ART AND TATUM HAD BEEN SITTING IN AWKWARD SILENCE. Tatum had her shoulder wrapped with some sort of cloth and an ace bandage that kept it all together.

But Tatum's hands were still trembling from the pain the actual relocating of it brought her. The EMT who did it had warned her to grab onto something, but there weren't any railings and despite Art's kind offerings, she refused to squeeze his hand through the pain.

So instead, she sat here with her legs laid straight out as she awaited Aaron's arrival.

But Tatum couldn't help but wonder if this was how it felt for Tashi to be sitting there in agonizing pain in that infirmary -- sitting next to a man who was already taken. Because that's sure as hell how Tatum felt right now.

Or maybe if that was when Art really started envisioning a future for the two of them. When he fell out of love with Tatum.

The tension is thick and the unsaid words are hanging in the air like bats hiding in a cave — ready to bite.

She can tell Art wants to say something. He keeps looking down at my hand, then to his bare one as if he's contemplating whether to grab hers or not.

He can't though, because Patrick comes running in. Art is quick to his feet, and it's almost as though Tatum has taken Tashi's place and they've gone back in time 12 years.

Patrick doesn't continue, he barely moves an inch before taking another step inside this tent. Like he, too, is having deja vu of their messed up past.

But Tatum doesn't tell him to go, and neither does Art. Because it isn't his place and he knows that.

He's waiting by the entryway, scanning the two of them for confirmation on whether he can come in or if he'll just get yelled at a second time.

Tatum nods, allowing him in.

And Patrick looks at Art with that look in his eye. But Art just gives Tatum a look of disbelief, lips parting with an unspoken gasp.

"Can you just go?" She says, so quietly it sounds like a whisper — voice croaking with unshed tears.

They both know who she's talking to, even though she's staring directly ahead, at neither of them.

But ultimately, he accepts it with a clenched jaw. He grabs his bag, tosses it over his shoulder and storms out.

"That was badass." Patrick grins, taking the seat Art was previously in.

Tatum might have laughed if she didn't feel so miserable. All she wanted was her brother.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there." Patrick says with a breathy sigh, now frowning at his poor attempt to cheer her.

Tatum doesn't move. "It's fine, Patrick."

He narrows his gaze on her; examining her — wondering why she isn't putting up a fight like she usually does.

But he doesn't ask her because he doesn't have the time to. Aaron comes in and relief washes over Tatum's face entirely as he walks over to the gurney she lays on.

His strong arms wrap around her and Tatum feels as though she can finally breathe. "I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head, pulling away. "Tate, you have nothing to be sorry for. I'm sorry."

Tatum tried to smile up at him, but it showed as more of a frown.

Aaron just looked down at her sister with an apologetic gaze before clearing his throat and speaking again. "So what'd they say?"

"That it was dislocated and I wouldn't be able to play in the finals." She says, her gaze now averted from his.

She didn't know whether to feel relieved that she could finally be done and Tennis was nothing but a thing in her past — or to be angry because she's spent her entire life working toward this one thing and although she doesn't like it anymore, it'll have all just been for nothing. Her last match will forever be Tatum Nichols dislocates her shoulder during match.

Aaron runs a hand through his blonde hair as he lets out a shaky breath. He, too, knows what this means. "So that's it then?"

The question weighs on Tatum's mind for a moment. She wanted so badly to just give up like she did on everything else in her life — but this felt like an entirely different shift in the world.

"You think I'm gonna let this stop me?"

TATUM, PATRICK AND AARON HAD MADE IT SAFELY TO THE RITZ. Patrick had been staying with the two of them for a few nights now, and tonight was no different.

Upon popping her shoulder back in, they said she wouldn't need a sling but would recommend one. So of course, Tatum refused.

The hotel lobby's doors slide open and the Golden accented walls welcome the trio. So does Art's frantic figure.

He sits there on one of the faux-fur chairs leaned over, his torso nearly digging into his knees as his leg bounces up and down with anticipation.

And Tatum knows what this means.

