18. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Devon

Before I get drunk, I put my half-finished glass of wine on the table and go back to the pool. I’m not drunk by any means, but I feel the alcohol. Two glasses will do that to me. Being a lightweight isn’t something I’m proud of.

I’m more relaxed than I was before and there’s a smile on my face that won’t go away. Getting drunk around Tatum is a bad idea, which is why I need to slow down. I wanted to take the edge off because my head won’t stop, and it worked.

I don’t do much swimming this time, just float around, enjoying the warm water around me and the feeling of being weightless.

“Don’t you have any floaties?” I ask.

“What are you, five?” he calls back teasingly.

“I just like floating on the water without the worry of drowning.”

“I can have some brought up. ”

Hm, do I want that? Normally I’d say no. Not to go through the trouble. But Tatum has been a pain in my ass for years, so maybe I’ll take advantage of his kindness while I can.

“Something big that I can lay on,” I call back.

“You got it, babe.”

My stomach does a little flip at him calling me babe, which I should be worried about. But… alcohol.

Tate disappears inside for a short time. When he comes back out, he has a box speaker that he sets down by the chairs. He fiddles with his phone and music plays through the speaker a minute later.

I recognize the song instantly as a Lynyrd Skynyrd song but can’t recall the name of it.

“Still listening to music older than you, I see,” I comment.

Tate smirks as he adjusts the speaker to a different spot on the patio, causing the music to sound better.

“I’ve been meaning to have speakers installed around the pool, but I don’t come here often enough to remember.”

Once he’s happy with the placement of the speaker, he stands straight up and pulls his shirt off.

Well, that’s not what I was expecting to happen…

He folds it before putting it on the chair he was sitting in. Next, he drops his pants. There isn’t a bathing suit under there, just a pair of black boxer briefs that fit him like a second skin. My cheeks heat and I look away.

When he speaks next, he’s right behind me.

How the hell did he get there so fast?

“Why do you always tease me about the music I listen to?” His voice is low and calm .

I swallow hard and spin to face him. I can be nice, but I won’t give in.

“Why not?” I ask.

It’s a non-answer because I can’t think clearly to form other words.

What I would have given to be alone with Tatum like this years ago… When we were together and things were different.

My love for Tatum didn’t turn to resentment right away. I can’t even say it’s hate I felt for him because I don’t think I hate him, not really. I hate the things he’s done to me, the way he treats me. Most of all, I hate that he broke up with me and stopped talking to me without an explanation.

If only he had told me what was wrong instead of running, we could have fixed it. We could be together right now, like we’d planned.

But then I recall all the girls he brought to my house over the last five years. All the nights he and Dane stayed out all night. All the stories they share when they come home the next day, still hungover and laughing about everyone they slept with.

Staying with Tatum would have been a mistake. Maybe even more of a mistake than being with him now. He isn’t one for the monogamous life, that much is clear. He went to an auction for fuck’s sake, and for what? The guy is gorgeous and could get any girl on this planet if he wanted to. Meaning he only did it because he can. And I don’t like that. I don’t like people throwing around their money just because they have it. Use your words. Be real. Why act like money is everything?

He could be with me, if he only said the word…

“Because it hurts my feelings,” he says, his voice raspy.

My mouth goes dry, and I’m stuck. Frozen. His eyes bore into mine. They remind me of coffee, which is fitting to his personality. Dark. Empty. Bitter. Can’t be sweet on his own, but sure fakes it when he’s around sweet things.

Tatum was so different when we were together. I made him better.

Is that even fair? I’m not sure, but it definitely made me feel good. Knowing I was the only person who could get through to him. The only person who got to see all his good things. Then it all went away in the blink of an eye—and for what?

I can’t fall for his tricks—because that’s all they are.

I have to be strong.

Be strong, Devon.

Don’t fall for his crap. I don’t know what his motive is, but this isn’t real. Tatum isn’t the same boy I fell in love with when we were kids. The same boy I wanted to spend my life with. Tatum isn’t being nice to me for any reason that’ll benefit me. This is a game for him. Just another way to hurt me. He’s spent the last five years doing anything he can to cause me pain, trying to get back at me for something I didn’t do. To put all the pain that he’s harbored over the years into me, as if it’s my fault that he’s hurting. None of his pain is caused by me—it’s all caused by his father. His mother. Probably his step-brother and step-mother too.

If only he’d told me… If only he’d tell me now…

But he didn’t and he won’t. Because he’s Tate and it’s best I remember that.

“You don’t have feelings, Tatum,” I say sadly .

If I weren’t so close that I could see the tiny flecks of walnut in his otherwise dark abyss of eyes, I’d never see the twitch of his lower lid. Or the way his jaw just barely clenched. My words hurt him. Good. Now he knows what it feels like to be hurt by someone you care about. Because at the end of the day, I do still care about Tatum. And I hate that what I said hurt him because this isn’t me. I don’t like who I have to be when I’m around him because it’s not me.

I make Tatum a better version of himself, while he makes me the worst version of me.

I care when he’s hurting. I’d care if I never saw him again. I care about his well-being.

But it can’t be more than that. There has to be a line—a very big, bright, thick line that I can never cross with him.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he says, the pain coming through in his words. But he isn’t angry, and that says a lot. It’s hurt, and he’s allowing me to see it.

I force a smile. “You’re right. I don’t. Whose fault is that?”

His phone rings, saving me from whatever this conversation was turning into. Without a word, he gets out of the pool, snatches his cell from the table and heads inside.

I’m thankful for the breather. This weekend is going to be harder to get through than I thought.

When he returns, his arms are full of blown up floats and he has a small smile on his face. He must be over what I said. I can’t figure out if this side of him will be good or bad for me.