I’ll always look back on 2004 as the year that I changed. I’m not sure whether I would classify it as a maturing year for me, or a year which got me back on my feet after a few idling years of confusion; I would just simply say, for better or for worse, I changed.

Not drastically. I’m still Cat, of course. I still roll my eyes at the morning sun or birds chirping. I still interject sarcastic comments into every available space in a conversation, whether I was invited to or not. I still haven’t found the time to join a gym to try and gain some semblance of muscles in my legs, and each time I try and work out in Justin’s gym, the TV calls out to me and I end up watching something on Comedy Central with popcorn in my hand.

But then, how have I changed? Surely I’m just the same, cynical girl that I was a year ago?

Well, yes, I am. But this time around it’s different, because I have a boyfriend.

Have you ever noticed that as soon as you drop the phrase, ‘My boyfriend and I’ into a conversation, everyone abruptly stops and listens to you? You suddenly have something interesting to say, you have the membership card to the ‘Couple Club’; people hold you in such high regard, just because you’re in a relationship.

Particularly so when it’s, ‘My boyfriend, Justin Timberlake, and I’. Every time I casually drop that phrase into a conversation, it’s as though I’ve whispered, ‘abracadabra’, and I get treated with the respect and admiration I so clearly should have received all along.

So, who do you think instigated this cocky, arrogant, ‘I’m the shit, and don’t you forget it’ attitude that you’ve never heard from me before?

I’ll give you three guesses.

Even after five months, I’m still getting used to being ‘Justin Timberlake’s girlfriend’. Every day I wake up and look to my right to see him still sleeping beneath the covers, one arm thrown protectively over my waist, and I think, is this really happening? Have the events of the past year just been the crazy daydreams of a desperate girl? Am I going to wake up any second and find myself living at Diane’s, working in the grocery store, and very much alone?

I pray to God not.

I’m sure everyone is confused when they see us together. Here I am, this insecure, anti-love, sassy girl, who is on the arm of a gorgeous, happy, confident specimen of a man. What could we possibly have in common? To be frank, I don’t know. Our outlooks on life are completely different, our personalities can clash dreadfully at times, and let’s be honest, I don’t follow the pattern of his slew of beautiful girlfriends.

So it’s true. We don’t match. We’re the odd pair. The pair people raise their eyebrows at and tut disapprovingly, because they know we’ll never last. The rulebook would probably classify us as truly fucked.

The odd thing is, neither of us care.

I never tell anyone this, because it makes me sound like one of those crappy romantic novels you read on planes because they’re long and take up a portion of your traveling time, but sometimes I think I love Justin so much it hurts. It’s as though he’s my oxygen, and without him, I can’t breathe. I’m almost afraid to close my eyes, in case I open them and find that he isn’t there. I love him too much.

But don’t tell anyone I said that. I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.

---------------------------------------------------

If there’s anything I’ve learnt over the past year, it’s if you want something bad enough, you’ll get it. I wanted peace and quiet from the press, which I got. I was finally away from parties, alcohol, girls, I got that too. I wanted to just have a year living as a semi-normal guy, goofing around with my friends, which I got.

I wanted Cat so badly I thought it was going to tear me in two, but it didn’t, and I got her as well.

Maybe it’s a little conceited to assume I ‘got her’ After all, I was the one who was dragged under by her sarcasm and her ability to make me laugh when I least expected it, so much so that there was a point where I could do nothing but pine for her. When I say I got her, it’s as though it was just another thing I conquered, but it wasn’t. I know for a fact she was this close to staying with Sean and forgetting all about me. I suppose it would be fairer to say she got me.

I thank God everyday she didn’t pick him. I mean, he was the easy way out, he was the more obvious answer. I couldn’t give her the promises of forever like Sean could. I don’t have the intelligence that they have. I didn’t have the acceptable appeal that Sean did.

But she did choose me, as she reminds me when I’m bitching about the fact she’s still friends with him. She said she ‘owed it to him’ to at least be civil, it was the least she could do after everything that had happened. My reply normal is whatever. Cat is a great catch, even though it may have taken me a while to figure it out, and I know if she wasn’t my girlfriend, I’d wish she was. Actually, I’ve already been there, but anyway…I trust her completely, but if he makes one move that I deem less than appropriate, that guy will wish he was never born…

It feels good to be able to talk about Cat like that. To be all protective over her, and to have the right to claim she is ‘mine’, even though if she heard me say that, she’d go all feminist on me. Just because we’re in a relationship doesn’t mean she’s any less independent. She keeps any affection for me behind closed doors. She refuses to admit she loves me if other people are around. You probably wouldn’t even know we were together if you saw us together.

But, like I said, behind closed doors, when we’re alone, she’s so different. She allows herself to be much more defenseless and exposed, and doesn’t keep so many secrets. I’ve learnt more about what goes on in her head during one of our midnight talks as we lay in bed than I did throughout our entire friendship. In a rare moment of vulnerability, she admitted she felt safe when she was with me, as though she could let her guard down a little, and not be what people expected her to be.

I know what she means. Everyone expects her to be funny and dry all the time, when sometimes I know she just wants to sit in the corner and observe what’s going on around her. I think she’s always felt as though if she wasn’t that way, people wouldn’t like her. I had known Cat was insecure when we were friends, but she always made it seem funny. It was as though she could turn anything into a joke, so she’d say her legs were like tree trunks, and that was just the calf, stuff like that. It was funny, but when I realized she actually meant it, it wasn’t funny at all.

I don’t know whether we’ll be together for ever. I can hope, and I can be thankful for the blissful few months we’ve had, but I’ll never really know. But even if we aren’t, and I’m left a shell of a man because I quite frankly can’t live without her, as long as she’s happy in her own skin, that’s all that matters.

The steady hum of the shower slowly awakes my senses as I roll over, trying to get away from the glare of the sun, which is pouring in through the window. Trying to decide whether to get up and close the curtain or to simply lie in bed until the sun forces me to rise, I groan as I hear the shower turned off and the door of the bathroom open.

Lazily opening a heavy eyelid, I see Cat scuttle around the room, holding her towel tightly around her chest as she picks up her clothes for work. She returns to the bathroom to get changed, casting a quick eye over my sleeping figure as she does so, as though she’s scared I might have seen her. It infuriates me when she acts like that. What has the girl got against being naked? It's not like we haven't been intimate before.

Drowsiness takes over me again, until the door opens again and Cat emerges, all pretty and glowly from her shower. She walks over to me and drops a quick kiss on my forehead, giving my hair a slight tousle as does so, before starting to turn away and leave. I wearily try to make my eyes fully open as she looms over me, smiling.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she says softly, in a sweet voice no one but me gets to hear.

“Hi,” I mumble, hitting my pillow slightly to make it fluffier. “Are you going to work?”

She nods. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Being woken with a kiss is more pleasant than an alarm clock,” I sigh, trying to sit up. “I was waking up anyway.”

“Well, I have to go,” she smiles, dropping another kiss to my temple.

“No!” I moan, like some teenager told they had to go to a family reunion. “Stay here with me.”

She laughs as I grasp her wrist and try to pull her back to bed. “Sorry Justin, but I have to go to work.”

“Yeah, to work on me,” I mutter, grinning as she places a swift smack on the back of my head.

“You’re even cockier in the mornings,” she says, although I can hear the cracks in her disapproving tone. She’s not mad. She couldn’t be if she tried.

“Don’t go,” I whine again, opening the comforter and quickly pulling her under it and on top of me, as she gasps with surprise.

“Justin! I have to go to work.”

“No you don’t,” I reply simply, wrapping my arms around her and burying my nose in to her freshly cleaned hair. “Not when you smell this good.”

She laughs and tries to pull away. “Justin, I really, really have to go.”

“Fine,” I mumble, allowing her to get out of the bed. “But make sure Sean doesn’t come and smell you. You know how little boys’ imaginations are when it comes to nice smelling women.”

“Little boys? He’s older than you, my dear,” she says in a motherly tone.

“Just make sure he knows his place, okay?”

This earns me a swift roll of the eyes. “Justin, we’ve talked about this…”

“Come back on your lunch hour?” I plead, sticking out my bottom lip. There’s no way I’m letting her stay with the conniving little prick. I bet, on the first chance he gets, he’ll dive straight into her pants.

She tries not to grin, but doesn’t succeed. “Fine, but just because I don’t want to hang out in the office.”

“Sure, sure,” I say in a condescending voice. “You know love the Timber-love.”

She laughs and readjusts her skirt. “About as much as I love bikini waxes.”

Wrinkling my nose in disgust, I fiddle with my pillow until they’re upright and I can sit back on them. “Just be back here at one, young lady.”

“Okay,” she replies, turning away again.

“Ahem,” I cough, and she spins around.

“What?”

“No kiss?”

“I’ve given you two!” she exclaims, smiling.

“Well, I want two more.”

Rolling her eyes, she mutters something along the lines of pop stars being the most spoilt people ever to walk the earth’s surface, before bending down and giving me a kiss on the lips.

“There. Pleased?”

“One more,” I say, and she tries to keep the smile off her face as she gives me another kiss. “Thank you,” I reply, as she pulls away, a blush entering her cheeks.

“No problem. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

She tosses a wave over her shoulder before crossing the room to the door. Just as her hands land on the brass knob, I call out, “Love you!”

She pauses and smiles, looking down at her hands. “Love you too,” she whispers shyly.

Grinning, I sling the covers over my head again, burying myself in the depths of my bed as I hear the car start in the driveway. I don’t even contemplate what I could or should do with my time until Cat comes back, because I know that without her, everything just seems too boring.

Feeling myself succumb to a stupor again, I roll over to Cat’s side, inhaling the perfume left on the sheets. Cat would just love it if she saw me smelling her pillow, I can imagine her words running along the lines of, ‘Dear God, he’s more feminine than I suspected’. But she would love it secretly. She loves me secretly, I know it.

I hope things stay like this forever.

--------------------------------------------------------

I tried to wipe off the stupid smile on my face, I really did. In fact, I even got it down to a close mouthed smile, before I just couldn’t resist showing my teeth again.

Yes, I am irritatingly in love; even his horrific attempt to grow a beard hasn’t put me off. Where’s that steadfast feminist of mine gone, huh?

I don’t know. She probably hightailed it out of here the first time Justin bought me a bouquet of my favorite flowers (lilies, and he worked that out all on his own) and I almost started crying. To be fair, it was dangerously close to that time of the month and I was extremely emotional that day because it had just been awful, with all these unmet deadlines and everything, and he happened to have the instinct to do something nice to cheer me up. So, when you think about it, it’s not that pathetic. Sure, it’s semi pathetic, but not fully pathetic.

Or maybe she dissolved when I woke up on my birthday and he had written this card which really should have made me vomit because of it’s saccharine sweet words, but ended up making me almost faint when he wrote, ‘I love you, just the way you are. I wouldn’t change you for the world, and I hope you’ll always remember that’. See? I even memorized it. What does that say about that supposed inner feminist?

Perhaps she faded into oblivion the first time Justin and I made lov--sorry, sorry, had sex. I was petrified, but hey what’s new, and spent far longer than I should have making sure the light was off and the curtains were drawn, just so his vision could be skewered by the darkness. He was so sweet, and made this joke about him getting naked first, so if I didn’t laugh at him, he wouldn’t laugh at me. Of course, he didn’t laugh at me, instead he kept whispering how perfect I was, even though I knew he was lying, and didn’t say anything about how awful I must look naked. He must have grasped somewhere along the line that I have no sexual skills whatsoever, so I allowed him to fully take charge and before I knew it…my oh my.

Yes, the feminist definitely took the back seat that night. I didn’t even pretend to be disappointed in Justin’s performance or make any jokes about it, I just lay there and he fell asleep, his angelic body up against me. Okay, okay, so maybe I cried a tiny bit, but it was no big deal! And it was just for a second anyway, it’s not like I was in hysterics…Of course, he woke up and thought he’d done something terribly wrong and I somehow murmured no, quite the opposite.

“Then why are you crying?”

