~2~

Tate waited outside for Sanders the following night, trying to smoke as many cigarettes as she could before he got there. Sanders hated her new habit, so she never smoked around him. But her nerves were still a little on edge.

The car ride home the night before had been awkward, to say the least. Nick apologized for kissing her, explained that he hadn't planned on it, that it had just happened. He liked Tate, a lot. But he understood that she was still hung up on her past. Still hung up on Jameson. He promised he wouldn't press his attentions on her.

Thinking about it gave her a headache, so she lit up another cigarette.

She glanced at her cell phone, then looked down the street. One more minute, and he'd be late. Sanders was never late. She thought about trying to call her sister while she waited. Tate figured it was probably a good time to think about moving. Her sister had moved into a much nicer place than Tate's old apartment – Tate figured she could hole up there while she looked for a job.

What the hell do I even know how to do, besides sling drinks, walk dogs, and give good head? Though that does make for one hell of a resume ...

Her phone lit up and she pressed it to her ear.

“You're late,” she sang out, chucking her cigarette into a gutter.

“I am never late. I am coming around the corner, I wanted to make sure you were outside,” Sanders replied.

“Yes, kind sir, I am patiently awaiting your arrival,” she laughed.

Tate's laughter got caught in her throat, though, when a large, black car pulled up to the curb in front of her. She stood completely still, didn't make any move towards it. Not even when Sanders got out and came around to stand in front of her.

“Happy birthday,” he said, his voice softer than normal.

“What ..., what is this?” she asked, glancing between him and the car.

“I thought it was time.”

It was a Bentley Flying Spur. Inky black and shiny, blending in with the city. Tate had known the make and model the minute she saw it; the same way she knew the interior was all buttery leather, and that it always, always, had that “new car” smell. She had been in it many, many times. She had some pretty incredible memories in that car.

And some pretty fucking awful ones.

“Time for what? What does that mean?” Tate asked, starting to panic a little. If Jameson climbed out of the car ...

“It means I finally got my car back. There were a lot of problems with getting the work done on it. My name isn't the only one on the title, I ran into some issues. Please, we'll be late for dinner,” Sanders informed her, putting a hand on her back and urging her forward.

Sliding into her seat was like sliding into a panic attack. Tate had never sat in the front while Sanders was driving, only ever the back seat. With Jameson. And there was one time she sat behind the wheel. Almost her last time behind a wheel.

I hate this fucking car. It's like a goddamn hearse.

“Why didn't you just get a new one?” Tate croaked out when he got into the driver's seat.

“I didn't want a new one, I wanted mine back. Seatbelts,” Sanders reminded her, then leaned across her so he could buckle her in.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. He glanced at her. His eyes were large, and an interesting gray-blue color combination. Like there was always a storm brewing in them.

“If I may be blunt, I am tired of pussy-footing around you. This is my car. I like my car. I want to drive my car. You do not own a car, so if you need me to take you somewhere, then it will have to be in this car,” Sanders replied.

She was so shocked, she started laughing.

“This is going to be one hell of a birthday, isn't it?” Tate laughed. He snorted and pulled the car into traffic.

“It's just dinner. How was your party last night? I saw The Globe today,” he told her.

“God, don't remind me, I've been getting a million texts about it. Rusty is already planning my wedding,” she groaned, trying to sit as straight as possible so she wouldn't touch the leather any more than was necessary.

Remember the time he took the car without telling Sanders and drove you all the way to Provincetown, then when you got there, you didn't even get out, he just took off your – SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!

“Care to explain?” Sanders asked.

“It was an accident. The party was boring, and Ang and I had kind of a fight, but then a breakthrough thing, I don't know. Then Nick and I went to leave, and there were all these reporters, and I got knocked down, and he saved me, but then he kissed me, and …, and I didn't know what to do! I couldn't shove him away, not in front of all those cameras,” Tate explained quickly. Sanders nodded.

“I see. Did you want to shove him away?” he asked for clarification.

She paused for a moment, really thinking about it.

“Yes. I mean, kissing is great and all, I just ..., don't want ... that, right now. From anyone,” Tate replied.

