BASELINE ✸ Art Donaldson

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Seventeen. High Infidelity

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THIRTEEN YEARS, TATUM AWOKE IN ART'S EMBRACE. And still, even then, she didn't care about anything else. Except for the sound of his quickened heartbeat against her ear that wakes her up.

His chest is warm and his breaths are steady and Tatum wants to stay there forever. And as for Art, he's already awake -- his thumb ever so gently tracing the side of her bare arm as he smiled down at her peaceful, now awoken, state.

Tatum's brown eyes meet his blue ones and his smile only widens. "I was scared you would leave."

He says it as if she'd already questioned him, or was going to. And she likely was, but he already read her mind. In fact, he'd already spent the last three hours in this bed rehearsing what he'd say to her -- no matter what Tatum would say. He ran through his mind to find a premeditated to all of the questions she may have or whatever she might say because whether she likes it or not, he knows her inside and out. Even after all these years.

But she doesn't even furrow her brows in question, she just gives him a smile that barely meets her tired eyes. "Creep."

He squeezes her hand, taking it from where it lay at her side and biting it gently, playfully. "You caught me."

His opposite hand is currently occupied with his finger twisting the lace of her panties around his finger, ever so gently caressing the smooth skin that lays beneath.

Tatum yawns softly, eyes remained shut as she nuzzled her head further into his chest.

But neither of them say anything. Because at this point the only two things they could actually converse about would be tennis or the fact that they've both moved on with their lives entirely from one another and now that he's in her hotel room, it complicates everything further. So they just lay in silence.

"Your perfume is the same." He observes without question, just allowing the lingering scent of vanilla fragrance to linger over him like a love spell.

Tatum hums, giving him another hint of a smile. "Do you still like it?"

His gaze meets hers and they share the same glimmer in each other's eye.

And the smile he gives her is an answer within itself.

But there's a pounding knock on the door and within seconds, Tatum is instinctively on her feet.

Of course, she hadn't hidden a boy — or, rather, a man — in her room since her teenage years but still, even now, it felt like a second instinct to her.

The pounding continues a second time. "We need to talk."

It's Patrick. He sounds angry, or stressed — or worried. Tatum may not know what the matter is but whatever it is, it doesn't sound good.

Closet, she mouths to Art, pulling a shirt and shorts back on. In which, he nods, pulling a pair of his own sweatpants on.

And once he's out of sight, she opens the door with a play-pretend type of yawn.

"What?" she groans, rubbing her tired eye to add onto the ploy.

"Is there someone else in there?" He asks, smirking down at his friend as she allows him to see only a sliver of the room — like she's hiding something. She is.

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up."

He almost laughs now. "No, really, I'm impressed."

She clenches and unclenches her jaw. "What is it, Patrick?"

His expression shifts, and almost gives her a sheepish grin — as if he's a little boy who's afraid to be yelled at but knows he will be anyway. "I did something."

Tatum raises a brow at him, waiting for him to let on what it is he did.

"...bad." he continues.

"Spit it out."

He hesitates, actually giving her a sheepish smile now as he leans into the doorway, avoiding her gaze until the end of his delivery. "I, uh, slept with someone."

"What a surprise." She says, and though it's supposed to be funny, neither of them laugh.

"With Tashi."

Tatum blinks once, hoping that she's somehow misunderstood him. And this anger slowly creeps over her. It's like both of them are in the same situation as 13 years ago and for whatever reason, it makes Tatum's blood boil.

"Seriously?" She gives him a dumbfounded look.

He slowly meets her gaze, blue eyes wary. But he nods.

She takes a final glance at her empty room, at the closed closet door and takes a step outside of the bedroom, now giving Patrick her full attention while also intimidating him. Even when she was nearly a foot shorter than him.

"You slept with Tashi?"

He falters, now shrugging. "It just... happened."

Tatum scoffs, her arms crossing over her crinkled shirt clinging to her torso.

Patrick was full of shit and everyone knew it. And Tatum didn't care who Patrick slept with -- she didn't care who anyone slept with, but sleeping with Tashi right now was the worst possible timing.

"I'm embarrassed for you, Patrick, really." She says, looking up at him with lips taut together and eyes dark with disapproval.

"Embarrassed?" He's now the one to scoff, blinking with disbelief. "I didn't think you cared who I slept with."

Deja vu slaps her in the face and although the words aren't even comparable in the smallest fraction as they did all those years ago, but it still brings a stinging sensation down her body as she remembers who's in that room behind them.

"Why are you telling me this?" She asks, sparing him the shouts she so desperately wants to let out.

He swipes his tongue against his bottom lip and shakes his head once. Hesitating again. "She wants me to throw the match tomorrow."

Of course.

"Why?"

He shakes his head again. "Apparently Art is retiring and he needs to go out with a win."

Now, not only an all-consuming anger fueled inside Tatum, but also a deep confusion.

And the confusion that lingered only made her have one question.

She wondered if Art was telling the truth. If she had just slept with a married man.

And it made her sick to her stomach when she looked back up at Patrick.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and leaned her head back ever so slightly. "Fuck."