“I don’t know,” I whimpered, clutching at my pillow as I felt him press himself against my back, peering over at me to see what was wrong.

“I thought you hated crying?”

“I do!” I snapped, hastily trying to brush my tears away in the dark room. “I’m not even crying.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not!”

He smiled at me. “I think you are.”

“I am not!”

“Okay, you’re not,” he said, dropping kisses on my naked shoulder as I shuddered beneath his touch. “You know I love you Cat, don’t you?”

I somehow managed to nod.

“And you know I think you’re beautiful?”

“But that’s the point!” I exclaimed, squeezing my eyes shut as I felt the tears build up in them once again. “This is all so…overwhelming.”

He put a hand to my shoulder, pulling me around to face him. He gently wiped away at my tears with his thumbs as he held my face in his hands. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged helplessly. “It’s just…all this; it’s not something I’m used to. And what just happened was…” I trailed off, my wide knowledge of the English language still not enough to express how I felt. “Wonderful,” I completed, for lack of a better word. “I’ve just never felt like this before,” I whispered bashfully.

Before I knew it, I was sobbing into his shoulder all over again. People say that it’s normal to cry after sex, for a “release of emotion”, but I’ve never done that. I’ve always been the type of girl to find some adequate enjoyment, reflect on it for a second (with very little nostalgia, I must add), and then roll over to go to sleep.

So what is this? Why can’t I just stop the tears flowing down my cheeks as I grip helplessly onto Justin? This is so unlike me.

He chuckled slightly and soothingly stroked my hair, “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he whispered, presumably wondering where the hell it was all coming from. Same here, Timberlake.

“This is so stupid,” I mumbled into his chest as he kissed my head.

“No it’s not,” he said, leaning back slightly. “Something amazing just happened; it’s okay to be overwhelmed.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Sex is a big thing. A lot of women get emotional.”

“But not me!” I protest, jabbing at my chest angrily.

“Why not?”

“Because…” I floundered helplessly, “I’m just not like that!”

He sighed, cocking his head to the side to look at me for a moment. “You know Cat, you don’t have to be tough all the time,” he murmured gently, lying back down on the pillow as his hand continued to stroke my hair. “You can let down your guard a little sometimes."

“But I do have to keep my guard up, Justin. If I’m not being sarcastic, or pessimistic, or funny, then what am I? People will just realize that without that stuff, I have no personality, no wit, no good points at all--”

“That’s not true,” he replied immediately. “Why do you care what people think so much?”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He sighed. “Cat sweetie, sure, I can see where you’re coming from. I mean, look at me, I have a whole world to please, but you have to make yourself happy before anyone else.”

“I am happy,” I interjected shyly, looking down at the sheets. “I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

“So am I,” he said, reaching up and lightly touching my cheek as he smiled at me. “And one day you’ll realize that people won’t look down on you because you’re happy and not talking about how awful the world is.” I blushed guiltily. That was exactly what I was worried about. “You’re funny Cat, you know you are, but you can still be funny and in love at the same time.”

“But I’ve lost all my sarcastic wit,” I joked, a weak smile crossing my features.

He laughed. “Cat, you’re never going to lose your sarcastic wit.”

I laughed with him, wiping away the last traces of my tears, and nestled into bed beside him, his arm automatically going around me.

“I love you,” I said unexpectedly, as his body meshes into mine.

His smile broadened. “I love you too.”

So fine, I admit to being completely and utterly at the hands of Mr. Timberlake.

But can you really blame me?

“In what year was John F. Kennedy elected as president for the United States?”

“1960,” is the first thing I hear from Cat as she strolls into the house, throwing her keys into a little bowl with a clatter.

“Hey,” I say, turning away from the TV, where Trace and I are currently engrossed in the Weakest Link.

“Hi,” she replies, entering the games room with a bottle of water in her hand.

“19...70,” answers the scared young man on the screen with a stutter. Anne shouts, ‘Incorrect!’ at him, before carrying on.

Cat rolls her eyes. “We Americans are so stupid.”

“Come sit down,” I usher her in, patting the place beside me. She sits down, screwing the lid back onto the bottle, before I attack her with kisses.

“Justin!” she exclaims, “Your beard tickles!”

“You love it really,” I mutter, nuzzling my face against her cheek.

“Actually, I don’t. Justin, stop it,” she warns, her eyes darting over to where Trace is sitting.

“I’m not here,” he waves off, his gaze transfixed to the TV.

“But I am,” I grin, before once again planting my lips on hers.

She giggles, before wriggling out of my grasp. “Miss me much?”

“Just a tad,” I reply, grinning at her as she kicks off her shoes. “How was work?”

She shrugs. “’Kay.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Not good?”

She shakes her head. “No, just not exciting.”

“How’s Sean?” I ask sarcastically, turning my furious eyes onto the television, so she can’t see how much his very name pisses me off.

“Justin…” she begins wearily, as she does whenever I pester her about him. “He’s my work colleague, I have to be his friend. Can you imagine how awkward things would be if I hadn’t made any attempt to patch things up, but we still had to share a cubicle?”

“Can’t you move cubicles?” I insist.

She rolls her eyes. “No. Unfortunately the office seating plan does not rotate around my personal problems.”

“Oh, so he is a problem?”

“For you, apparently so.”

“I don’t care about him,” I say, knowing my lips has protruded and I can officially be classified as, ‘pouting’. “I just don’t like the close proximity in which you two work.”

“Don’t be silly,” she murmurs, resting her head against my chest as she gently strokes the soft fabric of my shirt. “You know I love you.”

“Yes, I know, but I also know he loves you.”

“He’s got a girlfriend,” she mutters, shaking her head at me.

“Oh! Well, in that case…he’s a great guy.”

She giggles and smacks me in the chest, hurrying into the kitchen before returning with a hastily made sandwich. “So, what have you boys been doing all day?” she asks, taking a bite of ham.

“Not much,” shrugs Trace. “We went to visit my cousin, but Justin wasted a ton of time whining because he couldn’t find any jeans to wear, so we only went for a few hours.”

“Are you kidding?!” she exclaims, almost choking on her food. “Justin, you have a ton of jeans!”

“But they’re not nice!” I defend.

“They’re all exactly the same!”

“Exactly, so that means if one pair is bad, so are the rest. Logically, that is.”

She rolls her eyes. “So, what are you going to do about your, ‘problem’?”

“Go shopping,” I reply simply. “Hey, wanna come with me?”

“I don’t like shopping,” she groans, leaning into the sofa as she stares at the television.

“But all girls like shopping!” I exclaim in dismay.

She looks at me from the corner of her eye. “But Justin, I’m not all girls. Surely you would have realized that by now?”

I grin and drop a kiss on her cheek, eliciting a cute blush. “You’re ten times better.”

She scratches her cheek slightly, the roughness of my beard tickling her face. “Can I ask when you and Trace are going to shave?”

“It’s a competition!” Trace says, finally tearing his eyes from the program. “To see who can go the longest without shaving!”

“Yes, yes, I am well aware of the said contest,” mutters Cat, shaking her head as she eats the last of her sandwich. “I just wondered if either of you have actually seen a mirror lately.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, scratching my face, the day’s growth prickling my fingers. “You don’t like it?”

She shrugs. “Do you want me to be honest?”

I pause. “Give me a watered down version.”

“You look like a homeless person,” she says simply, turning back to the TV, trying to suppress a smile.

“That’s watered down?” I protest.

“Hey Justin, the truth would have included the words, ‘dead’ and ‘animal’, so consider yourself lucky.” She turns to Trace. “And I don’t know why you’re laughing. You are merely the hobo’s shorter, hairier friend.”

Trace’s laughing ceases. “So if I shave, will you come shopping with me?” I plead.

“You’d do that for me?” she says in a mock sweet tone, batting her eyelashes.

“You can shave it yourself,” I reply, grinning as she smiles at me.

“You got yourself a deal.”

I pat her knee and get up, giving Trace a slight push as I walk past him. “I’ll go and get ready, then.”

“Are you shaving or are we going out?” she calls out.

“Which would you prefer?” I tease, popping my head around the doorframe.

“We can shop tomorrow. The sooner that thing is removed, the better.” She briskly wipes her hands and stands up, turning to Trace. “Are you going to keep yours, little dude?”

He nods and scratches his chin thoughtfully. “I think it gives me a rugged sex appeal.”

She laughs and tousles his hair. “Definitely.”

“Excuse me?” I call out from the hall.

“Nothing!” Trace replies with a shout. “Your girlfriend was just complimenting my admirable sexual attractiveness!”

“What?” I say, scowling as I stand in the doorway of the games room, an eyebrow raised.

“Nothing, nothing,” Cat brushes off, walking over to where I stand and running a hand over my cheek. “So, shall we remove the beast right now?”

“Are you sure you don’t like it?” I whine, stamping my foot at the thought of removing what has taken a good week and a half to grow.

“Yes,” she replies sternly. “You know how crazy that thing makes me.”

“Yeah, crazy with desire,” I wink, grinning at her.

She rolls her eyes. “About as crazy with desire as I was with my fifth grade geography teacher who, by the way, had a comb over and an unfortunate skin disease.”

“Harsh, harsh,” I grin, clutching my chest.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

With the razor poised in my hands, I stand above Justin, surveying the creature currently residing on Justin’s baby face. Why him and Trace thought this was a good idea, I don’t know. Personally, I think it makes him look like a terrorist, but their male stupidity blinded them into thinking they actually looked good.

They were wrong.

“Okay, so where do I begin?” I ask, tilting Justin’s head up to get a rough idea of the surface area covered by the monstrosity.

“Wherever you want, sweetheart,” he says, grinning as he looks at me in the mirror.

I wish I could laugh, but I know that if I get one tiny scratch on Justin’s porcelain face, people will think I’ve finally gone crazy and hacked up his good looks. Not to mention the relentless whining I’ll hear from Justin, who I’ve discovered is the reason the word conceited was invented. If he has one little nick, he’ll freak out and ask me for concealer so his flawless complexion isn’t ruined. Don’t laugh, he’s done it before.

How the hell am I supposed to do this? Oddly enough, I don’t feel comfortable waving a sharp implement quite so close to his jugular. I can barely even shave my own legs. He must remember the time I ran out of the bathroom howling because I had cut my leg with my razor, and was slightly surprised by the unyielding blood gushing out of my shin. Who knew so much blood could surge from one little cut?

“Seriously, what am I supposed to do?”

“You’ve never shaved a man before?”

I roll my eyes. “Surprisingly…no.”

“Aw, you’re a virgin.” He pauses to waggle his eyebrows. “In some ways, at least.”

In an attempt to hide the blush spreading across my cheeks, I sulkily put my hand on my hip. “Justin, I am quite astounded by your ability to reel off insulting remarks when I am the one holding a lethal weapon.”

“It’s not lethal if you know what you’re doing.”

“Which I don’t,” I helpfully interject.

Ignoring me, he carries on. “Look, it’s simple. You just take the blade like this,” he takes my hand, his touch still gentle despite the taunting in his tone, “and just glide it up, like this,” he moves our clasped hands upwards, removing a neat line of hair and shaving foam from his face.

“Oh my goodness, I can see your cheek without a dense forest of crap on it. This is quite a Kodak moment,” I tease, washing the razor in the sink and turning back to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like it?” he asks grinning, as I cautiously press the blade to his skin.

“Because I thought you were making a statement,” I murmur distractedly, praying I’m not pressing too hard. “You know, that you weren’t just a pretty boy but had a sparkling, intelligent personality too. But then I witnessed your amazing Rock, Paper, Scissors tournament with Trace, and realized that that couldn’t be it. So now I just have it narrowed down to you and Trace being incredibly stupid.”

He laughs, but quickly stops when I gasp and pull the razor away, his sudden movement shaking the blade in my hand. “Don’t worry sweetheart, you won’t cut me,” he says, as I scowl at him before resuming my job. “And even if you did, I know you would take care of me.”

Not answering him, I continue to shave him, my head bent down.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he repeats, his lips once again parting in a broad smile as he makes the mistake of slapping my ass.

“Justin, do that again, and I’ll chop your hand off.”

