Reparation (29 page)

She gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. She couldn't believe it. Couldn't fucking believe it. Tears filled her eyes, and she managed a laugh. She was vaguely aware of the woman asking her what was wrong, asking what was in the box, but she ignored her. A long ago conversation floated into her mind.

“
It's knowing the worth of what you have. Fake pearls are just as good as real pearls, if they're given with good intentions and love. If Ang gave me the gaudiest, ugliest, tackiest, strand of fake pearls ever, I would love them more than any set of real pearls my parents ever gave me. Ang loves me.
”

“
If
Ang
gave you pearls, huh. And what if I gave you pearls? What would they mean to you?
”

“
You don't love me, so to be impressed, that price tag better be huge.
”

Sitting inside the fancy velvet box, a box that had a
Cartier
logo on the inside of it, was the guadiest, ugliest, tackiest strand of fake pearls,
ever
. Fake was too generous a word. The necklace was basically costume jewelry. It was like he had walked into one of those Claire's boutiques, then looked through the clearance bin for the cheapest piece of shit necklace he could possibly find. It even had the price tag still stuck to it. The actual cost had been crossed out with a black marker, but it had been marked down and the original price was still visible.

$4.99
.

She could not stop laughing.

Oh, Satan. Got me again.

“What's so funny?” Nick suddenly asked.

“He ..., it's ..., I can't,” she laughed. He glanced into the box.

“Jameson Kane got you that?” he asked, surprise obvious in his voice. She nodded.

“You see, we ..., it's a long story,” she sighed, sitting the box on the table, leaving it open.

“So strange. Look, what I was saying was, maybe we could go upstairs, and continue our discussion,” Nick said, leaning his elbow on her chair.

“Hmmm?” she asked absent-mindedly, staring at the pearls.

You thought he was trying to buy you. He asked you to listen. Are you listening now?

“You know, what we've been talking about,” Nick pressed, trailing his fingertip in a circle on her arm.

“What?” she asked, not able to tear her eyes away from the box.

He's hearing you. Really hearing you. He didn't run away. You ran away.
Hear him
.

“What we've been talking about. You, me,” Nick lead her along.

“I don't ..., know what ...,” she couldn't form coherent thoughts. Jameson was in her head, taking up all the space, forcing everything out.

“
... you're willing to try it all out with him? Let me try it out with you ...
”

“You and me, moving in together,” Nick finally spelled it out. She lifted her eyes to his. Really looked at him.

“
... That's all I came here to do ... to give you whatever you want ...
”

All I ever wanted was for him to love me.

Hear him
.

“I'm sorry,” Tate breathed.

Nick blinked in surprise, clearly confused for a moment. Then he looked at the box. Back at her. Then the box. Realization dawned across his face and his smile fell away. His eyes found hers, and she started to cry again.

“I see,” he whispered back.

“I'm so sorry,” Tate babbled. “I'm so, so sorry. I tried. I really tried. You are one of the best people I've ever known. You're smart and funny and sexy, and everything. You're
everything
. I don't know what's wrong with me, I'm just this horrible, demon, person, thing -,”

“Hey, hey, it's okay. Stop,” Nick urged, cupping her face in his hands.

“No, it's not okay. This is what I was so scared of, I didn't want to use you. I didn't want to hurt you,” she cried. The people around them were starting to look uncomfortable, but she didn't care.

“I'm okay. I mean, I'm not gonna lie, it kinda hurts to come in second,” he managed a laugh, and her heart broke a little for the beautiful, amazing man in front of her. “But somehow, I don't think I was ever really in the running.”

“I tried,” she whispered.

“I know,” he whispered back.

“Please, don't hate me. I can't stand the thought of you hating me,” she begged, and he outright laughed.

“Tatum O'Shea, I could never hate you. I just hope that while you're jet setting, or vacationing in Monaco, or lounging in the Hamptons, that sometimes you'll think of me,” he told her.

“Nick, I could never forget you,” she laughed as well.

“You sure about that? I'm not a mutli-millionaire, or an aspiring porn star,” he teased.

“No. You're better.”

“Don't you forget it. Now, get out of here. You're cramping my style. I was very set on not going home alone tonight, and the girl I had my eye on is taken,” he told her, playfully shoving her head away. She laughed.

“The girl you had your eye on is stupid,” she sniffled, wiping at her nose with a napkin.

“Sometimes. But sometimes, she's pretty great.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, just softly, on the lips. She felt his hand on the back of her neck, for the briefest moment, then he pulled away. He smiled at her, wiped at the edge of her bottom lip with his thumb, then nodded. He grabbed her jewelry box, snapping it closed before handing it over.

“Alright. Make sure he works for it – that guy's an asshole,” he warned her. She stood up and nodded, wiping at her eyes.

“I know. Haven't you learned yet? That's exactly my type,” she joked.

“Jesus, I really never stood a chance.”

“Is it okay if I call you?” she asked.

“You had better. Now
go.
”

She walked out of the conference room. Dashed across the lobby. Ran up to the elevators. She hopped from foot to foot, struggling to take off her heels. The elevator doors finally opened and she hopped inside, managing to get one shoe off. A little girl, clearly straight from the pool, walked onto the elevator as well, hugging a huge towel around her body. The doors slid shut and Tate hit the button for the second to highest floor.

“Hey,” Tate asked, bending down to take off her other shoe. “Do you have a hair tie I could borrow?”

“What?” the girl asked.

