She felt betrayed. She felt confused. Obviously, over the past two months, Tate had wondered what it would be like to run in to Jameson again. She had never thought it would go the way it had; she felt like she was on the verge of a heart attack. Or a psychotic break. A little of both.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” Tate asked.

A finger under her chin. Like flames. Her whole body was igniting.

“Because I wanted to talk to you. You wouldn't let me in the hospital. So I gave you time. Time is up, baby girl,” Jameson informed her, slowly tilting her head up to face him.

When they locked eyes, it was like an explosion in her chest. She gasped on a sob, and a tear streamed down her face. He smiled sadly at her, but she refused to believe it. The last time she had seen him, really looked at him, he had been angry at her. Staring down at her. Throwing money at her.

I'm in hell. I died in that pool, and I'm in hell. That's why I'm so hot. That's why I'm sitting in front of Satan.

“What if I don't want to talk you?” Tate whispered. Jameson chuckled, smoothing his hand over her hair.

“Now when have you ever known me to care about a silly thing like that?” he whispered back.

She surged to her feet. He couldn't talk to her like that, not anymore. No boyfriend-voice allowed. Not after all the time that had passed, all the damage that had been done. His voice was like silk, smooth and strong. Flowing over her. Covering her. Strangling her. She had to get out of there.

“You can't just do this!” she shouted.

Jameson slowly stood up as well. Tate couldn't look at him. It split her in half. Her brain knew one thing. Her heart recognized another. And good god, her body was completely mutinous.

Why does he have to be so tan!?

“Do what?” Jameson asked.

“Kidnap somebody! Use Sanders! Use me! I'm not some puppet you get to jerk around!” she snapped at him.

“Buying you a ticket to Spain for your birthday is hardly kidnapping,” he pointed out. She let out a frustrated yell.

“Why!? Why did you bring me here?” she demanded.

“Because I've missed you.”

“Bullshit,” Tate snorted. “Mr. Kane doesn't ever care about anyone enough to miss them.”

“He missed you. I wanted to see you, talk to you, maybe -,”

“You made it very clear that you wanted nothing to do with me. I have obeyed those wishes. Why can't you respect mine? What do you want?” she asked.

“I'm trying to explain, I want to -,”

“You know what? I don't care. I really don't. And I don't have to stand here and listen to you. Our transaction is done, over with; you paid for my 'services'. I am no longer required to be in your presence,” Tate's voice was dripping with venom by the end, and she went to brush past him. He grabbed her upper arm, holding her in place. Her eyes snapped to his.

“I say when it's over,” he replied.

She was shocked into a stand still. Jameson touching her, talking to her like that, it was like getting knocked back in time. Back to when she knew her place in the scheme of things, back to when life was simple enough to revolve around being with him. A shiver ran down her spine, and Tate forced herself back to the present. Forced herself to remember what having her stomach pumped felt like, forced herself to remember what it felt like to be so cold, she couldn't feel her entire body.

“Do not touch me,” she hissed at him, and he let go of her.

“I'm not trying to hurt you,” he assured her.

“You always try to hurt me,” she snapped back. He frowned.

“I never tried to hurt you, not until the end. Can we please go inside and discuss this?” Jameson asked. She laughed, a loud, abrasive sound.

“I wouldn't get on that boat if you paid me to! Do you have any idea what it's like for me? Being here, seeing you like this!?” Tate demanded.

“I can imagine.”

“You probably can't. Seeing you, is like ..., like somebody taking off a piece of my skin with a potato peeler. Seeing you is just a big, neon sign. A reminder of ..., of how low I got. How horrible I became, of how awful I was, of ..., a reminder of how much I hated myself. Which is really unfair, because I should've hated you,” she told him, turning away.

“But you don't,” Jameson pointed out. She sighed, struggling to hold in the tears.

“I want to. It's what you deserve. You hated me. I should at least get to hate you back.”

“I never hated you. I was angry, and I was stupid, yes, but I didn't hate you,” Jameson assured her. Tate laughed.

“If that's how you treat someone you like, then I'm scared to see how you treat people you actually do hate. You wanna know what the worst part is? I don't blame you. You didn't pour the alcohol down my throat. You didn't make me get in that car. Worst thing that ever fucking happened to me, and I can't even blame you. Just me. All my fault. Always my fault,” her voice was a whisper and she kept looking away from him. Out to the ocean. To the water. The cold, cold water.

“You can blame me, Tate. I blame me,” he told her. She managed another laugh.

“Just so you can feel better about yourself? No. I could've died that night and you wouldn't have even noticed,” she guessed. He stepped up close to her, but she refused to turn and look at him.

“I would have noticed, Tatum. I would have felt it. When the police came to my house, and I found out what had happened, I -,” Jameson started to explain, but she held up a hand.