“When a woman says stop, she really means more,” he says philosophically, placing both hands square on my bottom and pulling me atop of him.

“Justin!” I exclaim, holding the razor above my head. “I could have cut you!”

“But you didn’t,” he brushes off. “Just admit it Cat, if something was wrong with me, you’d be at my beck and call.”

Relenting, I sigh. “Of course I would.”

“And why would you do that?” he enquires innocently.

Smiling, I know exactly what he wants to hear. “Because I love you.”

“Thank you.” His hands creep under my thighs and pull one leg on each side of him, so I’m sitting quite comfortably on his lap. “And I love you too.”

Shyly, I bend down to give him a quick kiss, his lips still igniting the same tingly sensation they have since day one.

“Well, well,” he grins even more cockily, looking down into his lap. “Aren’t we in a compromising position?”

Trying to suppress a smile, I roll my eyes. “Just take a second to think about all the things I could cut off with this blade, Justin.”

His grasp on my hips tighten. “Fine, fine, just carry on with what you were doing.”

“On your lap?”

“Yes,” he replies simply, raising an eyebrow. “After all, you’ll get a closer shave this way.”

“Mmmhmm, whatever,” I reply, removing the final traces of the horrific beard as smoothly as I could.

Don’t assume for one second I was completely unperturbed at the idea of being quite so close to Justin, or, more specifically, his crotch. It grew exceedingly hard to wipe images of me, Justin, and a bed out of my mind as he carelessly rubbed my skin with his hands, his gaze on me as I stared at his face in deep concentration. I’m not usually one for sex fantasies at five in the afternoon, but hey, straddling Justin Timberlake in a skirt has proved to be the ultimate mind-boggler.

Once I was finished, I triumphantly threw the razor into the sink and wiped his face of any remaining shaving foam.

“See? Look how much better you look without a mammoth on your face!”

He smirks and runs a hand over the smooth skin. “I guess you’re right.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

Rolling my eyes, I turn to the mirror, running a hand through my hair. “It must be great to look in the mirror and know your reflection is drop dead gorgeous.”

“Well, you know that too,” he says, coming up behind me and slipping his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder.

Frowning at my appearance in the mirror, I shake my head. “Not really.” He glares and I immediately correct myself. “I mean, I know I’m not ugly. I’m just…nothing special, I guess. Not like you.”

“That’s bullshit, Cat,” he says sternly, still scowling at me. “How many times a day to I tell you how beautiful you are?”

“About ten,” I murmur sheepishly. And he does. Every morning, every night, every waking hour, I hear, ‘Cat, you’re so beautiful’ or ‘Cat, you know those other girls on TV don’t amount to anything compared to you’… He’s so thoughtful, and kind, and lovable, and sexy…

“So how many times have I got to say it until you believe me?” he says, almost angrily.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper timidly.

He sighs, and rests his forehead on my shoulder for a second. “I just hate to hear you say that stuff, Cat. It makes me feel like I’m doing badly in my job as a boyfriend.”

Turning around to him, I stroke his smooth cheek. “What do you mean, silly? You couldn’t do better if you tried.”

He shrugs and pulls me in for a hug, burying his face in my neck, which he always does when he wants comforting. “I should make you feel like the most amazing woman in the world, and I’m clearly not.”

“Justin, this has nothing to do with you. This is all about me and my crazy head.” My hands automatically rub his back soothingly, his hot breath tickling my neck.

“What can I do to make you feel beautiful?” he asks quietly, inadvertently causing my eyebrow to raise at his comment.

I could think of a few things…

Dear goodness, here we go again. All these unexpected lapses into sexual thoughts must stop immediately. All I need is a calendar of a half-dressed Pamela Anderson pinned on the back of my bedroom door and I’m a fully fledged teenage boy, for Christ’s sake.

“Nothing,” I reply, giving his back one last rub before pulling away from him. “Come on, let’s not talk about this any more.”

His hands stay on my hips, his eyes darkening. “Oh, I think there’s something,” he whispers, his voice lowering as his eyes take a dip down over my body. “I think there are a few things,” he says, grinning cockily.

Ah, it’s, ‘The Voice’.

People have little quirky, unique seduction techniques that they always pull when they want to get someone into bed. (Excluding me, of course. My one and only attempt to ‘seduce’ Justin ended proved to be a little less than successful. Who knew it was so easy to trip over one’s own feet?). I’ve accepted the fact I have no sexual prowess at all, so when I’m feeling bold enough to initiate sex, I go extremely shy and can’t touch nor look at Justin without blushing, until he catches on and leads me to the bedroom. It’s a wonderful, artful method. How can he not resist someone that goes beet red and mumbles something along the lines of, ‘There’s a bed upstairs, you know’?

But, of course, Justin Timberlake’s seduction technique is refined and smooth and fine tuned to a point where I am quite powerless against his urges. He lowers his voice, he starts staring at everything apart from my face, so yes, my chest, and then starts kissing this really sensitive point on my neck until I’m practically begging him to quit the goddamn teasing.

But he doesn’t always win, and he won’t today. Cat Saunders is not swayed by the simplest of touches, the tone of someone’s voice, or wandering hands. She has strength, willpower, resistance, and will not bow to--

“Oh Justin,” I moan, his lips grazing against the skin of my neck.

Screw willpower.

“Yes?” he says in the same husky, deep, quiet tone.

“Trace is just downstairs…” I mumble helplessly, feeling his hands glide up my shirt. “We’ve just left him alone…”

“He’s a big boy. He’ll be fine,” Justin mutters, his hands rubbing the small of my back, pulling me towards him. “And anyway, he left to see that girlfriend of his. We have the house all to ourselves…”

“But Justin…” I rue the day I met Justin and allowed my IQ to drop to the point where I can’t even complete sentences. I used to be a key debater, with a sparkling vocabulary, now I’m a whimpering, ‘Oh Justin’ mess.

“Don’t start, Miss Saunders,” he orders as my legs hit the base of the bed. Hold on, how did I get from over there to…over here?

I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m just fighting a losing battle.

“I’m not going to stop…” he presses his lips against my collarbone. “Until you know…” my body collapses onto the bed, and he climbs over me, his muscular figure hovering over my curvy one. “Just how beautiful…” His burning touch leaves a trail of tingling nerves as he stealthily slides his hand up my outer thigh. “You really are.”

My body helplessly relaxes into the plush sheets of Justin’s bed, any form of resistance well and truly shattered as his lips start their epic journey down my neck, over my stomach, and to the button of my skirt. He grins at me and eases the skirt off my hips, his self-satisfied smirk letting me know just how much he is enjoying the obligation that I gave him so easily. I would protest with some feminist crap, but the steady contact of his skin and mine seems to have knocked the breath out of me, or at least brought the functions of my brain to a terrific standstill.

He slowly…teasingly, in fact, the bastard…unbuttons my blouse, punctuating each open button with a kiss. He discards my top over his shoulder carelessly, quickly returning to me to skim his lips over mine.

“Feel beautiful yet?” he whispers, his hands encircling my waist.

“Not yet,” I reply coyly, reaching down to pull his sweater over his head, his heated skin warming my cold body.

He smiles at me as my hands explore the expanse of his back, feeling the muscles ripple with every movement he makes. A fluttery feeling of excitement grows in my stomach as his jeans become a distant memory on the floor beside my skirt and top.

His fingers start grappling at my bra as I mentally go over a hundred Cosmo articles about always wearing sexy lingerie in case you get caught in impromptu sex. Why didn’t I ever listen to them? Why did I pick today to wear the most boring, white, something-your-mom would wear underwear?

But he doesn’t say anything, and pretty soon, my mind couldn’t be further from my choice of underwear. My bra soon joins the every growing pile of our garments, and I gasp when his mouth comes into contact with my skin, pangs of pleasure shooting through my body. Reality slowly slips from my finger tips, no matter how hard I try and hold onto it, as his talented mouth works its wonders on my body.

“We’ve not even started yet,” he chuckles cockily, clearly finding my easily pleased nature amusing as he makes a wandering line of kisses down my stomach.

Why does arrogance have to be so attractive?

-------------------------------------------------------------

Giving is as good as receiving, okay? I’ve decided. Giving rocks.

Especially when the receiver keeps on gasping, and whimpering, and whispering my name, and biting her lip, and sighing contentedly every now and then.

Especially when the receiver is Cat.

Cat has a thing about sex. She hates to talk about it, she hates people knowing she’s having it, and sometimes I wonder whether she might even hate sex. It’s all down to this screwy mentality that she has that she’s not beautiful and her body is horrific, and I think that can get in the way of things sometimes. I realize a lot of women are like that, but Cat is so self-conscious low self esteem literally pours from her the first few times we have sex, or even just fooled around a little. She got nervous and it took time for her to relax, a problem we still have sometimes.

The sooner she realizes that different doesn’t necessarily mean worse, the better. Sure, her body isn’t like Britney’s, or any of the other women I’ve seen along the way, but it’s still beautiful. In some ways I prefer being with Cat than anyone else, because she’s …softer, and easier to cuddle. I always have this incredible urge to protect her when she drops the act and shows me just how scared of some things she is. I want to please her, to make her realize what a great thing sex is and it’s nothing to be ashamed about, and I think I’m slowly doing that.

We had been together for three months before she tentatively whispered something along the lines of, ‘You can stay in my room if you want’. I can’t tell you how much my heart leapt. I was curious, in a way, to see how she’d behave once the lights were out and the bedroom door was closed. The transformation from a seemingly confident, sarcastic Cat to this shy, nervous girl was quite astounding. I liked seeing an introverted side of Cat, it took the edge off her, but I’m glad to see she’s not as inhibited as she once was. She’ll always be gentle in bed, and she’ll never talk about it freely, but it’s a comfort to think I’ve pulled her out of the place where it was something that she couldn’t enjoy. Now, she doesn’t so much get jittery or nervous, she just seems amazed that it’s happening. As though this is the first meeting with pleasure she’s ever had.

I cannot tell you how good that feels.

Kneeling back slightly, I run my hands over the curves of her body, memorizing every inch of her, from the dip of her waist to the arch in her foot. She is beautiful, and I’m determined to make her see that too.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, fear suddenly pooling her eyes as she watches me examine her almost naked body. Instinctively, her arms cover her chest.

“Nothing, nothing,” I reply, gently grasping her wrists and pulling them away from her, feeling her body relax slightly. “I just can’t believe how beautiful you are.”

She tries to hide her pleased grin. “You’re going to be saying that all the time now, aren’t you?”

Chuckling slightly, I bend down to retrace my earlier kisses on her neck. “Yup.”

“Well, I don’t mind,” she says, wrapping her arms around my neck as I grind into her slightly. “Oh-oh,” she whimpers.

I smile at her gasps and press harder, peeking a glance at her swollen lips and flushed cheeks. I could go on forever, teasing her like this, chuckling at the wispy pants escaping her lips, but I know that wouldn’t be fair on either of us.

My fingers deftly work to remove our final items of clothing, sliding her underwear over her hips and off her body, leaving us both naked in front of each other. She shivers slightly as the cold air hits her skin, and I immediately pull the blankets over us, not missing the sneaky look she throws over my body. I actually feel strangely proud that I’m the only guy that makes her go weak at the knees, the only guy that can get away with saying cheesy things, the only guy that she loves.

I capture her lips with my own, giving her one breathless kiss after the other, as her hands lightly skim over my back, my neck, my hair, leaving tingling nerves in their wake. Her touch leaves this electric fire I didn’t know existed, and it takes every fiber in my body to not just slam into her to end the anticipation.

But I know she wouldn’t like that. She’s not used to aggressive, hot sex that I’ve participated in more times than I care to count. That was just screwing, that didn’t mean anything, but when I’m with Cat, it’s slow, and gentle, and patient. I’m in no rush, and neither is she. It’s our time, where our sole focus is each other, and everything else fades into oblivion. We can just close ourselves off from the world and its expectations, and just be with each other.