“So it wasn't because it was him?”

She glanced across the car.

“Sandy, are you jealous?” she teased. The back of his neck turned pink and she laughed.

“No, I am not jealous. Your relationship with Mr. Castille has never made sense to me, I am just trying to figure it out,” Sanders replied while pulling the car up in front of a swanky restaurant.

“Why doesn't it make sense? We're friends. Or I mean, I thought we were friends,” she told him before getting out of the car. A valet ushered them to the front doors.

“Exactly. Clearly, Mr. Castille sees it another way. And I know Mr. Hollingsworth doesn't care for the relationship,” Sanders pointed out.

“Oh, Ang is just worried about me. Hey! Did you know he has a girlfriend?” Tate changed the subject while a maître d' led them to a table. They had barely been seated before a bottle of champagne was brought out to them with great flourish. After Sanders approved of the taste, the waitstaff scurried away and they were left alone.

“Yes, I know he has been seeing someone,” Sanders answered her question. She was surprised. While not exactly friends, Ang and Sanders had met, and got along on a basic level. Neither asked the other a lot of questions, and that seemed to appeal to both of them.

“Who is she?” Tate pressed. Sanders raised his eyebrows.

“He hasn't told you?”

“No, I just found out last night, and he wouldn't say her name.”

“He hasn't said anything to me, I just know that he has been seeing someone.”

“Sandy, you're so good at getting people to talk, maybe you could just -,”

“No.”

“But I'm dying to know!”

“No, I am not asking him.”

“Sandyyyyyyyy!”

“Not this again.”

“Sandy, please! Please! Please!” she whined in a high pitched voice. He pressed his lips together.

“No. It's none of our business,” he reminded her.

“Fiiiiiiiiine,” Tate groaned.

“Besides. I thought maybe I could ask some questions tonight,” Sanders said.

She was blown away, again. He just kept shocking her. Sanders talking in whole paragraphs was monumental enough, but asking questions? Being engaging? She almost felt dizzy. She definitely felt nervous.

“Of course, of course, go right ahead,” she offered.

“I want you to know,” he started, his eyes staring straight down while his posture remained as straight as an arrow. “I admire you a great deal, for how you've handled this whole situation, this last month.”

She instantly teared up.

“Sanders, I -,”

“And I wanted you to know that I understand how you feel, about him. I understand why you feel that way. I know that things cannot be taken back, once they have been said and done,” Sanders continued.

Always about Jameson.

“Thank you,” Tate responded, waving a hand in front of her eyes to keep the tears from spilling.

“But – he is a large part of my life. I don't want to have to choose between the two of you. I have avoided talking about him or anything to do with him up until now, just for your sake. This cannot always be, I owe my life to him. I am not proud of what he did, I am not making excuses for it, but his home is my home. He is the only family I have,” Sanders reminded her. She nodded her head.

“I know that. I would never make you choose, Sandy, he's your family, I'm just -,” she tried to assure him.

“You are very important, too,” Sanders assured her first. She laughed and wiped at her eyes.

“Thank you. Thank you for telling me all this, but I've gotta say, it makes me nervous. He's not gonna pop out of a cake or something, is he?” she joked.

“I shall notify the kitchen to cancel dessert.”

Tate didn't stop laughing until a waiter came to pat her on the back.

“I'm not gonna lie, it's not easy. I don't like ..., thinking about him, or those days. I don't talk about him. But I don't want you to feel like you can't be around me just because you also need to be around him. I wouldn't do that to you,” she told him again.

“Thank you.”

She thought he was going to continue on, maybe tell hilarious anecdotes about his and Jameson's life in the country as bachelors, now that Tate was out of the picture. Oh, the shenanigans they probably got into together! To get through it, she would probably have to stab herself in the thigh with a fork, but she would suffer through it. For Sanders.

But he didn't. Their appetizers were brought out, and they chatted over normal things. Sanders was an avid horse rider, and Tate had ridden all through school, so they talked about horses and stables, the best places to ride. He complimented her hair and she complimented his suit. He promised that after dinner he would take her to McDonald's, so she could get a Happy Meal with a toy – she should have something to unwrap on her birthday, after all, and she could never resist a milkshake. She hugged him from across the table.

