“I don't exactly plan on it,” Tate replied.
“But it's a possibility?” Ang read between her words. She chewed on her bottom lip, trying not to think about the night before. She rubbed her thighs together.
“Not in my mind,” she answered evasively.
“Enough of this bullshit. Tell me everything that has been going on, so I can tell you exactly why you're being stupid,” he ordered.
“You're awfully bossy now. You used to be fun,” she told him.
“Watching your best friend try to kill herself can do that to you. Spill.”
Tate suddenly had a very acute sense of how Jameson must have felt, every time she threw that night in his face. Only her guilt was worse. Jameson deserved to be hassled for his part in everything that happened. Ang hadn't asked for anything, she had dragged him into it.
So she told him everything. Told him about the first kiss, about Jameson throwing her purse into the ocean. Told him about the phone call with Nick, though she conveniently left out what a heartless bitch she had been, just said how Jameson had thrown her phone into the ocean, as well.
Told him about her run in with Pet. It was the only part of the conversation Ang stayed entirely quiet for, and at the end, he congratulated Tate on how she had handled it. But then when she talked about making out with Jameson and practically giving him a lap dance on a VIP sofa, Ang's congratulations were gone and he called her a stupid slut.
“If you're desperate for sex, I get that – it's been a while. It's probably grown over down there. But for god's sake, find someone else. Sanders, anyone, hell, I'll fly over there,” he told her. There was a sound in the background, then Tate could tell the phone was being muffled. Her ears perked up.
“Ang. Is that your girlfriend?” she asked. He grumbled.
“We're not talking about me, we're talking about -,” he started.
“No, no, no. Your girlfriend is there! I can hear her! How does she feel, hearing you talk about flying all the way out here to fuck me?” Tate asked.
“She doesn't care.”
“I have to meet this woman. Put her on the phone!” Tate laughed.
“No. Listen. This is all history repeating itself, Tate. I'm not trying to be a Debbie Downer, or a bossy boots, or whatever. I just ..., I would die if anything happened to you, and I'm not there to save you this time,” his voice grew quiet. Her heart cracked a little.
I am such a horrible person, and my punishment is life with Jameson.
“I know,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “But I had no idea what I was dealing with last time. My eyes are wide open now. I know what I'm dealing with, and I have Sanders. I promise, I won't do anything I don't want to do.”
“That leaves a pretty wide scope,” Ang snorted. She laughed.
“Once upon a time. Honestly, Ang, am I boring now? Jameson kept calling me a Stepford-wife,” Tate told him. There was a pause.
“Normally, agreeing with him would make me wanna puke, but he's got a point. You were like a Stepford-wife. All that boring clothing your sister bought you, I almost wondered if she was doing it to be mean,” he laughed. The girlfriend piped up in the background, but Tate couldn't hear what she was saying.
“God. Well, you will be happy to know I have bought an entirely new wardrobe,” she told him, looking down at herself and plucking at the tight tank top she was wearing. “Most of it is see-through, and most of it is ridiculously tight. They probably won't let me through customs.”
“Good. I've missed your tits.”
She burst out laughing, and a shadow fell over her. Tate looked up and realized Jameson had joined her. He smiled down at her and her laughter died in an instant.
“What's so funny?” he asked.
“It's Ang. Talking about my tits,” she replied.
“Don't say 'tits' to him, it'll probably make him all rape-y!” Ang yelled down the line.
“May I?” Jameson asked, holding his hand out for the phone. Tate's jaw dropped open.
“I don't think Ang wants to speak to you,” she said quickly.
“No, Ang most certainly doesn't want to fucking speak to him,” Ang agreed. Jameson rolled his eyes and plucked the phone out of her hand. She groaned and turned away, leaning against the railing and looking out over the dark horizon.
“Angier. How are you?” he asked. He always stretched Ang's name out, like a sneer. Tate couldn't make out the words Ang was saying, but she could tell they weren't nice. “That's lovely language, I'm sure my proctologist would get a kick out of that idea. Anyway, I have a question for you.” Jameson paused, and there was more yelling from the phone. Tate chewed on her nail. “If you're finished ..., if you're finished, I wanted to say – my birthday is in a week. I am taking Tatum and Sanders to Paris. I wondered if you'd want to join us.”
Tate spun towards him so quickly, her foot slipped out from underneath her. She started to fall and he grabbed her by the waist, hoisting her up against him. She righted herself, but Jameson didn't let her go, staring down at her as he listened to whatever Ang was saying. She pushed at his chest, but he didn't move.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. She vaguely remembered before they left Boston, Sanders had said something about them taking a weekend in Paris. But that was before his little Jameson-surprise-party. She figured it had been part of the ruse, to get her to leave.