Smoothing the hair back from her face, I place one final kiss on her lips before slowly pushing myself inside of her, finally connecting our bodies in one unhurried, deliberate movement. She gasps and I hold perfectly still for a moment, allowing her to catch her breath as her eyes flutter close and she grips onto my back.

“Oh God,” she mutters, the words falling from her delicate lips as I begin to slowly ease in and out of her, my hands running over her body.

The room is silent except for the soft proclamations of love rolling off the edge of our tongues, sounding so easy and natural it surprises me. She clutches the sheets with one hand as the other clings desperately onto me, soft sighs and occasional moans being whispered in the darkness as I rock my body against hers, her soft flesh welcoming me with each thrust.

Time becomes insignificant as a haze takes over both of us, indescribable waves of pleasure crashing down upon us, our synchronized bodies moving as one to reach the ultimate goal. Her breathing quickens, her words become more urgent, and I begin to move faster, deeper, doing anything I can to get her to the place I know she wants to go.

“Justin,” she whispers breathlessly. “I love you.”

I rest my forehead against hers, trying to see through the blinding flashes of colors before my eyes. “I love you too.”

Her back arches and her body presses against mine, soft cries of bliss echoing in the room as I pause for a moment, before working towards my own peak.

Suddenly, I’m taken over by an inexpressible feeling. Nothing can capture the moment of intense pleasure as I glance down to see Cat staring up at me, her eyes wide with surprise from seeing the enjoyment she inflicted. I pant her name as she runs her hands over my body, murmuring sweet words as I slowly come down from my high, with her right there with me.

My body falls limply against hers, my head resting on her chest as she lovingly strokes my hair. There are so many things I could say, so many things I could do, but I don’t need to. The simplicity of the moment, with her fingers soothingly stroking my head and my hand idly rubbing her waist, makes it seem like a rare glimpse into heaven. No frills, no big bangs, just me and Cat.

I look up at her, smiling faintly.

“What is it?” she whispers, a soft, gentle, feminine tone that would surely ruin her hard ass image.

“Do you feel beautiful now?”

She laughs, her chest heaving up and down. “Very, thank you.”

Smiling, I rest my head against her chest again, the movements of her hand in my hair slowly sending me into a sleepy daze.

“How do these look?”

Like every other pair. “Oh yeah, great.”

“Are you sure?” Justin asks, holding the pants against his legs and eyeing the mirror thoughtfully.

I wonder if McDonalds is open yet. “Yeah, they’re fantastic. The best yet.”

“Do you really like them?” he repeats, cocking his head to look at me.

“They completely rock my world,” I mumble, flicking my wrist to check my watch. How slowly time does move whilst observing Justin try on jean, after jean, after jean…

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“If I was, would it make you pick a pair quicker?”

“No.”

“Then don’t worry yourself,” I reply, glancing around the racks of clothing. I called work this morning, sniffling with every word, claiming it was absolutely vital for me to stay at home and recuperate, otherwise ‘I don’t know what will happen’. Despite their thoughts that I was suffering from a fatal brain hemorrhage, I was in fact taking a sick day to go shopping with Justin.

He drove me all the way to Memphis just to go to this one shop, which apparently has ‘brought Memphis out of the ice age where fashion is concerned’. He sounded so much like a gay TV presenter I couldn’t stop laughing for five minutes. Of course, then he spent the rest of the drive listing all the manly things he’s done in the past twenty four hours…men.

He dragged me into some designer shop with an Italian name I can’t pronounce, which looked ridiculously out of place compared to all the small shacks that sold fishing bait and other southern goods, with it’s stark white walls and spaced out racks of clothes. I didn’t want to touch anything in case I left a finger print on it, but within minutes of entering the shop, I realized we were more than welcome.

You know that one guy in school who just seems to be good at everything? He gets good grades, he’s the star player for the football team, and he’s either dating the school’s beauty queen, or the leader of the cheerleading squad? And you sit in class, scowling at him when he comes into the room but just not having the heart to hate him, but trying your best to hate him anyway, because it’s sickening the way people bow down to him and make allowances for his stupid behavior, or look over the fact he’s about as modest as a toothpick.

Justin is that guy.

Not that I’m calling Justin stupid or conceited, and I’m not going to pretend I didn’t love the amorous attention we received the moment we entered the shop, but it really was pathetic the swooning responses of the workers. I swear I saw one of them, who was no teenager and could have in fact been thirty five years old, rush into the bathroom to wipe her eyes because she was so amazed to see him. I mean really, do I have to explain to these people that this is the guy whose idea of an in depth conversation is discussing which is better, blonde or brunettes?

He’s just a normal guy, I can’t see him as anything other than that. Alright, I’m not completely blind to the sexuality oozing off the man and can see why people like him, but it confuses me when I realize he’s the guy on their bedroom walls.

I suppose it’s because I’ve never seen “that Justin”. Before I met him, I was not a number one fan. I might listen to his song on the radio, I might smirk at some of his prepackaged answers in interviews, hell, I might even stoop to reading some interview he did in Teen People. But that was nothing more than general idleness making me find the first attractive things I laid eyes on interesting. And where we live, everyone keeps their distance and doesn’t bother him, so I’ve never been exposed to the hysterical reactions of some people. Granted the people in the shop haven’t gone hysterical, but when he said hi and put on this irritatingly wide grin, they suddenly began to trip up over their words and go red.

Why, though? He’s Justin. My Justin. Nobody other than me would find him interesting, right?

“Do you need any help, sir?” asks one of the aforementioned disgraces to the female race. Did we really fight for women’s rights and suffrage, when all we were going to do was gaze in adoration at some guy who can hit a few high notes? That girl isn’t even pretty, there is no way Justin would ever be interested in her--

Yikes Cat, put your claws away. It just…bothers me when other people find him attractive. I’m not exactly the type of person to stomp my foot and say, ‘He’s mine!’, but that assistant is staring at him with just a little too much adoration…

He glances up at her. “Oh, no thank you.” His lips part to reveal a hundred watt smile, before he turns back to the mirror to scrutinize his image again, the girl releasing a contented sigh, her life ambitions clearly fulfilled.

“And you, ma’am?” she says, turning to me, her perky attitude lessening considerably.

“No thanks,” I reply, staring at a mini skirt that would barely fit over one leg. How anorexic must the youth of America be to possibly fit into that?

“Found something you like, sweetheart?” says Justin, interrupting my thoughts as I whip around to face him.

“Oh, no, I was just thinking. Do people always act like that around you?” I ask, jerking my thumb in the direction of the giggling girls behind the counter.

He glances over at them and smiles faintly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Don’t you find it annoying?”

“Why would I find it annoying?” he snorts, tossing the pair of jeans over his arm for trying on.

“Because they just like the way you look.”

“I know, isn’t it terrible?” he responds distractedly, a cocky grin slowly creeping over his face.

Rolling my eyes, I follow him to the changing room. “But they’re treating you like…a piece of meat!”

He shrugs. “Well, to them, I am.” He glances up and down the corridor, before slipping into a changing room. “I’m just the guy who sings and dances on TV, I’m not a real person,” he calls out from the cubicle, the curtain swaying from his movements.

“Sure, I can understand that, but they treat you like some sort of…God.”

“They look up to me,” he replies, pulling the curtain back and modeling jean style number one.

“Why?” I ask stupidly.

He rolls his eyes and turns to me, shaking his head. “I am somewhat talented, you know.”

“And not in the least bit modest,” I remark, smirking slightly as he gives me a twirl. “Those are nice.”

“I’m not modest because I don’t have to be modest. It’s part of my image to know I’m the shit,” he teases, grinning at me as I deadpan him with a look.

“But if you’re, ‘somewhat talented’, why do you worry about your image?”

He shrugs. “You have to. As much as we’d love it to be, the music business ain’t always about the music, baby.”

I laugh and trace the pattern on the jeans thoughtfully. “So you put on this entirely different act?”

“Yup,” he answers, “it’s safer that way.”

“Safer?”

“If I was just like the real Justin, can you imagine how difficult it would be for me when the media criticized me? It would be a personal stab, where they were saying something was wrong with me. But if they’re mocking, I don’t know…some stupid thing I said, then it’s easier for me to deal with, because I know that’s not the real me.” He pauses his tampering with his hair to frown. “If that makes sense.”

“Well….sort of. But everyone gets criticized, isn’t it just something you have to deal with?”

He shrugs. “The media’s harsh, Cat. They’ll love you one day, and literally rip you to pieces the next. They truly can make or break your career.”

“If you let them,” I defend, feeling pangs at the old, ‘journalists are heartless bastards’ cliché. “Artists love the attention they get, until it’s the wrong kind. When they’re getting all the attention, they bitch and moan and pull the privacy card, but when they’re not getting the attention, they worry their careers are over and try to get in the headlines again. Celebrities use the tabloids as much as the tabloids do them.”

“Oh, I know, I completely agree. And because the press is so fickle, it’s best to keep some sort of distance between them.” He quickly pulls off his t-shirt, replacing it with another one. “Then you won’t feel it when they suddenly turn against you. It hurts like a bitch when they suddenly turn their back on you.”

“You shouldn’t take it so personally.”

“I don’t, but sometimes you just can’t ignore when your name is being slandered all over the country.” He slips in and out of the cubicle, changing his clothes at an alarming rate. “Even you do it, Cat.”

“I do not!” I protest, collapsing into the chair opposite the cubicle.

“Yes, you do,” he replies, checking himself in the mirror. “I’m not saying it’s bad, but look at what you did on that article about the re-election. You didn’t leave any mistake the candidates had made untouched.”

“Well, excuse me for telling the truth,” I mutter grumpily, crossing my legs and staring into space.

“I know, you wrote it because it was the truth and that’s what people want to read. I’m just saying that I don’t like being on the tip of everybody’s tongues, so if I put forward this character, then they can say whatever they want about it, and I won’t care.”

“But that’s the media. Can’t you be like your real self in front of your…” I trail off, glancing in direction of the girls in the shop. “Admirers?”

He laughs. “Well, I am, in a way. I just know there’s a certain way they expect me to be, and I play up to that. I owe it to them.”

“That’s a bit fake,” I frown, wrinkling my nose at him.

“Cat, Cat,” he rolls his eyes and kneels in front of me. “My job is to please people, and people are pleased by the Justin that I put forward, even if it’s not the real deal.”

“What people?”

“Everyone. Management, fans, photographers, the press…everyone.”

“I would hate to be involved in that side of your life,” I mumble, propping my head up with my hand.

“Why?” he asks, reentering the cubicle and presumably trying on another pair of overpriced pants.

“The whole thing annoys me,” I shrug. “I’m sure you guys work hard, but so does a single mother with two jobs, trying to make it in the world.” I shrug again, admiring the next set of pants. “I just think the praise celebrities get goes a little too far sometimes.”

He nods. “I guess you’re right. But it’s a tough job.”

“I know,” I reply, standing up and fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “But so is everyone else’s.”

“Why are you fussing about this now?” he asks, pausing his the movements of my hand.

I shrug. “I just never realized things were like this for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just never really put you in the category of celebrity, I suppose,” I reply. “It never occurred to me what will happen when you go back to work.”

“What are you worried about?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble, feeling his hands gently rest on my cheeks. “I just worry you’ll act…different.”

“How?”

“You know, you’ll always be partying, and drinking, and seeing all these beautiful girls…”

“Cat,” he begins, his eyes turning stern. “Don’t even pull that shit. What do you think I’m going to do, dump you for the first model to cross my path?”

It sounds most likely. “No.” Where’s a defiant tone when you need one?

“Yes you do,” he says, frowning still. “Cat, we’ve been over this a million times--”

“I know, I know…” I mumble, rubbing my eyes tiredly. “I just can’t imagine you back in that whole sphere again and staying the way you are.”

“I’ll still be me.” I shoot him a disbelieving look. “Okay, some things might change, but nothing dramatic. It’ll still be you and me.”

“But Justin, today was just a taster for what is bound to come!” I exclaim, gesturing around the shop. “Just seeing those girls faint over you pissed me off. How am I going to react when the press are all up in my face and you’ve got girls hanging off you?”

“So what are you saying?”

“The whole thing makes me…nervous.”