“This was awesome, Sandy, thank you so much for taking me out,” Tate said as she scraped the last little bit of cake off her dessert plate. It was promptly whisked away, and two tiny glasses of port appeared in front of them.

“Of course. I always enjoy our dinners. Which leads me to ask, I was wondering something. You can say no, I won't get mad. It was just an idea I had,” he started, sipping at the dark wine. Her defenses immediately went up. Apparently the conversation from earlier wasn't over.

“Alright. What is it?” she asked slowly.

“I am a fairly accomplished cook. I thought it would be nice to make you dinner one of these nights,” Sanders told her. She raised her eyebrows.

“Of course! Just tell me when, and I'll come over to your place -,”

“I moved out of the hotel,” he said quickly. Her breath caught in her throat. There was only one other place he would go.

“Sandy, I know, I know he's your family, but I can't. I just can't go sit and have dinner with him. I'm not making you choose, really, I just can't be in that house, with him. I can't, I can't,” Tate was speaking at supersonic speeds. Sanders reached out and rested his hand on her arm, and she was instantly soothed. He never touched anybody, so any display of affection from him was a massive one.

“He's not there. He left the country. He hasn't been home for almost six weeks,” Sanders explained.

Six weeks. Tate had been out of the hospital for almost exactly six weeks. Apparently when she had said she wanted him gone, Jameson had taken her very literally. She was such a stupid girl, her stupid heart had believed him again. So much for seeing her around. Kind of hard to do from 3,000 miles away. Or was Berlin 4,000 miles away? She wasn't sure.

Goddamn fucking stupid Danish beauty FUCK. FUCKER.

“Oh. I just ..., I don't know. Let me think about it? It's hard, Sandy. It's ..., hard,” Tate's voice fell in to a whisper.

Jameson's house had become home to Tate, in the short period of time she had stayed there. It was where she had met Sanders, a soulmate. It's where she had met her match, in Satan. More than her match, it turned out. She had left a piece of herself in that house, imbedded in the structure, buried in the foundation. She wasn't ready to get it back yet.

“Of course, no pressure,” Sanders assured her. She smiled.

“You could always come cook at our place. Nick has a really nice, commercial grade stove,” she told him. His lips quirked to the side.

“May I ask you one more question?” Sanders ignored her suggestion.

“Yes.”

“Will you ever be ready to see him again?”

Sanders just would not stop with the surprises. She wondered how long he had been planning this; Sanders would never do something without extensive planning, especially if it involved him going out of his comfort zone. This was so far out of his zone, he was practically a new person.

“I don't know. I'm ..., he ..., I don't think I can explain it. I thought ..., I told him I felt a certain way. I didn't ask for anything back, but he led me to believe there was something. It was all a lie. A joke. A game. He didn't care about me, he just wanted to hurt me. Me, my heart. Why would a person do that? Why would he be so cruel to a person, just because she liked him?” Tate asked, wiping at tears again.

“You know when I tell you something, it is completely unbiased, yes?” he asked. She nodded.

“Are you even capable of being biased?”

“No. And I am telling you, it was not all a joke to him. It was not a game. He didn't lure you in to 'falling for him' just so he could play some cruel prank on you. It wasn't like that. He is very stupid, I will agree, and he acted like a child, that is certain. As I said, I am not proud. But I also know that he cared about you,” Sanders stressed.

Tate squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried to remember the pool. Sometimes, she almost thought she could. Coldness, surrounding her, coming from everywhere. From inside of her. Like being dead. She knew that Jameson wasn't the one who put her there – she had done that to herself, she was the only one to blame. She had debased herself, she had degraded herself. She had done a lot of low down, dirty things in her adult life, but that night had taken the cake.

But Jameson had been a part of it. Tate may have been responsible for her drunk driving descent into madness, but Satan hadn't helped, either.

“I'm sorry, Sandy, but I just don't believe that. It's just wishful thinking.”

