread. She rolled her eyes.
“You scared of the devil, Angy wangy?” she teased, walking further into the room. He snorted and followed her inside.
“So this is where it happens,” he sighed, striding up to the bed.
“What?” she asked, standing next to him.
“The magic,” he deadpanned, and she cracked up.
“Sometimes. C'mon, look at this,” she said, and led him into the walk-in closet.
“If you're trying to impress me, it won't work. My sexual favors can't be bought,” he told her, fingering one of Jameson's blazers. Tate pulled the jacket down.
“Yes, they can. Try it on,” she offered, holding the jacket out. He looked like he was going to be sick.
“I'm sure you miss him, but I am not about to dress up like him and ride around on you while you wear a saddle, or whatever sick fetish you richies are into,” he said loudly. She burst out laughing.
“Ang. This is Dolce & Gabbana. It cost over $2,000. Have you ever worn an article of clothing that cost that much? C'mon, put it on, and we'll go get high, and then he can bitch about that time Angier made his two-grand-jacket smell like weed,” she suggested.
Ang put it on.
“I'm taller than him,” he commented, staring at his wrists where they jutted out of the cuffs.
“Duh. Haven't you noticed?” she asked, walking around, straightening out the material. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, let her touch linger.
“I mean, yeah, I guess. He's just ...,” he let his voice trail off.
“Larger than life?” she filled in for him. He nodded again.
“Don't tell him I said that.”
“Won't breathe a word.”
“Good. At least I've got something on him,” he commented, pushing up the sleeves.
“At least two and a half inches. He's like six-two,” she told him, coming back to his front.
“Short stuff.”
“You've got more on him than that,” she teased, winking at him. He nodded.