“Okay, well we’ll deal with that when the time comes,” he shrugs decisively. “Why you’re even bothering about this, I don’t know, because I have no plans to go back to work anytime soon.”

“I know you’ve been writing stuff.”

“So?” he waves his hand. “I always write. Especially when I’m in relationships.” He grins and presses me against him. “You’re my muse.”

Giggling, I swat him away. “I suppose we’ll cross that whole famous bridge when we come to it.”

“Exactly,” he says resolutely. “But don’t hold your breath. I like this extended break I’m taking.”

“I’m sure you do. You’re lazy ass hasn’t worked in a year.”

He feigns a shocked face. “Okay lady, that is it. You owe me big time.”

I shake my head and laugh. “What do I have to do?”

He raises an eyebrow and swings a few pairs of jeans over his arm. “You’ll see.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a stunned face.

It was a combination of ‘Dear God I can’t believe places like this even exist’ and ‘I’m going to kill you for bringing me three feet within this joint’. I knew she’d hate it, and part of bringing her was just so I could see her reaction. Putting Cat in a place like this is like putting a sheep in a desert. It just doesn’t add up.

But it was also to cheer her up. I know she got freaked out seeing those girls go a little wild over me at the shop. She's never really been exposed to fans, let alone the paparazzie. She was really worrying me with all that stuff about hating that part of my life and being so happy she'd avoided it. Don't get me wrong, I am too. I'm overjoyed Cat hasn't been in the papers yet, and I can only pray our good luck carries on, because I know she's incredibly fortunate not to have her face plastered across Us Weekly at least three times now.

Johnny's been getting really impatient again, constantly phoning and asking me to come in for meetings. Part of me wants to, I've been away for a year for goodness sake, but the other part would happily stay in the little cocoon Cat, Trace and I have built up around ourselves in little old Tennessee. To leave it and go out into the real, harsh world, would be very difficult.

Shaking myself from my thoughts, I turn to Cat.

“What? Don’t you like this shop?”

“Justin, this is not a shop. This is an insult to the female race,” she says, before trying to turn around and walk in the opposite direction.

“Nuh huh, girly girl,” I laugh, grabbing her arm as she threatens to run down the street, consequently ruining my fun. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Her eyes narrow in disbelief. “Fun? Dressing like some prostitute only with less respectability?”

I snigger, unable to hold back my amusement. “It’s not all slutty. You can get some really tasteful stuff, actually.”

“Only you would consider crotchless underwear tasteful, Justin,” she glowers as I laugh a bit more, before tugging on my arm. “Seriously, let’s go home.”

“Can’t you just come in? Just for a second?”

“No, Justin. Girls like me do no go into…” she trails off, shuddering visibly. “Agent Provocateur.”

“Hey, you say it in a weird way.”

“It’s the French pronunciation,” she replies casually, looking over her shoulder as if one of her journalist buddies might see her and rat her out.

“Do you speak French?”

“A little, can we please leave?”

“You know, French is a really sexy language.” She throws me an uninterested look before checking her watch. “It only makes sense to wear sexy underwear to match your sexy voice.”

She rolls her eyes impatiently. “Your logistic skills are amazing, now let’s go.”

“Cat, if you don’t come in with me, I’ll just go in by myself and get anything I deem appropriate.” I waggle my eyebrows as she frowns. “And you can just imagine what I consider appropriate.”

She sighs loudly, checking the street again. “Fine, lets just do this quickly,” she mumbles, grabbing my hand and pulling me across the street.

We enter the shop, the warm air hitting our skins, a refreshing alternative to the cold wind outside. Her eyes immediately dart to all the corners, taking in her surroundings cautiously. She looks so lost in a shop like this, like a teenybopper at a rock concert. Clutching my hand tighter, she approaches some racks.

“So, what did you have in mind?”

I shrug, grabbing the closest thing I can. “This is nice.”

Her eyes widen at the strategically woven pieces of cloth. “Are you kidding?”

“Come on, babe. It’s not that bad.”

“Justin, the fact you just called me babe seriously undermines your respect for me, as would wearing that…” she trails off and waves her hand in the direction of the negligee. “Thing.”

“But it’s sexy.”

“What’s wrong with my ordinary underwear?” she protests quickly, frowning in that way women do when they think you’re insulting them. “Isn’t that nice?”

“Sure it is. But my dear, I know there’s another side to you that you’re too scared to show me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh I assure you there isn’t.”

“Sure there is,” I say happily, rifling through the sizes. “Remember what I said in the attic all those months ago?”

She frowns. “When you denied that the Pocahontas Sticker Book was yours?”

Rolling my eyes at her, I pull out a size. “No, when I said you were sexually repressed.”

She snorts. “Ah yes, your favorite phrase.”

“Well,” I carry on, ignoring her. “There is only one way to cure you.”

“And how is that?” she asks, fiddling with what I recognize as tassels, but I’m not entirely sure she does.

Leaning into her ear, I whisper, “Someone has to fuck you senseless.”

The reaction was spectacular. She dropped the tassel and glanced around, checking that nobody was spying on us or listening to our conversation, before turning to me, her mouth open in surprise.

“I cannot believe you just said that.”

Shrugging, I replace the negligee and try to hide the grin that is rapidly spreading across my face. “It’s true. You're too shy for your own good.”

“So?” she whispers angrily, still glancing around. “That doesn’t mean you have to say it, particularly when we are in public!”

Trying to suppress a snort, I notice the blush creeping into her cheeks. “We could always…you know…” I nod in the direction of the changing room, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Her blush deepens. “You’re not serious, are you?”

Grasping her waist unexpectedly, I pull her towards me and pout. “You know I am, baby.”

She pulls away from me, shaking her head. “Very funny, Justin. Now let’s just find something, and leave.”

Laughing, I hand her an underwear set. “Why don’t you go try this on?”

“Because first of all, it’s a horrific color. Second of all, it has less cloth to it than a hair tie, and thirdly, I don’t wear thongs, on principle alone,” she replies, rejecting the set with one glance before returning to gazing at a mannequin in disgust.

“Why not? You do sometimes,” I defend, holding up the bra and thong again.

“Only when I must.”

“You mean you wouldn’t do it for me?” I attempt the Timberlake pout, which clearly has no effect on her. “Even for my birthday?”

“I believe the singing around and dancing naked thing is the job of a stripper,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “I’ll get you one of those for your birthday if you want.”

“Why won’t you do it?”

“It’s not my style,” she grimaces, taking another glance at the thong. “I would look like a whale."

"No you wouldn't," I scold. "You know you look great naked."

She blushes, but quickly tries to hide it. "And plus, thongs give you yeast infections.”

“Yeast?” I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “Isn’t that the stuff in bread?”

She nods. “They put it in, but its denatured by the heat when the bread is baked,” she replies automatically, carrying on before I have the chance to tease her about sounding like a textbook. “However, for females, that is not the case, and it becomes an infection.” She wrinkles her nose. “And it’s not nice.”

I shudder visibly. I hate it when females overload the information for you. Just last week, Cat explained why tampons have little groove thingies in them, and that it all contributed to, ‘easier application’. Bleurgh.

Cat must sense this, and continues, “So think, Justin. Every time you dated a girl that wore thongs, you were going out with a slice of toast.”

“Cat, that’s enough!” I protest, a million and one thoughts, each as revolting as the next, racing through my mind.

She grins. “Still want me to buy that?”

I shake my head and put it back on the rack. “Hell no. Your little half thong thingies are just fine.”

She laughs. “Half thong thingies?”

I nod. “You know…those things.”

She giggles and kisses my head. “I know what you meant.” She wraps her arms around my neck and sighs. “Do you wanna go home now?”

I grin. “Hey, there are other things apart from thongs to buy here, my dearest.”

“What, like whips and chains?” she mutters, raising an eyebrow.

“You got it,” I wink at her, before grabbing her hand and pulling her towards another section of the shop.

I’ve made it my personal mission to leave this shop with at least one bit of sexy lingerie, and better yet, Cat’s going to feel great in it.

“Shit…damn…motherfucker!”

The sweet words of my beloved echo through the house as I poke a head through the doorframe, spying on her with an amused smirk on my face.

She bends down and picks up the fallen pasta dish that shattered across the terracotta tiles of the floor, groaning as she sweeps up the fragments of glass.

“Cheap piece of crap…” she mutters, picking up the pieces of glass and dropping them into the trash.

She brushes her hands over her jean clad thighs, before turning back to the stove and gently stirring another boiling pan. Her movements seem oddly hypnotizing as I watch her move around the kitchen. Cutting up carrots, adding salt to the water, adjusting the temperature on the stove. Dear me, I do love this girl.

Making my presence known, I gently cough and step fully into the door, leaning against the frame.

Cat’s eyes dart up at the noise and widen when they see me. “Hi!” she exclaims, quickly wiping her hands on a towel and rushing over to me, smiling. “I thought you’d sleep in today.”

“Nah,” I shake my head, returning her grin. “I couldn’t sleep. I was so excited!”

She laughs. “You’re such a child.” Her face softens and she smiles at me. “Happy birthday,” she whispers, before her arms wrap around my neck and pull me in for a kiss, her small hands grasping at my curls slightly.

I pull away, unable to hide the beaming smile across my face. “Thank you.”

“I thought you were going to wake up and I’d have an amazing lunch prepared for you,” she says, nodding over her shoulder at the pots simmering on the stove. “It’s not ready yet.”

“I know, but it feels like Christmas. I just couldn’t stay in bed any longer,” I reply excitedly.

She shakes her head as she laughs. “So, how old are you? Twelve?”

Rolling my eyes, I give her hips a squeeze. “Twenty four, if you must know.”

“Twenty four? That’s old,” she teases, poking me in the chest.

Smiling, I suddenly pick her up and sit her on the counter, ignoring her squeals of surprise. “So, how are we going to celebrate this spectacular day on which wonderful me was born?”

She giggles and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Well, your family is coming for lunch at about two, and then everyone else is coming for the party at around nine or so.”

“Who’s been invited?” I ask, fiddling with the belt hooks on her jeans.

She holds out her hand and begins to reel off names on her fingers. “Your mom and Paul, your dad, Lisa and the boys are coming to lunch, but Paul and the kids are going to leave early, before the alcohol is cracked out,” she winks at me as I smile. “And I didn’t really know much of your superstar friends, so Trace did most of the inviting there,” she say happily, resting her hands on the edge of the coutner.

“Oh God,” I groan, resting my head on her shoulder. “Can I just forewarn you that he may have invited a large portion of the guests from the Playboy Mansion?”

She raises an eyebrow disapprovingly. “There will be no playmates in this house.”

“Why not?” I tease. “You always said you wanted a threesome.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, I always said it was curious how they fitted so many people on one bed.”

“Practically the same thing,” I murmur, before leaning in to drop a kiss on her lips. “It’s not too big, is it?”

She shakes her head. “You said you wanted low key, right?”

“Right.”

“It’s probably about fifty people, which isn’t too bad,” she shrugs. “I made Trace make a list of who’s coming, so you should ask him.”

I snort in disbelief. “Trace actually made a list?”

She nods, beaming proudly. “Yup. I have that boy wrapped around my little finger.”

“Who was on the list, then?” I ask as she hops of the counter to tend to her various concoctions in the pots.

She shrugs. “I didn’t really look, honestly. He said something weird about the boys being back in town, which I assume is some inside joke.”

Smiling, I nod and pick at the potatoes, only to have my hand slapped away. “He was either talking about one of the guys from Nsync or maybe Phareezy.”

“Phareezy? My God, what cruel parents.”

Rolling my eyes, I lean against the counter, watching her movements. “No, that’s just what I call him. I mean Pharrell.”

She continues to calmly stir some sauce. “Pharrell who?”

“Pharrell Williams,” I repeat, “He’s from NERD?”

“Nerd?” she snorts. “This guy just gets better and better.”

“He’s a producer,” I reply, reminding myself Cat has next to no interest in the music business. “He worked on my whole album. He was in Like I Love You?”