“You are entitled to think what you want, but that does not make it accurate. So. If you don't believe he ever cared for you, then there is no chance of you two making amends, sometime in the future?” Sanders questioned further. Tate almost laughed again.

“Is this for real? No, Sandy, I don't think there is any chance that we will 'make amends' sometime in the future. I can't even imagine speaking to him, and clearly he doesn't want to speak to me. It's better this way. It was a pretty toxic relationship, whatever it was – I think I need to just calm down for a while. Show a little restraint. Maybe try out a normal relationship for once,” she told him. He quirked up an eyebrow.

“A normal relationship? Like something with Mr. Castille?” Sanders asked. She laughed.

“You know what, yeah. Maybe. Maybe something exactly like that. Nice and normal,” she replied.

There was a very long pause, during which Sanders stared at her the whole time. The table was cleared and the check was brought, but he still stared. She began to wonder if she should pay when he finally looked down to grab the bill.

“Would you like your birthday present now, or at home?” Sanders asked in a lightning quick shift of topics. She blinked in surprise.

“Oh, uh, whenever is fine. You didn't have to get me anything, dinner was fabulous,” she told him, standing up. He came around the table and guided her back to the front of the restaurant.

“A birthday is not a birthday without at least one real present,” Sanders replied. Tate laughed.

“Did you make that up?” she asked. He shook his head and held the front door open.

“No. Jameson taught me that, after I came back to America with him,” he replied. She tried not to choke while he gave instructions to the valet driver.

“It's a nice rule to have,” she managed to croak out. Sanders turned to face her and reached inside his jacket.

“Besides, I bought this long before I made the dinner plans, so it is your real present,” he told her, then pulled a long envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her.

Tate couldn't make sense of it at first. It was just a simple e-mail that had been printed out. It took her eyes a second to sort out the tiny lettering, but when she did, she was shocked. She gasped and looked between Sanders and the paper.

“Is this for real!?” she exclaimed. He nodded.

“Yes. We would leave three days after Christmas, because New Year's -,”

“You bought me tickets to Spain!?” Tate squealed. Sanders glanced around, obviously embarrassed by her outburst.

“I bought us tickets to Spain, for New Year's. The winters here become too much for me, and I thought you would enjoy a vacation,” he explained matter-o-factly.

She shrieked again, startling him, as well as several other customers. Then she pounced on him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him as tightly as possible. He squirmed and grumbled into her ear, but he finally hugged her back.

“This is going to be so much fun. So much fun. We will have the best time. I am going to turn you out. Thank you so much,” she breathed. Sanders pulled away a little, looking down at her.

“I think, after everything you've been through, you need this trip, Tatum,” he assured her.

Her name. He said her name. It didn't come out often.

She figured that deserved another present, so she kissed him, as loudly and sloppily as possible.

 

*

 

Three days after Christmas, Tate stood in Logan Airport, feeling very uncomfortable.

She had finally gotten a hold of her sister, and Tate, Ellie, and Ang all met up for Christmas dinner. It was one of the most awkward experiences of her life – which was really saying something. Ang and Ellie barely spoke to each other. Tate had originally wanted to get everyone together to open presents Christmas morning, as well, but she threw that idea out the window and called Sanders, instead.

She tried. She had really tried. He didn't really do Christmas, but Sanders said he would buy a tree and everything, if Tate spent the morning at his house. At Jameson's house. She finally agreed. Sanders picked her up, drove her out there, held her hand as they walked to the house. But she didn't even make it to the front door – halfway across the broad porch, she lost it, and had to lean over a railing and puke.

Sanders didn't bother hiding the grossed out look on his face, but he didn't push her, either. They ate breakfast at an IHOP.

The weeks leading up to her trip, she had been so excited, she could barely contain herself. What to pack, what to wear, what to buy. Looking up all sorts of things that she wanted to do. They were staying in Marbella, one of the southern most cities in Spain, close to Gibraltar. It was probably one of the warmer spots in Europe during the winter, which made her happy. She packed her bikini.

But when Tate woke up the morning they were supposed to leave, she felt nervous for some reason. She didn't have any reason to, she had seen Sanders almost every single day since her birthday. He had shown her their flight itinerary to Spain, the pictures of the hotel they were going to stay in – had even bought tickets for a weekend trip to Paris. What wasn't there to be excited about?

