For the Love of Donuts

12. Hug It Out?

Skye

I know Tatum well enough to notice that he’s feeling off. I had my suspicions during dinner because his smiles seemed forced and he barely said two words, but then he didn’t get seconds of anything .

That. Does. Not. Happen.

Gets-Second-Helpings could be his middle name. Tatum Gets-Second-Helpings Jacobs .

So now I’m positive that something is wrong.

As usual, Tatum is washing dishes while his parents set up rummy and dessert in the dining room, and I load up any dishwasher-safe items while discreetly glancing at him for any signs that he’s going to say something. ANYTHING!

So far? Zilch.

I hold back an annoyed huff. Ya know, this reminds me of the time when he lost his limited-edition Essential Kingdom T-shirt. Yeah, that was about five years ago? He went to one of their concerts, bought the shirt afterward, and set it aside for a second so he could retie his laces. Well, that’s when some crazy EK fan grabbed it and ran away before Tatum could try to get the shirt back. And then all those limited-edition shirts sold out, so he was never able to get a replacement.

He was a sad, quiet, mopey blob for a good week or so. Which is why the words “T-shirt” and “Essential Kingdom” should never be used in the same sentence around him.

I glance at him again, but still nothing . Okay, this is getting out of hand.

If he doesn’t eat any dessert, I’m taking him to the ER. And he can try to fight me all he wants, but—

“What’s with the creepy looks?”

At the sudden sound of his voice, I almost lose my grip on the glass I was about to place in the dishwasher. Thankfully, I manage not to drop it, but that doesn’t stop me from cursing under my breath.

“You good?” he asks as I close my eyes and take a moment of silence for what could’ve just happened.

Then, after safely loading up the glass, I smack his arm. “You scared me!”

He cocks an eyebrow at that. “By talking to you?”

“Well, you wouldn’t have scared me if you hadn’t been so quiet before that.” I prop my hands on my hips. “And why exactly were you being so quiet, anyway?”

He shrugs, resuming his dishwashing. “I wasn’t being that quiet.”

“Yes, you were. And you looked miserable during dinner. What gives?”

“I wasn’t miserable—”

“Tatum,” I cut him off, reaching over to smack down the faucet’s handle, “you didn’t get seconds, dude! I know something’s up! So, why don’t you just tell me instead of playing crazy?”

“Skye…” he trails off with a tsk, eyes on the pineapple-printed sponge in his hand. “I’ll be fine, all right? If I say anything else besides that, you’re not going to like it.”

There could be a million things I’m “not going to like,” so that doesn’t really give me any insight about what’s going on with him.

I proceed to cross my arms. “Try me.”

“If I tell you what I’m thinking about telling you, will you let this whole thing go?” His eyes narrow slightly at me. “And you won’t get mad?”

It’s a trap !

I know without a doubt agreeing to his terms will end up backfiring somehow, but I can’t help it! The irrational side of me wants to take the risk, just in case.

“Okay,” I say, letting my arms drop, “let’s hear it.”

He looks dubious, but nods. “I was going to tell you that I can’t tell you.” He flips the water back on—as if that wasn’t the WORST ANSWER EVER—and I can literally feel my eye twitching.

But I’m not supposed to get mad.

I’m supposed to “let this whole thing go.”

So, I do the mature thing and finish loading the dishwasher. I start the dishwasher. I interrupt his dishwashing to wash my hands. And then I flick some of the running water at him.

His lips purse as the water droplets soak into his shirt. “You weren’t supposed to get mad.”

“I’m annoyed ,” I retort before stepping around him.

“Skye,” he says, and I hear him turn the water off, “don’t be like that.”

From the corner of my eye, I see him drying off his hands, and he reaches out—like he’s going to touch my arm or my shoulder—but then he rubs the back of his neck instead.

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you.” He makes an exasperated sound. “I just…I literally can’t .”

“But why not?” I ask, unable to keep the hurt out of my voice as I turn to face him. “I’m your best friend, Tate. We don’t keep stuff from each other.”

As I say that though, my mind betrays me by reminding me of the crush I had on Tatum back in high school. Ya know, the crush I never told him about?

It was such a short-term thing though! Not telling him didn’t seem like that big of a deal.

“I’m not—”

“You two almost ready?” Tatum’s mom calls from the dining room. “These cheesecake bars are going to get warm! Alton, don’t you dare peek at those cards!”

“Yeah, we’re coming now!” Tatum tells her before focusing his attention back on me. “Hey, listen—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt him, trying to ignore the guilty feeling that’s creeping through me.