She frowns and taps the wooden spoon on the rim of the pot, before turning to me. “Wait, is he the really cute black guy? With a stupid hat?”

Smiling, I nod. “But don’t tell him you think his hat is stupid.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” she replies with a smile. She pauses, and begins to twist her hair, something she only does when she’s nervous. “This is the first time I’ve met any of your friends.”

I pause. That’s true. Trace and I take the odd weekend to go over to LA or something, just to touch base with the real world outside of Tennessee and to do all the things we miss, such as clubbing or getting completely trashed. Cat however, never comes, no matter how much you invite her. I don’t blame her, she would just feel uncomfortable. It would be the same as her asking me to come with her to exhibition or gallery, it just wouldn’t be right.

But I really want my friends to meet Cat. We’ve known each other for a year, we’ve dated for half of that time, and they always hear me raving about her. I think it’s about time they met her. In a strange way, I want to keep her all to myself and just stay, tucked away in Tennessee, for as long as we live. I don’t want to share her with other people. But at the same time, I can’t wait to show her off to everyone. Granted, there will be a few that will find her too, ‘ordinary’, but all the people that matter will love her, I’m sure.

“Baby,” I comfort in a soothing tone, ignoring the fact she hates the term. “You’ll have a great time. You’re exactly the type of girl they’ve been telling me to date for years.”

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I reply, tugging affectionately at a strand of her hair. “Honestly, don’t worry about it.”

She shrugs. “I guess not. They’re just people, after all.”

“Exactly. And if my mom stays for the party, she’ll have you introduced to the entire room in less than three minutes,” I joke.

She laughs. “I’m surprised your mother is still talking to me after our last meeting.”

Cat completely overreacted about that. It was the first time she was introduced to my mom as my girlfriend. They had met a few times when Cat and I weren’t seeing each other, and they got on just fine, but it was different with the whole ‘girlfriend’ title over her head. Anyway, Cat and I went to my mom’s house as ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’, and I jokingly put my hand up her skirt when we were sitting down for dinner for a bit of fun. Hell, it was no big deal. It was her thigh, for Christ’s Sake, it wasn’t like I was…well, you can guess what I’m going to say. Of course, Cat let out this really amusing yelp, and then I ended up telling my mom that it was my hand that had drawn that strange sound out of her, and then Cat wouldn’t talk to me for ages. What? I couldn’t lie to my momma!

“She appreciated the funny side of it, unlike some people,” I retort, rolling my eyes.

“Justin, thank God she’d met me before, otherwise she would have thought I was just another hoe of yours.”

“Ooh,” I tease, swatting her arm. “Getting a tad bitchy, are we?”

She shrugs. “Speaking of hoes…ex girlfriends were banned from the invite list.”

My eyes widen. “Catherine Grace Saunders! How on earth can you say a thing like that?”

She examines her fingernails nonchalantly. “Quite easily, in fact.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want them there anyway,” I say, sweeping her hair over her shoulder, exposing her neckline. “So, when do I get my present?”

She chuckles. “Not yet.”

“Is it underneath this?” I ask, prodding at her shirt as she giggles. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you all sexy dressed this morning, Miss Saunders.”

‘Sexy’ for Cat is not necessarily what other people would call sexy. Britney would call sexy walking around completely naked, or with tiny sets of underwear leaving little to the imagination. Don’t get me wrong, it was sexy, and I enjoyed it. But I think Cat would rather die than be ostentatious like that. It was fun flirting with her in the lingerie store, we laughed so much that day, but she’s still shy about things like that.

No, Cat’s idea of sexy is very classy and teasing and completely different from my previous girlfriends, which makes a nice change. She’ll just do something small and inconspicuous, things like wearing a slightly shorter skirt or not buttoning up her shirt to the very top. Things that she knows only I will notice, so it’s like we have this little secret between us that nobody else knows about. For example, today she’s wearing a tight pair of jeans, (she doesn’t wear jeans often, they make her legs look ‘stumpy‘. Honeslty, women can be so stupid), random accessories, like that cool chunky belt and those big earrings Trace gave her for her birthday.

I don’t understand accessorizing. It seems to be a refined art that only women can do. My idea of accessorizing was the JT necklace which, contrary to Cat’s opinion, is not a ‘piece of crap’. I’ll have you know, that necklace was praised globally by my fans…

But my favorite part of her outfit is the top. That is how I know she’s doing it for me. It’s just a normal v-neck, white shirt. I don’t know what it’s made out of…chiffon? Either way, it can go a tad see-through in the right light, but this infuriates Cat and she never wears colored underwear with that top, otherwise people would see it. I think that’s a great idea, but she gave me this long ass lecture about tackiness, etc, etc…However, today, I can quite clearly see black underneath her shirt, which means she’s wearing sexy underwear, which means she wants me to see it, which means she’s trying to turn me on, which means we’re going to have sex later on…

Sorry. My brain worked a little too fast there.

She blushes. “If you don’t like it, I can take it off…”

“Hey! I didn’t say that,” I complain, sliding a hand underneath her shirt. “If anything comes off, it’ll only be because I remove it, okay?”

She giggles and pulls me in for a kiss, her hands gliding around my neck and into my hair.

“You’re so bad,” she giggles as I kiss down her neck, blowing on her skin momentarily, knowing how much it tickles her.

“Don’t you know it, baby,” I reply huskily, before I begin laugh.

“Would you guys just STOP HAVING SEX!” A distant voice cries from the games room as Cat swiftly pushes me away, laughing.

“You’re just jealous, my little friend!” I call back, before soft footsteps approach the kitchen.

“Don’t think just ‘cause it’s your birthday, I’m gonna be nice to you,” Trace says, before breaking into a grin. “Happy birthday, man.”

“Thanks,” I reply, giving him a quick pat on the back.

Trace walks behind Cat and peeks over her shoulder to see watch she’s cooking. Normally, close contact with members of the male sex and Cat really bothers me, in fact I almost slapped the guy who looked right down her top the other day, but I know with her and Trace it’s purely platonic. And before you start, I know I’m too possessive of Cat, and she can do what she wants, it’s just…damn, I want her all to myself.

“What you cookin’, good-looking’?”

“Chicken,” she replies. “Which is probably burnt, by the way. Thanks to birthday boy over there,” she sends me a stern look, before winking at me.

“I could hear everything,” mutters Trace in a disgusted tone, shaking his head in revolt. “I’ll remove that for you, baby…” he mocks, before I clamp a hand over his mouth, knowing how horribly embarrassed Cat gets when people tease her about sex.

“That’s enough, little dude. So, who you invited to this birthday bash of mine?” I ask, trying again to snatch a tiny bit of the food, but Cat’s quick hand once again gives me a slap.

Trace pauses, mentally going over a list in his head. “Everyone from around here, a few LA-dwellers, Chris and Lance are gonna stop by--”

“Did you hear that, sweetheart? Chris and Lance are going to come. They’re in Nsync.”

“Really?” she says over her shoulder. “Hey, isn’t Chris my favorite one?”

Snorting, I nod. “Yes, he was the one with the monochrome braids.”

“Oh yay!” she jokes, kissing me on the cheek as she scoops some chicken onto a plate. “Which one is Lance?”

“The blonde one,” answers Trace, stealing a carrot when Cat had her back turned. “He’s got really green eyes.”

“Oh yeah. He’s handsome.”

“We all are,” I interject, earning myself a gentle slap on the head. “Anyone else?”

“Chris said she would try and make it. She’s doing some charity stuff in Louisiana, so she’ll be in the south.”

“Who’s Chris?”

“Christina,” I answer, stretching my arms above me head.

“Christina who?” asks Cat, once again. People at the party will have a great time if Cat repeatedly says “who?” after each introduction.

“Aguilera,” I mumble distractedly.

Cat’s eyes widen. “Seriously? Christina Aguilera?”

Trace nods and hops up onto the wooden island in the kitchen. “Yeah. Her and J did a tour together.”

“I know, I--” she stops abruptly, blushing as she quickly turns back to her cooking.

“What?” I prod.

“I went to one of your shows,” she mumbles so quietly I have to lean forward to catch it.

“Really?” I exclaim happily. “When?”

“Or more importantly, why?” says Trace, sneering at her.

She laughs. “I had to go with my little sister for her fifteenth birthday. I assure you, it wasn’t voluntary.”

“Were we good?”

She shrugs. “You were okay.”

Rolling my eyes, I quickly pat her ass, ignoring the ice cold glare I receive. “It’s my birthday, you should be complimenting me.”

She snorts. “Fine, it was the most thrilling experience of my life. It took every piece of willpower I had not to jump on that stage and kiss you. I was captivated by your performance. In fact, I couldn’t contain my excitement for weeks afterwards,” she says in a dead tone, rolling her eyes with each word.

Laughing, her and Trace share a high five as I pout grumpily in the corner. “You guys always gang up on me.”

“Sorry, birthday boy,” she says, dropping a quick kiss on my temple. “Anyway, you’re family is going to be here soon, you’d better get dressed,” Cat reminds me, casting an eye over my boxers and wife beater.

“Okay.”

“And remember to give your mom a call back.”

“Sure.”

“Could you just open this jar of sauce open for me?”

“No problem.”

I hand the jar back to her and set the lid on the counter. “Go on, now. Go get dressed.”

“Okay,” I quickly plant a kiss on her cheek before bounding upstairs to get dressed.

I have to stop complying to this girl’s every word. People may start to think she’s got me whipped.

But the harsh cracking noises from Trace as I leave the room assure me that people already consider me whipped.

-------------------------------------------------------

“Cat darlin’, could you pass me up some of that chicken please?” says Lynn, touching my arm and waking me from my Justin-trance.

“Oh, sure,” I reply, reaching over to grab the chicken from Trace’s side of the table and handing it to her.

“Thanks, doll,” she beams warmly at me, before scooping chicken onto her plate.

Lynn and I met months ago, a little while after I had moved in with Justin and we were on a strictly friends basis. We got on really well back then, but I did notice a change in attitude towards me when Justin and I started dating. Justin explained his mother was very protective, and hated seeing him make one mistake after the other, so she was naturally quite cold with her son’s romantic interests.

All I could think was well great, fantastic. His mother hates me for the sole reason that I’m seeing him, imagine how much she would despise me if she actually got to know me. I didn’t avoid Lynn, but I didn’t go out of my way to buddy up with her. We could chat for a few minutes over the phone, but I always sensed the, ‘Hurt my son and I’ll hurt you’ theme she had going on.

Of course, Justin got on with my family like a house on fire. They practically christened him Saint Justin after their first meeting. In a rare moment of sisterhood a few months ago, I called my sibling Sophie to complain about an argument Justin and I had had. The first thing out of her mouth was, What did you do? Not to mention his shameless flirting with my mother, who spent their entire first meeting blushing.

How can he do that? How can he make people like him instantly? I would really like to know, because then I could take a leaf out of his book and use it tonight. At the party. With all the strangers. All the skinny strangers.

To be honest, I’m dreading it. Trace pretty much organized it, he dealt with the guest list, the obscene amount of alcohol, the moving of the furniture so people could stand around. He was so excited just organizing things, I can’t wait to see how he acts tonight. Part of me is worried that him and Justin will get a little too caught up in the alcohol and all the beautiful people that will fill the house, but I don’t mind. It is Justin’s birthday, and he deserves to let loose.

If that involves me standing in the corner feeling uncomfortable, then so be it.

I shouldn’t be worried, should I? It’s just a party, I’m sure Justin’s friends will like me. It’s not even that big of a party, and if worst comes to worst I can just hide in the closet. No, Justin wouldn’t let me do that. He’s really excited about all of his friends meeting me, which poses the question…why on earth is he pleased about that? It’s the first time anyone out of our little southern mold has met me, let alone Justin and I as a ‘couple’.

But I don’t function at parties. I have a tendency to retreat to some reclusive spot and play with my cup until I drive home and reflect on what a waste of time it was. I rarely dance, after an unfortunate incident including a rather dramatic fall thanks to my bastard shoes in front of the entire room. I’m not a huge drinker, but when I do get drunk I tend to begin a cycle of equally unfunny impressions, and at the end of the night find my friends pretending they don’t know me. Not to mention the fact I have no idea what to wear. All of the girls will be wearing tiny skirts and halter necks and stilettos--

“Catsy!” A piercing, childlike voice slices through my thoughts, my head snapping in the direction of the sound.