Something wasn't right, though; she just couldn't put her finger on it. As she waited on the other side of security for Sanders, Tate could feel it weighing heavy in her stomach. He had only checked one small bag, which seemed light for Sanders. The entire time she had known him, she had never seen him wear anything twice, so how could he go a whole week or two with just one suitcase full of clothing?

Wait, one week, or two weeks? Holy shit, I have no idea when our return date is.

“Sandy,” Tate started when he finally joined her. He glanced at her, straightening his tie as they walked away from security. “I can't believe I never asked, but when are we coming home?”

“I haven't booked return tickets yet.”

“What!?”

She pulled him to a stop.

“I haven't booked them yet. I figured when you grew tired of Spain, I would simply buy you a ticket home. Very simple. Can we continue?” Sanders asked, trying to pull his arm free of her grip.

“That's insane, I don't even want to think about how much that ticket would cost, let alone the swanky resort you booked. How much is all this costing you?” Tate demanded. His eyebrows furrowed together.

“This is a gift, I won't discuss the price. Just know that cost is never a problem for me. I had to cancel the hotel reservations, anyway. A more suitable location became available,” he informed her. She wouldn't let go of his sleeve, so he just started walking forward. Tate was forced to follow.

“What? That place looked amazing – where are we staying that's better than that?” she asked, her mind whirling.

“The area we are going to is referred to as the Costa Del Sol, renowned for its boating. I thought a yacht would be more in order,” Sanders replied.

Tate knew what the Costa Del Sol was; her father had never taken them there, but she was well aware of its reputation. She wondered if she'd even be allowed in the town, or if they would request bank statements first.

“You rented a yacht!? For just the two of us? This is insane,” she repeated her earlier sentiment. Sanders finally managed to pull his sleeve free.

“This is all very carefully planned, just for you. I would ask that you trust me on all things,” he said, cutting his eyes towards her.

Tate pressed her lips together and glared at him, but didn't say anything else. Ooohhh, Sanders was a clever man. She trusted him implicitly, but that was also a scary thing. Tate never wanted to offend him by not showing her faith in him, so of course, she went along with anything he said. She would go along with him for now.

But something was most very, definitely, off.

 

*

 

The plane ride was long, and she slept fitfully through most of it. They had to switch planes in Paris, and she seriously considered making a run for it. Or asking Sanders if they could just stay there. But as they walked through Charles de Gaulle Airport, Tate couldn't help but notice something.

Sanders looked happy. Sure, he wasn't smiling, but he had a lighter step. His eyes didn't look so intense. If she hadn't known any better, she would almost say he seemed excited. While she loved Sanders with her whole heart, and knew that he cared a great deal about her, Tate couldn't fathom him being excited about taking a trip with her. Half the time, she almost felt like he stuck around to make sure she didn't stick her finger in a light socket, like a babysitter.

“How many times have you been to Marbella?” she asked as they waited to board their flight to Malaga. From there, he told her that they would drive to their final destination.

“Many times, though I haven't been there in over a year,” Sanders replied.

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“Enough to get by.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“Enough to get by.”

She punched him in the arm.

Sanders had booked them first class the whole way, but the plane they took to Malaga was so nice, Tate almost wondered if she should take her shoes off before stepping inside. She sank into her cushy seat and sighed, rolling her head back and forth. When she opened her eyes, Sanders was staring at her.

“You do trust me, don't you?” he suddenly asked. She blinked, and guilt washed over her.

“Of course I trust you, Sandy. You're the most open, honest person I know. Sometimes, I don't feel worthy of your friendship,” Tate replied, reaching over and holding his hand. He squeezed her fingers back.

“You are very worthy of it, but thank you. I am glad you trust me. Everything I have ever done has been to help you, since that night,” he assured her.

Where is this going?

“I know that.”

“Good. Just ..., I just wanted you to know that,” Sanders stammered a little, and then looked away from her. But he didn't let go of her hand.