“A hair tie. I'll give you my shoes,” Tate laughed. The little girl pulled an elastic band off her wrist and handed it over.

“They won't fit me. Don't you need your shoes?” the girl asked, eyeballing Tate like she was insane.

“No, not where I'm going,” Tate replied, yanking her hair up into a high, messy ponytail.

“Where are you going?”

“To chase down a guy.”

“Your boyfriend?”

Tate laughed.

“No, not my boyfriend,” she replied.

“Then why are you chasing him?” the girl asked. Tate looked at her reflection in the shiny walls, straightened out her dress.

“Because I think I want him to be my boyfriend,” she said. The girl scrunched up her nose.

“Oh. I thought boys asked girls out,” she said in a matter-o-fact voice. Tate snorted and lowered herself so she was eye to eye with the girl.

“No way, girls can do
anything
boys can do, including ask people out. You know what I say? If you really like somebody,
just go for it,
” Tate explained. The girl smiled.

“I think you'll get him,” she assured her. Tate stood up.

“You think so?” she asked, holding out her arms like she was under inspection.

“Yes. You look really pretty,” she told her. Tate nodded.

“Good. He likes pretty,” Tate said, turning to stare at the floor numbers.

“Is he cute?” the girl asked. Tate glanced down at her.

“The truth? He is the cutest boy I have ever met, in my entire life,” she told the girl.

“Wow. Cuter than Justin Bieber?”

“Yes. Cuter than Justin Bieber.”

“
Wow.
”

The elevator stopped and the doors dinged open. Tate squealed and kicked her shoes out onto the floor in front of her. She glanced up and down the hall, then turned back to the elevator. The little girl was giving her the thumbs up. Tate gave it back.

“Wish me luck!” she said. The girl laughed.

“Good luck!”

And then the elevator doors slid shut.

Tate realized in her romance-movie-style rush to see Jameson, she had forgotten that she didn't have a fucking clue what room he was in, let alone what floor. He was staying in a suite, that was for sure. The suites were on the top floors. She dug her fingers underneath the side of her dress, at the side of her waist. She made contact with something hard and she pinched it between her fingers, yanking her cell phone out. She called the front desk.

“Hi!” she shouted when someone picked up. “Hi, yeah, sorry, I need to speak with a guest.”

“Alright, who are you looking for?” a sweet sounding woman asked.

“I need Jameson Kane's room,” she told her.

“Please hold.”

The phone rang and rang and rang. Tate let out a frustrated yell and kicked a wall, then promptly regretted it, as she was painfully reminded that she wasn't wearing shoes. She hopped around on one foot and the line finally picked up.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, the guest you are trying to reach is not available. Would you like to leave a voicemail?”

“No. No, uh, what is his room number?” Tate asked, pacing up and down the hall.

“I'm sorry, but I am not allowed to give out that information.”

“Uuuggg, c'mon! I already know he's staying here! Just tell me the room!” Tate demanded.

“Mr. Kane is a preferential guest. I cannot give out that information. Thank you for calling, good night.”

And the line was dead.

Tate let out a shriek. What was she supposed to do now!? In a fit of passion, right after she had gotten to Arizona, she had deleted Jameson's cell phone number. She didn't have it memorized – who did that anymore!? And she didn't want to call Sanders to ask for it, in case he was with Jameson. Talk about a mood killer.

She marched to one end of the hall and began knocking on the door. No one answered. She began banging. She realized she was acting crazy, but she was long past the point of caring. She'd moved on into acceptance. Jameson Kane made her crazy. She should probably start getting used it.

When no one answered at the third door, she began yelling. Calling out for both Sanders and Jameson, hoping that they were behind one of the doors, and just not answering because they thought it was housekeeping or something. At the fourth door, she got a disgruntled elderly man. At the fifth door, she got a teenage boy who invited her inside. The eighth had a half dressed baseball player, telling her to shut the fuck up. She told him he could suck her dick. That shut
him
up.

She was prancing around from foot to foot in front of the elevator, waiting for it to open so it could take her to the top floor. She felt like she had taken speed. And coke. Or crack. Some lethal combination of all three. She couldn't stop moving, she had so much adrenaline pumping. She hopped around, hugging the jewelry box to her chest. Finally, the elevator opened up.

But it wasn't empty.

“What the fuck are you doing!? We can hear you all the way upstairs!” Jameson snapped. She glared at him.

“Then what the fuck took you so long to come down here!?” she snapped back.

“Are you fucking serious right now!?” he exclaimed.

“Are
you
fucking serious!?”

“You're fucking crazy, you know that, right!?
Goddamn psychotic!
” he yelled at her. The elevator started to close and he slammed his palm against a door, causing it to open again.

“Oh yeah!?” she yelled back. “Well if I'm
fucking psychotic
, it's because
you made me this way!
”

“Tatum!” he snapped her name through clenched teeth.

“What!?”

“
Shut the fuck up.
”

She fell on him, throwing her arms around his neck. He moved backwards with her weight, and they fell against the back wall of the elevator. The jewelry box fell between them, smacking her on the foot as it hit the floor. The elevator doors slid shut behind them.

“Sorry, sorry,” she breathed, resting against him at an awkward angle. He yanked her upright, standing her on her feet. She pushed away from his chest, straightening out her dress.

“Where the fuck are your shoes?” he asked, staring down at her feet. She stared down, too, taking in both their barefeet. She smiled. Just like that first time, in his house.