Patrick and Aaron do too. They give the blonde a warning glare, in which she shakes off. "I'll meet you guys in the room." She says, her voice soft as they part ways.

Tatum waits to approach until the golden elevator doors close behind Patrick and Aaron. And once they do, her tennis shoes click against the marble floor, echoing throughout the lobby.

"My knight in shining armor," she says sarcastically. Her arms now crossed over her torso as she looks down at his anxiety-riddled figure.

Art fiddles with his fingers, but doesn't look at her. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Well, I'm fine." She says curtly, arms now dropping and beginning to walk away.

A hand wraps around her elbow, preventing her from walking any further and the contact sends a shiver down her spine.

She looks back at Art, his jaw clenched and eyes distraught. He looks angry. Like a starved animal who's ready to do whatever it takes to get a piece of meat. "Can we talk? Please?"

Biting the inside of her cheek either contemplation, Tatum — for whatever reason — nods.

So he releases her arm and follows her outside.

It takes him a moment to say anything, at first he just looks around to ensure that nobody can see the two of them. And then, he wipes his lips with the same two fingers he'd use in high school. "You didn't have to do that in there."

Confused, Tatum gives him a puzzled look. But when his blue eyes briefly meet hers, the look says it all. He's referencing the clinic tent — her telling him to leave so that Patrick could be the one sitting next to her.

"It was humiliating." He scoffs, both hands on his hips now as he looks at her with a smile that only means anger.

"You don't think I was humiliated?" The anger begins to rise inside of Tatum now, coursing through her veins as she looks at him. "You threw away 7 years of your life trying to sit next to Tashi that day."

Neither of them had talked about it, not to each other and especially not to anyone else. But they both knew that that day was the day it all ended.

He's deep in thought and doesn't say anything, just rubs his lips harder, slower, as his brows begins to crease his forehead with deep thought.

Tatum takes her bottom lip and takes it between her teeth, beginning to walk away. "I think you'll be okay."

He grabs her hand again, this time harder than before — pulling her back into the conversation.

"Would you stop running away?" He says, his entire face morphed into exasperation. As if he hasn't been able to sleep since the day she left and now all he wants is to talk to her. Really talk.

"I don't want to talk." She says, jaw clenched so hard that her rows of teeth are grinding against one another.

He scoffs again. "Yeah, you never want to talk."

She falls silent, just tapping the heel of her foot against the sidewalk like an impatient child.

"You're coaching Patrick?" He says, finally. And Tatum can tell it's the one thing he's wanted to ask since he found out. "What, is that some, fucked up way to get back at me?"

Tatum scoffs, now being the one annoyed. Not annoyed, pissed. "Not everything is about you."

He shakes his head. "Why are you even here? Why is Patrick here?"

"Patrick was sleeping in his car. He needed to win. I didn't know you were here until your wife was telling me all about your white-picket fence life and how your daughter loves hotels."

"What?" The furrow between his brows intensifies. "So you're jealous?"

"I'm not jealous!" She laughs unhumorously. "I just think it's pretty pathetic that she's wearing the same ring you proposed to me with."

The heat in the air, rising between the two, rooting from their collective anger that's only intensifying by the second — is nearly visible. It's like a kettle that's waiting to pop it's lid off. It just keeps making that sound.

"So you are jealous?"

Tatum is yelling now. "I'm not jealous! I'm pissed that you come back into my life with a wife and a daughter and I—"

His lips are on hers.

She's pressed into the bricks of the wall with his hands on either side of her face, holding her right where he wants her as he kisses her.

It's passionate — there's a fire underlying in it and it's all Tatum ever wanted for the last 12 years now. Art too.

She kisses him back, her lips against his with a force as the two finally give into that feeling.

Like no time has been lost at all — like they're still in high school and in love and—

"You — you're married." She says, voice low as she pulls away from him and his wet lips.

"Tatum—" He shakes his head beginning to protest but Tatum spares him of it, simply just leaving back into the hotel lobby with shame consuming her.