Tate hadn't really slept on the seven hour flight to Paris, but she conked out for the first hour of their next leg. When she woke up, the flight attendants were bringing around drinks. At first they tried speaking to her in Spanish, then switched to English.

“Would you care for some champagne?” the attendant inquired in a lilting French accent. Tate shook her head.

“No, no thank you.”

“And your husband?”

Tate almost burst out laughing, glancing at Sanders. He had his head tilted back and his eyes closed, dead asleep. His arms were folded across his chest. Prim and proper, even in his sleep.

“I think he's fine. He's not my husband, just a good friend,” Tate explained. The attendant laughed.

“Oh, madam, he is much too handsome to be just a friend,” she laughed, then winked at Tate before moving on down the aisle.

Tate took another look at Sanders. He was a very good looking man. He had a slender frame and wasn't particularly tall, but his face had that Look – like a Louis Vuitton runway model. Fair skin, full lips, defined jaw. Almost androgynous, but not quite. Pretty was a word that often came to her mind when thinking of him. Sanders was a very pretty man. She had never been physically attracted to him herself, but she thought it was funny when she was with him, watching other women do double takes. It was the same thing with Ang. Apparently Tate only surrounded herself with good looking men, because Satan was the best looking of them all, and Nick was no slouch, either.

Nick. She sighed and glanced at her phone. He had texted her, during their brief stop in Paris. He had not been happy about her leaving. After their highly publicized little lip-lock, he had gone back to Iowa to spend Christmas with his family. He had invited her, but Tate had figured that was a bad idea on a cosmic scale.

Apparently saying he wasn't going to press his attentions on her really meant he wouldn't bother her about it unless she was out of his sight. Now Nick was making his feelings known, very vehemently. He cared about Tate. He thought they made a great team, a great couple. They already knew they were physically compatible. What was the problem? Was it him?

The problem was ..., she didn't know what her problem was, Tate just knew she couldn't be with him. Not that way. She hadn't told Sanders any of it, because she knew he would just tell her to end the friendship. And she didn't want to do that. She opened her text messages.

 

Please tell me you have spent at least half as much time thinking about me as I have about you.

 

Tate hadn't texted him back, because she hadn't been thinking about him. God, she was an awful person. A horrible, awful person. She cared about Nick a lot, but just as a friend. She had no desire for it to be anything more.

She looked around at the other men sitting in first class. She wondered if she would ever want “anything more” with someone else. She hadn't slept with anyone in almost three months. Her longest dry spell since she had run away to Boston, seven years ago. Men and sex were so far off her radar, she was practically a nun.

She actually laughed out loud at that thought.

When they got off the plane in Malaga, Tate teased Sanders about falling asleep. He was such a highly strung person, imagining him nodding off in front of people was hard, but he'd been out like a light for the whole ride. He wouldn't meet her eyes as they picked up their luggage.

“I have been under a lot of stress lately,” he replied. She stopped smiling.

“Really? Is it because of the trip?” she worried out loud. He shook his head.

“No. Just some ..., work issues,” was all he said, then he started heading out of the baggage area.

It wasn't until they were through customs and actually walking outside that she was able to question him about his “work issues” – as far as she knew, Sanders didn't have a job. He had worked as Jameson's personal assistant, but the title was more for him than out of necessity. Jameson paid for everything. The Bentley, Sanders' clothes, his living situation, everything. And after Jameson had kicked Tate out of the house, Sanders had quit. Moved out. The two had made up, but Tate knew Sanders had refused to work for him again. So what was he talking about?

She never got an answer. Sanders left her outside, in front of the arrivals area, while he took off for a parking garage. She was a little surprised. She had assumed they would just take a taxi or a shuttle to get to their hotel – or yacht, now – after they landed. But after about ten minutes of waiting, a white, convertible, older model Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of her. It was in perfect condition. Tate gaped as Sanders got out of the car and came around to grab her luggage.

“You rented a Rolls-Royce!?” she exclaimed. He cleared his throat.

“It's a Corniche III. 1990,” he replied, loading up all their belongings in to the trunk.

“It's beautiful, but it's a bit much, considering I plan on spending 90% of my time on the beach,” Tate laughed. He glanced at her and then went back to the driver's side.

