BASELINE ✸ Art Donaldson

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Seven. Ghost of a Smile

2006.

IT HAD BEEN NEARLY SIX MONTHS SINCE TATUM HAD SEEN HER PARENTS.

She didn't go home for Christmas — didn't have the heart to. Because with all things with her family, came questions. And almost all of those questions revolved around tennis.

A sport that she no longer had a passion for.

With two knocks on the door, Tatum takes a step back and takes a moment to breathe before her father will appear on the other side of that black door with a smile on his face.

They're supportive, always. But that's the problem. They'll support that Tatum wants to quit the only thing any of the three of them have ever known and when they fall out of love with the sport too it will be all her fault.

"You okay?" Art asks Tatum, squeezing her hand as they awaited someone to answer the door.

Tatum removes herself from her own mind and turns to face her boyfriend with a smile. She straightens the subtle wrinkles of his light blue shirt, avoiding his gaze entirely. "I should be the one asking you that."

His warm hand lands on hers, stopping her from the obvious nervous antics she was doing. He knew she wouldn't want to be asked why she was so visibly nervous, so instead, he takes her hand and kisses it against his. "Am I about to get eaten alive or what?"

Tatum laughs lightly and Art watches in astonishment. She'd never know, but when she laughed she always did a funny little thing with her eyebrows where she'd furrow them just the slightest, looking down at her feet, but when she finally showed that smile of hers, her eyebrows would relax and all that was left to do was to watch her face light up with not only laughter, but unearthly beauty.

The door opens and Tatum's face relaxes. Art straightens his posture — making sure his shirt is untucked and positioned the way he made it for 20 minutes in the mirror this morning.

It was his first time formally meeting Tatum's parents. They'd met briefly here and there over the years when they came to see Tatum play in various matches, but this was entirely different. Because now, Art was her boyfriend.

Tatum's father, Steve, appeared in the white frame of the door with a smile on his face. "Hey!"

He stepped out of the way, just the slightest, but enough for Art and Tatum to step inside.

The floors were cold white marble, complimented by a gray shag rug that ran along the floor of the foyer.

Tatum carefully takes off her grey trench coat, revealing a simple black dress that ended just above her knees.

Upon Art hanging it on the coat rack beside the door, Tatum's father wasted no time when embracing her in a hug. "God, I've missed you."

Tatum can't help the laugh that tickles her lips. "It's been a few months."

"Too long."

"Oh, oh, oh!" Her mother exclaims from the dining room and she comes running to greet the couple.

Her face brightens at the sight of Art, but Tatum's father beats her to greeting him.

Art reaches his hand out, ready to shake Steve's but instead of accepting the handshake, he embraces him in a brief hug.

Tatum's father pats Art's bicep as the tow pull apart from the hug. But before he lets Art go, Art doesn't hide his blank stare of confusion when facing Tatum.

But before she has a chance to respond, her mother envelopes her in a bear hug — trailing kisses over her cheek as she swaddles her body back and forth practically.

"You need to visit more often," she says, playfully hitting her daughter's shoulder.

Tatum winces through a laugh. "Ow! Okay!"

The four laugh as Helen moved onto hugging Art. It was brief, but she kept her hand on his arm while looking up at him. "How are you, Art? Staying out of trouble?"

Both Art and Tatum were taken aback with how her mother remembered Art's name — she never did care for any of her previous boyfriends so now, learning that she knows his is almost disheartening.

Before Art can respond with something other than a smile, Aaron comes around the corner, a wide, ear-to-ear grin on his face as he finishes the routine, hugging Tatum, then moving onto shake Art's hand.

After a few exchanged words amongst the family, they all made their way to the dining table. It was carefully decorated with accents of silver plates and black silverware, all of which complimented the charcoal gray walls of the room.

Soon enough, the chef brought out dinner and the rest of the evening went smoothly.

Art would throw a compliment their way every once in a while.

Tatum's parents would carry on conversations — asking Art about tennis and what he planned to do with his career after college.

And Tatum just sat there and watched. She'd join in on the conversation here and here, but she mostly just wanted to relish in the moment. In what would hopefully be an insight on what the next 55 years would look like for each thanksgiving or christmas dinner. In the future of she and Art.

TATUM HAD LESS THAN 12 HOURS TO PREPARE FOR HER NEXT MATCH. She wasn't nervous, she wanted to get it over with — but that didn't mean she wasn't going to prepare.

So, with her hair tied up and a matching set hugging her curves, she prepared to go back to the hotel gym and workout for the second time that day.

At the last minute, after almost forgetting her water, she reaches out for it — holding onto the black and red bottle with only her elbow.

She slipped out the door, calling something out to Aaron before doing so. But of course, she was always forgetting something. This time — it was her phone.

She had countless credit cards and hair ties, but couldn't seem to find her fucking key card.

She'd already been pissed after getting in an argument with Aaron. She wanted nothing but to just get out of that goddamn room.

She kicked her foot into the door and tried one last time. Nothing.

She ran a hand down her face, letting out one final blow before ultimately deciding to just go.

Turning on her heel with her jaw clenched, she took a step forward; toward the elevator but instead was stopped by Art's face.

Art Donaldson was standing directly in front of her with a look of sorrow and eyes that are wells of blue and complicated emotion.

And he looks so different.

She'd seen him in posters, billboards — everywhere she went but that was nothing compared to the real thing. He was here, in front of her.

He had soft wrinkles around his eyes and more pertinent ones that outline his smile. His hair is cut short and it makes Tatum think back on all those mornings she'd spend running her fingers through those golden curls of his.

He holds out his blank key card and Tatum could swear he almost smiles. "All of the suites use the same card."

It takes Tatum a moment to actually process what he's said; much less that he's here.

But after the faltering of her own mind, she takes it from his hand, her fingers gently brushing against his hand and it's enough to send a chill down her spine.

She scans it against the lock pad and sure enough, the lock makes a clicking sound and she's in.

She tosses white card back to him and with near-perfect reflexes, he catches it.

"Thanks."