BASELINE ✸ Art Donaldson

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Twelve. Hold Me, Please?

2007.

IT HAD BEEN THE LAST DAY OF CLASSES AND TATUM WAS NEARLY DONE PACKING UP HER DORM. She couldn't have gotten out of there faster. Every corner she turned there was an unwanted memory and almost every other day when she'd go out to the tennis courts, Art was with Tashi -- as if trying to train her back to good health.

It'd been three weeks since the accident and Art and Tatum had only spoken once. And it wasn't very productive.

But all of a sudden, as Tatum began folding her second-to-last shirt, the door swung open and soon came Art running inside. He was wearing a backward red hat with the Stanford logo on it -- his favorite one. It left his golden curls to stick out the sides and right now, was the only thing keeping his hair array.

She anticipated that he'd come, but wouldn't necessarily be disappointed if he didn't.

Tatum didn't have to look back at him to see that it was him. She could just tell by the anticipation and anxiety in the pants he's letting out -- as if he'd just run across campus to come find her.

"I'm transferring to Pepperdine in the fall." she says, voice cold as she tucks the final t-shirt away. "you won't ever have to see me again."

"That's not what I want." he says quickly, stepping inside the room and closes the door behind him. "You know that's not what I want."

Tatum bites the inside of her cheek, still refusing to face him. "You love Tashi." she sniffles. "And that's fine."

She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and walks toward her closet door to begin grabbing her pairs of jeans. "I just don't want to be here to watch it."

He steps in front of her, blocking her from going any further into packing. He takes her face in his hands and looks into her eyes with his own tear-filled ones. "Please don't go."

Tears threaten to prick at her own brown eyes. "Don't do that."

"Please," he repeats, his voice breaking with emotion. "you're the only thing I've ever known."

It's a metaphor, obviously. An exaggeration. But that doesn't make it any less painful for Tatum. She doesn't say anything, because she knows she won't be able to form a proper sentence without breaking out into a sob.

And he knows that. He watches her come undone without her having to even say a word and all he does is wrap two strong arms around her, holding him tight to her. And as soon as he does -- as if he's just taken the biggest sigh of relief -- the entire upper half of his body begins to shake. "Can I please just hold you?"

Both of them know why he's there and why she's leaving -- it's why he hasn't asked. And he won't apologize for what he's done either because he's too prideful. So she just nods.

A tear slides down her cheek and she can feel it dampen both the blue fabric of his shirt as well as her cheek. She goes to wrap her arms around him now, almost regretting what she's doing -- only to see the ring on her finger. It's gold with a green emerald in the center. It was something Art had picked out at a jewelry shop downtown as it was all he could afford without asking his parents for the money. He didn't have the heart to tell his parents he was 19 and proposing to his girlfriend they'd only met twice.

Art and Tatum were supposed to have a future together. They'd talked and dreamed about it for years now -- a perfect tennis fairytail. They'd just have to wait two more years to graduate and they'd have it all. Trophies on shelves and three kids to surround them.

But it's all ruined now.

Pulling away, she wiped her cheeks dry and sniffled a final time. "My flight leaves in an hour."

He looks at her, utterly bewildered and saddened. Eyes glassy and dark with complicated emotion. He stares as though she's someone he no longer recognizes. "So that's it then?"

Tatum doesn't say anything, just continues packing, as if nothing has happened and everything is final. She's made up her mind and there's nothing either of them can do now.