“Well, I don't. Let's go,” he urged.

The interior was all leather and wood paneling. It screamed old money to her, reminded her of cars her father had owned. Normally, those kinds of things made her uncomfortable, but sitting in that car, cruising down a highway in Spain, did wonders for her inner-abused-child.

Spain was having an unseasonably warm winter. Though it wasn't really considered hot out by the locals, to Tate's winter climatized-body, it felt like heaven. Temperatures in Boston had been in the thirties when they left; now she was sitting in over sixty degrees. She loved it.

“This was such a good idea!” Tate had to yell over the wind. She had begged him to take the top down.

“Good. I'm very glad you're happy. That's all I ever want,” Sanders replied. She laughed and turned to look at him. He had taken off his suit jacket and put on a pair of sunglasses. Dressed down for him. It was almost like seeing him in his pajamas, or something.

“Well, mission accomplished, sir,” she laughed, then reached out and rubbed her hand against the back of his neck.

They drove like that for a while, Tate with her fingers in his hair, scratching up and down lightly. He kept twitching his head to avoid her touch, but eventually he gave in, like he always did. By the time they were entering Marbella proper, he was actually resting the back of his head in her hand.

“Tatum,” Sanders said, sitting upright. Tate pulled her hand away and sat up as well. “I, personally, feel that I have infallible judgement. If more people would just listen to me, I think things would run a lot smoother.”

“And modest. Don't forget that you're modest,” she teased. He took off his glasses and glanced at her.

“Modesty isn't necessary. I pride myself on being logical,” Sanders replied.

“Cut to the chase, Sandy. What's up?” she asked.

“I just wanted to say that, just so you'd know,” was his explanation. She snorted.

“Alright. So you're smarter than all of us. Awesome. I can moonwalk better than anyone I know, so we're practically equals,” she pointed out. He barked out a laugh.

And now I can die happy.

Sanders pulled up in front of a large building and asked her to step out of the car. Tate waited while he went and parked in some underground garage. She had thought she would be more jet lagged, but she wasn't. She was excited. It was late morning, and there were a lot of people walking around, sight-seeing. It made her itch to get moving and looking around. Finally, Sanders joined her, pulling their luggage behind him.

“Alright, let's go,” was all he said, surging ahead of her when she tried to grab her suitcase.

“So where is this yacht? Are we gonna stay on it the whole time?” she asked while they crossed the street.

“The yacht is in the marina right in front of us. How long we stay is entirely up to you,” he replied. Tate laughed.

“What if I get sea sick and want to leave an hour after we board?” she joked. Sanders snorted.

“Then I will fetch you a sick bag and you can learn to deal with it.”

Tate knew where they were, though she didn't tell him that. They were entering Puerto Banus – nicknamed “The Millionaires Playground”, because it was the marina of choice for many celebrities and wealthy people.

She managed to keep her composure while they walked amongst the rows of mammoth boats. She didn't see any famous people, but she looked as hard as she could. Tate came from a wealthy family, but she hadn't been around much opulence. Her father was a very conservative man – yachts on the Costa Del Sol weren't really his style.

She was trying so hard to see everything, that she wasn't paying attention to what was right in front of her. Tate was vaguely aware that someone was walking down the gangplank  of a yacht a couple sleeves down from them. Though it was a beautiful boat, it certainly wasn't the biggest, so she figured whoever it was couldn't have been a celebrity, and she kept looking over the other boats.

Sanders actually tipped her off. His steps got tighter, his back straighter. It was like watching someone pull a string on a marionette. One right twitch, and everything locked into place on Sanders. It was a sign of some sort of distress. Nervous, or anxious, or upset, or angry. She wondered if they were finally at their boat and something was amiss.

“Sandy, I was just kidding, you know I'd love anything you'd -,” Tate started, turning to look ahead of them, following his gaze. Her voice died in her throat.

Eight weeks. Four days. Eleven hours.

She stopped walking.

Seven years.

Stopped breathing.

Not long enough.

“It took a lot of trouble to get you here. The least you could do is smile, baby girl.”