“Yes?” I reply, smiling instinctively at Steven.

The young, sandy-haired boy tapped his fork on the table impatiently. “I’ve been saying your name for ages!”

“Sorry little man, got lost in my thoughts there,” I reply.

“Can Jonathan and me come to the party?” he asks with an endearing lisp, product of the missing row of teeth on his bottom gum.

Smiling, I take a sip of water. “You’ll have to ask your mommy that.”

“Steven, you can’t,” Lisa says, shaking her head at him. “It’ll be full of big people.”

“I am big!” he protests, once again slapping his fork on the table. “I’m six and three quarters.”

Stifling my laugh, I pat his arm reassuringly. “It’ll be really boring. You’re not missing anything.”

“But I want to sleep over!” Steven proclaims, his bottom lip jutting out.

“Why don’t you come over another night?” I suggest.

A shy smile breaks across his face. “Can I?”

“Sure,” I reply, “Just ask your mom.”

“Do you sleep over all the time?”

I nod and cut a piece of chicken in half. “Yup.”

“Where do you sleep?”

Feeling the blush inch across my cheeks, I keep my head bent down, enthralled in my food. “Um…Justin’s room,” I mumble quietly.

Not quietly enough. Lynn’s head turns to look at me, amusement written all over her face as I slowly prepare myself for embarrassment. More of it, that is.

“In Justin’s bed?” continues Steven innocently, his wide eyes staring at me sincerely.

The men of the table, that’s Randy, Paul, Justin and Trace, stop their conversation on last Friday’s game to turn to look at me, with my bowed head and inflamed cheeks.

“Um…sometimes…” I mutter, the steady movements of my knife and fork infatuating me. I don’t imagine the smirk on Justin’s face would be quite so broad if these questions were directed at him.

“Why?” he asks.

Why? “Um…” I begin, ready to fabricate an entire story about there not being enough blankets for everyone.

“Yeah Cat, why do you sleep in my bed?” says Justin, putting down his fork to look at me, biting down on his lip to stop himself laughing.

Oh you asshole. “I don’t know. Why do you invite me?” I retort. Ha ha, bet he wasn’t expecting that.

Trace’s cough is vaguely reminiscent of ‘to get some ass’, but I ignore him and concentrate very hard on cutting a potato into four pieces. Perhaps if I keep my head down, I’ll magically forget that all eyes are on me and that the expression, ‘beet red’, was invented for people like me.

“Can I come to the party?” interrupts Jonathan.

At that moment, I loved that kid. “You guys wouldn’t like it,” I repeat, silently thanking God for children as people return to their own conversations.

“Sure we would. Trace’s parties always have naked chicks in them, and I like naked chicks so…” he trails off and grins, bearing such a stunning resemblance to Justin I can’t help but smile.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. Once, him and Justin got this girl to come to our house, and she had this whip thing, and--”

“Jonathan!” Justin sharply interrupts him. “What are you blabbing about?”

“The time you and Trace watched that girl dance when she was wearing those cowboy boots.”

I raise an eyebrow and turn my head to Justin. “Corrupting young minds a habit of yours, Justin?”

“I think you know it is,” he flirts, kicking my leg under the table.

Rolling my eyes at him, I turn back to Jonathan, who seems a little worldly wise for an eleven year old. “Anything else I need to know about, Jon? What else have Justin and Trace done?”

He takes a breath. “Well--”

“Jon, you gotta learn that whenever a woman asks you a question, you just say I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll talk later,” I wink at him, before laughing.

-------------------------------------------------------

“This one, or this one?” he asks, holding up two identical shirts over his torso.

I shrug. “Either.”

He rolls his eyes. “Cat, that is not cool. This is the first time I’m seeing this people in months. I need to look good.”

“You do look good.”

“Yeah, but I need to look really good,” he says, pulling a shirt over his head.

Ah, I see Justin is regressing to ‘Asshole Land’ again. The best way to deal with him when he’s like this is to just not listen to him, and nod in agreement of everything he says.

“Do you think I should leave these buttons unbuttoned?” he says, turning to me and pointing to the top three buttons of his shirt.

I nod.

“So this shirt is better than that one?”

I nod.

“Okay, what about jewelry? Both earrings or just one?”

I nod.

“Cat!”

“What?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

The temptation to nod just to piss him off grows, but it is his birthday, so I choose not to. “Yes. I just don’t know why you’re so worried. I should be the one who’s nervous. They’re going to be judging me.”

“No they won’t,” he replies, placing a loose tie around his neck before shaking his head and taking it off.

“Justin, you know they will,” I mumble quietly, running a finger over the comforter. “The first thing they’ll think is what the hell are you doing with some chubby farm girl from Ohio?”

“What?” he says, turning to me and frowning deeply.

“I’m just being honest, Justin. They’ll ask you why you’re dating someone who ever so slightly exceeds the phrase, ‘junk in the trunk’.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sitting up, I toss my hair over my shoulder, the consuming feeling of depression beginning to fill my body. “I just know they’re going to judge me.”

“Cat, these are my friends, and you haven’t even met them yet. You’re the one casting judgments at the moment.”

“I’m not casting judgments, I just being realistic,” I snap, getting off the bed and walking towards the mirror, frowning at my appearance. “They would judge me anyway, but my case isn’t exactly helped by the fact I don’t throw up after every meal.”

“Cat, are you trying to start an argument with me? Because you’re sure as hell doing a good job!” Justin says, scowling at me with his hands on his hips.

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry.”

“How many times do we have to fucking go through this Cat? It’s ridiculous.”

“I know,” I murmur, bringing one hand up to rub my temple. “It’s just…I know that people outside of Tennessee won’t be as accepting as everyone else has been. I’m just nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he says simply, approaching me slowly and rubbing my waist. “I know you’re not used to situations like this, but you’re making things worse for yourself.”

“I’m just so confused,” I mutter, hearing my voice crack with emotion. “On one hand, I know I shouldn’t care what they think, but on the other I really want them to like me, but I know how impossibly high their standards must be and…ugh, it’s just so annoying…” I shake my head, feeling his arms wrap around me in a comforting hug.

“You worry too much about what other people think, and this isn’t the first time I’ve had to tell you that,” he says softly, gently stroking my hair with his hand.

“I know,” I reply, my face buried in the depths of his shirt. “I guess this is a downside to being Justin Timberlake’s girlfriend.”

“What is?”

“Always having to worry about what people might be saying or thinking. I mean, what if your friends tell you straight out I’m not good enough for you?”

“They wouldn’t do that, and if they did, I’d kick their ass.”

Laughing, I pull away from him, rubbing my eyes. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m ruining your birthday with my stupidity.”

“You can always make it up to me by wearing that little lace dress thingy.”

“Justin, that’s not a dress, it’s a napkin.”

“But an attractive napkin,” he says, grinning as he pulls it out of my closet without consent, and throwing it on the bed.

Trying my hardest to sigh disapprovingly, I pick up the dress and head to the bathroom to start an intensive hair and make up session.

Tonight, I have to be perfect.

-------------------------------------------------------

In real life, Christina Aguilera really isn’t as intimidating as I thought she’d be. She’s kind of small, and she lost all the weight she gained at one point, so she’s back to being a toothpick. She’s also a lot nicer than I’d thought she’d be. Justin introduced us, she shook my hand and shot me a quick smile, and we had a little conversation about how stupid Justin could be. It’s strange how much women can bond over their joint despair in the actions of men.

But then she floated away to mingle, and I was left all on my own looking awkward, until Trace saved me by introducing me to Bobby Ryesdale, Justin’s…choreographer? Hair stylist? Names are lost on me, let alone occupations. Fifty people turned out to be a bigger number than I expected. There seem to be hundreds of faces, bodies, drinks, smoke…all crammed into one space.

I haven’t seen Justin in about fifteen minutes, when he went to meet that Pharrell person and said he’d be, ‘back in a sec’. But I don’t mind. He’s having the time of his life, reuniting with people he hasn’t seen in a long time, drinking some strange concoction of vodka and lime, bobbing his head to the music. He owns the room with his confidence and nonchalant manner. He looks gorgeous, of course, with his hair just beginning to curl, the little beaded necklaces he refuses to part with, his shirt sleeves rolled up to just the right point to look cool. He looks every part the celebrity.

I shouldn’t be here.

“Cat, there you are!” the aforementioned sex God says, grasping my hand and pulling me through a gaggle of people to a corner. “I want you to meet Chris and Lance. Guys, this is Cat, my girlfriend.”

I won’t deny the rush of esteem I felt when he said ‘girlfriend’ so proudly, and I grin as I hold out my hand. “Hey, how are ya?”

“Nice to meet you,” they chorus. If they felt any surprise at seeing little old chubby me, they hid it very well.

“We should have met you ages ago,” comments Chris, his black haired head nodding thoughtfully. “Normally we have to approve Justin’s girlfriends after the first three months.”

Laughing, I shrug. “I guess he’s kept me all to himself.”

“I certainly have,” he says, smiling warmly at me as his hands slide protectively over my hips. “So, you guys finally decided to lower the standard and come out to ole Tennessee, right?”

“Just for your special day, Justin,” Lance mutters, shaking his head jokingly. “You know I can’t be this close to the South. Brings back that good old accent of mine.”

Chuckling, I examine them. Lance is very handsome. His dark blonde hair is styled to immaculate perfection, his green eyes literally sparkle at me, his broad shoulders are covered by a loose shirt. I was going to comment that he resembled a blonde version of Sean, but it’s not very nice to do that to Justin on his birthday.

Looking at Chris, I can’t help but wonder whether he really is this big funny guy, or whether that’s just the decision of some record label exec when they put personalities to Justin’s band. I’m assuming the former, with his spiky black hair and the dark red leather jacket hugging his short frame, he looks every part the fun-loving guy.

“Are you guys enjoying the party?”

“Yes, thank you,” replies Lance, shooting a glance at the buzzing crowd. “You and Trace did a good job organizing it.”

“Oh, thank you. It was all Trace, really. You know, with all his, ‘connections’,” I say sarcastically, causing them to laugh, much to my excitement.

“Whereabouts are you from, Cat?” asks Chris, taking a sip of his drink from the red straw. “You don’t have the adorable southern twang these two hicks do,” he says, motioning to an outraged Justin and Lance.

“Ohio,” I smile, before realizing just how uncool that sounded.

“Me too. Well, somewhere near there.”

The blush that was threatening to rise to my cheeks gradually creeps back down, for which I’m grateful. “And you, Lance? You’re from Tennessee?”

“Mississippi,” he replies, smiling. “But they’re all the same, right?”

Laughing, I shrug, before feeling a tug on my arm. “Yes?” I turn around to the culprit.

“Cat, I wanted to know exactly how much vodka we ordered,” Trace asks, his face torn between amusement and worry.

“I don’t know…why?”

“I think Lynn just drank half of it.”

“Oh no,” says Justin, dropping his head to his hands. “Trace, don’t you know what happens when my mother gets drunk?”

He grins. “Oh yeah. That’s one lap dance I’ll never forget.”

Shuddering, I turn to Justin. “I’ll go sort it out.”

“No, I’ll do--”

“It’s okay, I got it,” I reply, putting a hand on his chest to stop him from moving. “It was nice meeting you both,” I say, turning to Chris and Lance.

“You too,” the reply in unison, and for one second I consider teasing them for their automatic harmony, before deciding against it.

Dropping a quick kiss on Justin’s cheek, I shoot Chris and Lance the mandatory smile, before turning away.

That wasn’t too bad.

-------------------------------------

Watching Cat’s retreating back, I look at Chris and Lance from the corner of my eye. “So, come on guys, the honest truth.”

“I like her,” pipes Chris, putting a hand into the pocket of his jacket. “She seems to have her head in the right place.”

“She didn’t know anything about us, which I guess was cool,” says Lance, laughing.