Maybe the crush I had on him was short-term, but it’s still something I kept from him.

“If you can’t tell me…I know there must be a good reason for that.” Even if I’m not fully convinced. “But promise me that you’re okay.” I give him a stern look. “There’s no way I can let this go unless I know you’re okay.”

“I’ll be okay, as long as you’re not annoyed. Or mad at me .”

We both know that I can never stay upset with him.

I spread my arms out, looking at him expectantly. “Hug it out?”

He doesn’t say anything, though, he just closes the gap between us and wraps his arms around me. And when I slip mine around him, I can feel his body relaxing against me as I rest my cheek over the area where I flicked him with water.

Tatum kisses the top of my head, something he’s only done a few times before, and then lets out a sigh.

“Have I told you lately how lucky I am to have you as my best friend?” he murmurs, like it’s some kind of secret. “Our friendship is so important to me, and I never take that for granted.”

I feel the same way, obviously, but for whatever reason my heart is flip-flopping all over the place like one of those wacky inflatable tube men that businesses use for advertising. And even though hugging isn’t uncommon for us, this hug seems…different.

That same warm feeling from the supply closet is back. Only, it’s not just my neck now. It’s spreading throughout my whole body, faster than a horrible rumor about your favorite celebrity.

“Skye, you good?”

Right, I didn’t respond. Great, it seems like that dazed feeling is coming back too…

“Yeah, I-I’m good,” I say, mentally cursing myself for the stutter. “Just thinking.”

Thinking about stuff that would make him question my sanity.

Stuff that would make him question our friendship.

“I’m lucky to have you too, Tate.” I pull away from him, trying not to be abrupt about it, and force a smile. “We better get in there before your dad eats all the dessert.”

Why do my arms feel so… tingly ? What the heck is happening?

“Yeah,” Tatum agrees with me, but there’s no missing that distracted look in his eyes.

Could he sense a difference in the hug too? Am I just being paranoid again?

Possibly.

But I’m not convinced.

After five rounds of rummy, second helpings of dessert, and lots of “way back when” stories from Alton, including his most retold adventure: the armadillo RV incident of 1989 , Gloria ended up being our winner for the night.

She pretends to be indifferent about winning or losing, but we all know that Tatum’s mom has a little bit of a competitive side. Which is why she’s doing her victory dance right now, a combination of “uh-huhs” while bobbing her head before dabbing. Yep, that’s right, dabbing . I didn’t think dabbing was still a thing, but apparently, she learned the move from her kindergarten students.

“You’re going to give yourself whiplash, Gloria,” Alton tells her with a scowl. “And you almost gave Tate a concussion, flailing your arms like that.”

Yeah, it’s a good thing Tatum had quick reflexes and ducked in time.

Gloria stops her dabbing and rolls her eyes at him, but then she kisses the side of Tatum’s head, almost in a just-in-case way.

“I’m fine, Mama,” Tatum assures her with a laugh, “don’t worry.”

She gives his shoulders a brief squeeze, then reaches over to smack Alton’s arm. “No one likes a sore loser, Al.”

“You know,” he says, getting up to follow her out of the dining room, “I would’ve won if you hadn’t taken the cards I was planning on picking up…”

The rest of their conversation fades out as they go into the kitchen, and Tatum shakes his head while gathering the cards together. “They just can’t help themselves.”

“It’s adorable.” I pass him a few stray cards. “I can only imagine what they’ll be like in another ten years or so.”

“Crazier,” Tatum drawls with a light scoff, “but they’ll definitely be even more in love with each other.” He adjusts the cards, so they form an even stack, and then he taps them against the table before slipping them into their box. “Who knows? Maybe by then, I’ll be lucky enough to have that with someone too.”

It’s weird, hearing him talk about being with someone in a long-term way. I’ve never really thought much about either of us finding “the one.”

Maybe because we’ve both had a lot of epic #romancefails?

I just, I can’t picture Tatum with a wife.

Don’t get me wrong, he’d be an amazing husband, I’m sure of it. But what about me?

After Dria got married, I remember her telling me that Trey was her one true best friend, and being married is its own special kind of friendship. Will Tatum and I be able to have our friendship if he gets married? I don’t think Gwen, his last girlfriend, liked how much time we spent together…

Am I going to lose Tatum to his hypothetical future wife?

The possibility turns my stomach. But, once again, I force a smile on my face like a good friend would do. “I’m sure you will.”