BASELINE ✸ Art Donaldson

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Eleven. I Hate How I Hate You

        "YOU OKAY?" Aaron asks his sister, leaning against the doorway of her bedroom with a sorrowful smile.

Tatum had been laying at the edge of her bed, mindlessly responding to various emails and text messages.

"I'm fine." She responds, not caring enough to look up at him.

"Patrick mentioned you were retiring." He says, not bothering to beat around the bush.

Tatum snorts, sitting up and resting her back against the headboard of the hotel's bed. "Since when do you talk to Patrick?"

Aaron chuckles softly, pushing himself off the doorway and stepping into the room. "Well, I had to talk to someone in between plays at your match." He takes a seat on the edge of Tatum's bed, facing her.

Tatum raises an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on her lips. "So, you're admitting that you actually talked to him voluntarily?"

"Hey, don't make this about me," Aaron deflects with a playful smirk. "Are you really retiring?"

Tatum sighs, her gaze back to facing her phone. "I'm tired." 

"Of?" 

She gives him another coy smile. "Everything." 

Aaron nods in understanding, his expression softening.  

"Everything?" Aaron echoes, almost trying to laugh off his concern. "I thought you loved tennis."

Tatum looks at him for a long moment, contemplating what to say next -- one thing, could break him entirely. And so could the other. "I haven't loved tennis in a long time, Aaron." 

"I don't understand..." he falters, his features painted with a mix of confusion and hurt. "Is this about Art?"

Tatum's eyes meet his quickly, her lips now parted with disbelief. "Seriously? That's what you think this is about?" 

"I don't know!" He throws his hands in the air, jolting up from her bed. "I just -- I thought you loved tennis."

"I'm 30 years old, Aaron. I'm not giving up my career for my high school boyfriend." She shakes her head, disbelieving. 

He sighs, placing his hand on his hip as he looks down at her. "Okay, I'm sorry." he crosses his strong arms over his torso, and Tatum knows he's about to say something. She can just see it in his body language that it's eating at him. "But I would kill to get back out on that court. Do you even know how good you are?" 

Tatum shakes her head, now tossing her phone on the bed behind her as she stands up, going to her closet to pull out a jacket. "You sound like Tashi." 

"You should want to be like Tashi." He says, and it catches Tatum entirely by surprise. Aaron never was one to compare or to encourage insecurity. And though Tatum didn't know if he was doing either, it sure as hell sounded like it. 

"You don't have to coach me, you know." she says, her arms going through the holes of her jacket. "you're blowing this all out of proportion and it's ridiculous, seriously."

She walks past him, completely bewildered by how fucking weird he's being. She goes to the doorway, grabbing a pair of black knee-high boots, and zipping them up quickly before opening the suite's door.

"Where are you going?" Aaron asks her, following from behind her. 

"I don't want to fight, Aaron. not right now." she says, pinching the bridge of her nose before shutting the door behind her. 

And she makes her way down the elevator and out the hotel lobby. 

Upon doing so, she quickly scrambles inside her purse for a cigarette and a lighter. She takes a step out those double-glass doors, courtesy to the doorman. And the cold Jersey air welcomes her -- giving her room to breathe. She tucks a cigarette between her lips but quickly realizes she isn't alone out here. 

Art stands a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze fixed on her with genuine concern. 

She snickers, lighting the cigarette. She wants nothing but to enjoy her only relief -- a smoke. Which is why she only prays that Art won't say anything to her. 

"You don't smoke," he says softly, breaking the silence. 

Of course. 

Tatum's jaw tightens as she exhales a puff of smoke. "What?"

"You don't smoke," he repeats, his voice tinged with the hint of a question. "You said it was the dumbest fucking thing a person could do to themselves."

"I never said I was smart," she retorts, her tone sharp with defensiveness.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, the world seems to still around them. She notices the familiar tic in his hand, along with the absence of a ring on his finger. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise -- Tatum didn't know how she'd react seeing a ring of marriage on his finger after what she'd just give through with her brother. It was like, no matter where she went -- Tashi was right there. Upstepping her. 

"You still do that thing with your hand," she observes, her voice softer now, laced with a hint of nostalgia.

Art's expression softens, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. "I just want to talk," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tatum scoffs, the bitterness of their past lingering between them. "I don't want to talk."

That was the problem with Tatum. She never wanted to talk. She just ran.

"Where's your ring?" she asks, suddenly wanting to probe. 

He doesn't respond, his gaze dropping to the ground as he avoids her question. "You know what, we don't have to talk." he says, as if Tatum's question has thrown him off entirely now. He begins to walk away and the way he acts confuses Tatum entirely. It was like he just shut down. "Good luck on your match tomorrow," he says with a smile, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "If there's anyone who can win this thing, it's you."

Tatum watches him for a moment, the words hanging in the air between them. Then, with a heavy sigh, she turns away, the weight of her decision pressing down on her once more. But as she walks away, she can't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there's still something left unsaid between them.