Til Death Do Us Part || Tate Langdon

bad things

2016, sixth grade

      The first time you lied about where you were going to Aunt Thea, you were 11 years old. Earlier in the school day, Tate had finally invited you to his new house. He described it as so epic and enormous, you had to see it for yourself-- but you knew your aunt wouldn't love the idea of you going to a 13 year old boy's house.

   "Can I ride over to a friend's, please?" you begged. "It's still light out."

   "Whose?" she only glanced at you for a second before continuing her reality show.

   "Olivia," you made up a name. "She's in my class."

   "Does she live within 5 blocks?"

   "Yeah."

   "Bye," your aunt dismissed you, and you disguised your pride from getting away with a lie. You ran outside and stood your bike up in the driveway, it was white and vintage looking with a wicker basket on the front.

      Tate didn't live within 5 blocks, and you were eager to break the rules and feel rebellious. When you got there, you stood in front of his mansion of a house in awe; he hadn't been exaggerating at all. You found a good spot to leave your bike and knocked excitedly on his door. To your surprise, a teenage girl answered, about 16 or 17 years old. She looked up from her phone for a second, realized you weren't a threat, and stepped aside to let you in with a pop of her bubblegum.

   "There's a girl here for you, pipsqueak," she strolled down the hall and called to Tate, then said a little more quietly to you, "Don't get caught doing stupid shit."

   You didn't respond, and luckily Tate appeared at the top of the steps with a satisfied smirk, "You actually came." This put a smile on your face, and he motioned for you to join him on the second floor.

   "Isn't it awesome?" he gestured to your surroundings, and you avidly agreed that it was.

      When the two of you entered his room, you envied how big it was. The walls were a dull shade of cornflower blue, two long windows behind his bed served as the light source, at least at this hour, and the arches overhead had a finished wood trim. His lack of toys made you feel childish, as you still had Bratz dolls on display in your room at home. You sat at the end of his bed and he found a spot on the floor, and you two talked and laughed for more than an hour.

   Finally, you had to ask, "Where's your parents? Is it date night or something?"

   "No," he scoffed. "My mom goes out a lot now, she's barely home. And my dad..."

   His expression fell then, and he suddenly looked incredibly forlorn. You uncrossed your legs and leaned forward with concern. He began nervously fiddling and tugging on the edges of his sleeves, then finally looked up at you: the tip of his nose was pink and his eyes welled with tears.

   You moved down to sit in front of him on the ground, "Tate? What's wrong?"

   "He's gone," was all he said in a low voice.

   You took a second to catch on, then asked, "Hugo? He left?"

   Tate nodded with a frown, then bit the inside of his cheek. His father had left him and you had no idea what to say. "And..." he began with a trembling voice. "I've been doing bad things."

   You scrunched your face a little, "What do you mean bad things?"

   "You're tough, right? You can handle it?" he asked, a little more collected now. You nodded, though you weren't sure you could handle it. Tate was capable of many things, and you didn't know what to expect. His eyes were fixed on your face as he began lifting his sleeve, and you winced at the red slits he exposed on his wrist.

   You covered your mouth and looked at him anxiously, "Y-You did that to yourself?"

      He nodded briefly and pulled his sleeve back down. You'd heard of some of the high schoolers doing things like this, but never someone your age-- and certainly not your best friend. You threw your arms around his neck and squeezed him as much as you could sitting down, then his arms slowly and hesitantly encircled you as well. You began rocking the two of you side to side when you felt him cry quietly into your neck. You let him go on for as long as he needed to: you longed for him to feel safe and happy. When he pulled away, he looked a little embarrassed, and promptly wiped his face with his sleeve.

   "My dad's gone too, he left when I was really little," you confessed. "We can be there for each other, I know what it's like and I know one day you'll be okay." You took his hands in each of yours, "And please, please don't hurt yourself anymore. Him leaving is not your fault. There's nothing you could've done."

   He sniffled and nodded as you spoke like he believed you, and you hoped he really did. Both your heads turned toward his room door when you heard footsteps approaching.

   "Knock knock," his babysitter called, but was already opening the door when she began speaking. "Your mom will be home in half an hour," she looked suspiciously, amusedly, between the two of you. It may have looked like something it wasn't: sitting face to face on the floor, Tate's cheeks red and your hands holding each other's. "And I don't think she knows your little girlfriend is over."

   "She's not my girlfriend," he corrected her, but she waved him off.

   "Don't care. Wrap whatever this is up before Constance gets back and I lose this job," and with that she was gone again. He mocked her silently as she descended the stair case, then looked back to you, and you burst into giggles together.