Nodding, I turn back to them, unable to suppress my smile. “I’m glad you like her.”

“I think you like her more,” teases Lance, poking me in the ribs.

I shrug and take a drink. “What can I say, man? We’re great.”

“She’s not the type of girl you usually go for.”

Feeling myself bristle slightly, I look at Lance sternly. “Which is why I like her.”

“Justin,” begins Chris cautiously, staring at the floor momentarily. “Just…be careful with that one, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you guys go back to the real world, just be prepared for what might happen.“

My face remains blank, so Chris continues. “The press will chew her up if you’re not careful.”

“I won’t let them,” I say defiantly.

“You can’t stop the media,” Lance points out. “It’s just something to keep in mind when you go back to work, that’s all.”

“What, you guys don’t think we can deal with the pressure?” I ask, shoving a hand into my pocket so they won’t notice my clenched fist.

“It’s not that…” says Lance hesitantly. “It’s just…as we said, she’s not what you’d expect, so you’re going to have to watch out for that.”

“Okay…” I mumble, hating them for bringing that up. I’m fully aware of how difficult things are going to be when I’m back in the spotlight. No matter how beautiful I think she is, to the media, she’ll get tagged girl next door in a second. And not in a nice way.

“But don’t worry about it now,” says Chris, slapping a hand on my shoulder cheerfully. “It’s just something we thought we’d mention. You’ve not got a secret album up your sleeve, do you?”

Shifting uncomfortably in my shoes, I stare at the floor.

“The problem is, guys…there’s going to be.”

“That was a success,” says Cat happily, collapsing onto the bed and stretching amongst the pillows.

“It was,” I reply, lying down next to her, throwing an arm over her stomach.

“We can clean up tomorrow,” she laughs, referring to the mountains of cups, bottles, and oddly enough, discarded clothes scattered throughout the house, courtesy of our departed guests.

Laughing, I pull her towards me, her head coming to rest on my chest. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

“So,” she begins, sitting up to kneel on the bed, with a smile on her face. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yes,” I reply, reaching out to toy with a curl. “Thank you for doing that for me, baby.”

She shrugs coyly. “It’s no problem. Happy birthday,” she repeats for what must be the fifth time today, bending down to kiss me.

“Thank you.” Running my hands up her legs a few times, I grin. “So, what did my mom do?”

Cat shakes her head and laughs. “God, you don’t even wanna know.”

Groaning, I pull her on top of me, carefully placing one leg on each side of my torso, so that she straddles me. And of course I’m not trying to put sex into her mind. “Did it involve Trace?”

Unable to control her giggles, she nods. “I think he enjoyed it, actually.”

“Enjoyed what?”

“Well, I went into the living room to see your mother dancing a little…provocatively.”

“Oh no…”

“I’ve never seen anyone grind with so much passion!” she says, laughing as her eyes twinkle. “As soon as she saw Trace, she literally grabbed him and continued to do a rather magnificent display of pelvic thrusts.”

“Oh, good God,” I mumble, covering my face with her hands.

“The poor guy looked horrified.”

“I can imagine,” I groan, a rather disturbing image of my mother grinding into Trace feverishly entering my mind. “Did she do anything else?”

Cat nods. “Well, Chris came in to see what all the commotion was about, and when I told him your mom was getting freaky with Trace, he shouted, ‘Hey, I want a piece of that’, and kindly took over the position as a pole for your mother. In fact, Chris was quite a lively dance partner for her.”

“Oh Jesus.”

“I blame him for encouraging her. He started shouting something about her ass and how they could make great kids together, and then started spanking her.”

“That’s my mother,” I protest, scrunching my face in disgust. “How perverted is Chris?”

“Very, apparently,” she snorts, shaking her head at the memory. “I know Trace is thankful. He was almost shaking when Chris took over.”

“How long did this splendid peep show last for?”

“When she saw me, she stopped,” she comforts, running a hand through my hair. “I tried to slyly drag her away from the bar, but she seemed pretty attached to those vodka shots. We had an interesting conversation, actually.”

“What did she say?”

“That we should get married,” Cat giggles, lazily dragging her fingernail over the skin exposed by my shirt. “And apparently, your last girlfriend was a bulimic bitch who couldn’t keep her food down for two seconds. She said she liked me a lot better, and that she was happy you were dating a ‘real woman’ for a change. Then she started telling me I had fantastic breasts.”

“Why was I born to such a crazy drunk?”

Cat shrugs. “I found it quite amusing. Trace, however, did not.”

“Well, I’d be pretty scarred for life if his mom started rubbing her ass into my leg.”

“You know, it was more his crotch,” she says decidedly, laughing when I groan from revulsion. “But at least we know she likes me. And Trace, apparently. She likes Trace a whole lot.”

Shuddering for a final time, I pat her thigh. “So, apart from my mother’s clear ambition to be a stripper, how did you find the party?”

“It was better than I thought it would be,” she answers, the sincerity in her eyes assuring me she’s being honest. “There were a few assholes, but apart from that, it was fine.”

“Who was an asshole?”

“I can’t remember her name…” she trails off in thought, chewing her lip. “She was really pretty. She came up to me just after you left to talk to that choreographer guy.”

“What did she look like?”

Cat rolls her eyes. “A beauty queen. Perfect skin, silky black hair, she was wearing this white tank top…”

“Was she a complete bitch?”

“Yes,” she replies decisively.

“Oh, that was probably Sara. She must have gotten an invite through a friend, because there’s no way Trace would have wanted her here. What did she do?”

“Look at me like I was a piece of gum on her shoe,” Cat mutters, looking down at her twisting hands.

“Are you okay?” I ask, anger pouring through me as hurt flashes in Cat’s eyes.

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “She just made me feel really…small.”

“Hey,” I say, sitting up to hold Cat’s face in my hands. “Don’t let people like that get you down, they’re not important.”

“I know.”

“And you’re ten times better than her.”

She smiles. “Really?”

“I love you,” I whisper in answer, getting the small, shy smile I love to see from Cat.

“I love you too.”

“Don’t worry about Sara, she was probably just jealous.” Snaking my arms around her waist, I pull her body over me a bit. “We had a brief relationship, and she always wanted to take it further, but I never did.”

Cat raises an eyebrow. “How brief?”

Blushing, I look down. “A night…”

“Well, I hate that stupid whore, but I still disapprove,” she says, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“You’ve got better boobs than her, you know. Oh, wait, my mom already pointed that out.”

She beams. “She meant well. You know, I’d say I was at least a cup size bigger than her.”

Smiling, I drag my fingers over her thighs. “You looked great tonight.”

“Thank you,” she grins, shuffling slightly, knowing just how close she is to my crotch.

“And now you’re teasing me.”

“I am not!” she protests in a girly way which clearly says, ‘you know it’. I know she’s only acting like this because of the substantial amount of alcohol coursing through her veins, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to take advantage of it.

“So,” I begin, a smirk creeping its way onto my face as my hands inch up her dress. “What is underneath this?”

She giggles. “Well, part of your birthday present.”

“Just part of it?”

She nods. “The other part is tickets to this football game, but Trace will fill you in on that.”

“Thank you,” I cut in.

“Somehow though, I think you’re going to like this one better,” her mischievous grin assures me I will.

“Oh really? And why is that?”

“Because if you didn’t, I’m afraid I’d have to assume you were gay,” she states simply, leaning over and dimming the lights.

“You make far too many references to me being gay, did you know that?”

“You give me far to many reason to make those references, Justin,” she replies haughtily, unbuttoning my shirt. “I saw that lip gloss you put on. What was that all about?”

“It was not lip gloss, it was lip balm,” I stress, throwing my shirt to the side and sitting up to shower her neck with kisses. “I had chapped lips.”

“Whatever, Justin,” she murmurs distractedly, her hand pushing my lips against her more urgently. “We have a twisted sense of foreplay, do you know that?”

Laughing, I switch our positions, so I can hover over her on all fours and bend down to kiss her. “I know. Normal people whisper how much they love each other, we doubt each other’s sexuality.”

“But we’re not normal,” she adds, grinning.

“Nope,” I laugh, reaching behind her to unzip the back of her dress, the crackly noise of the zipper silencing us both.

“It’s nothing special,” she begins to ramble, as I gently ease the silky black dress off her body. “It’s just a souvenir from my one and only trip to Agent Provocateur.”

Smiling, I kiss her forehead and take in the sight of black lace and red ribbon. It’s nothing too crazy, but it’s not Cat’s usual, so I know she made a special effort for me. “You look great.”

She grin, bending her head shyly. “Thank you. Oh, and before I forget,” she reaches across to her bedside drawer and pulls out a wrapped package. “These are for you. Trace recommended them.”

Kneeling up, I rip of the paper with a raised eyebrow, before letting out a peal of laughter. “Handcuffs?”

She grins and sits up, shrugging. “I thought it was the kind of thing that would appeal to your dirty nature.”

“You were right,” I chuckle, turning over the handcuffs in my hands.

She laughs and lays back down, before frowning at my sly expression. “What’s wrong? It was just a joke.”

I grin at her.

“We’re not actually going to use those, are we?” comes her shocked voice, her eyes flying between my face and handcuffs in my hand.

Raising an eyebrow suggestively, I lean down to kiss her. “Aren’t we?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a joke, alright? A funny, ha ha, that was a good one, joke. If I wanted to use handcuffs when I had sex, I’d be dating a policeman. I was so shocked, I didn’t even realize Justin fiddling with the lock until it was too late and I was attached to the headrest. Alcohol clearly slows down my reactions. And my morals.

Eventually, the handcuff idea was abandoned because we were laughing too much. Such a shame, really. We just had normal, old fashioned, boring, mind-blowing, earth-quaking sex.

Tying the terrycloth robe around my waist, I gently tug on the drawstrings at the window, opening the blinds. I didn’t drink too much last night, but I think every beverage supplied was 50% pure alcohol, so the slight pounding in my head doesn’t surprise me.

“Close it,” comes a muffled cry amongst the pillows.

Smiling, I turn to see Justin entwined in the sheets, one hand shielding his face from the sunlight. “It’s time to get up, deary. It’s already twelve.”

“So?!” he protests, rolling over, putting his back to me. “Trace won’t be up ‘til three, at least.”

Laughing I crawl on the bed, ready to tickle him if needs be. “Justin, come on, get up.”

“No.”

“But I’m on my own,” I complain, frowning grumpily, slapping my fist on the sheets.

“Go check the backyard, maybe someone passed out on the golf course.”

“Justin!” I moan again, tugging at the sheets slightly. He makes no effort to budge, so I raise an eyebrow triumphantly. There’s no way he’ll turn down this.

“If you don’t get up and keep me company right now, there will be no sex in this bed for three months.”

The yanking of the reclamation of the sheets stops and silence greets me, before it is broken by a whiny, “That is so unfair!”

Grinning, I get off the bed as he begrudgingly rolls of it, throwing on a t-shirt over his boxers.

“You’d better make me coffee, woman,” he mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Come on, let’s go,” I say brightly, taking his hand and pulling him downstairs. I wouldn’t normally be so happy in the mornings, but knowing how annoying this must be to Justin cheers me up somewhat.

He collapses at the table, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “How come you’re in such a good mood?”

I shrug. “I might still be a bit drunk.”

“Well, I can’t wait until you deal with the hangover from your drunkity,” he mutters, rubbing his head painfully.

“Drunkity isn’t a word,” I kindly point out, receiving a thunderous glare in return.

Relenting slightly, I slide two Advil and a glass of water across the table to him. “Thanks,” he mumbles, quickly swallowing them as I stand up at the shrill piercing of the phone.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hi, can I speak to the Trousersnake please?”

Jesus, prank calls, they just never stop, do they? Do thirteen year olds seriously find this funny? Because I don’t.

“I’m sorry, there’s no Trousersnake here,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “But there is a Ben Dover, if you’re interested.”

The person at the other end of the line laughs as Justin gives me a concerned look. “It’s some guy asking for a Trousersnake,” I tell him, pressing the phone against my shoulder.

Justin grins. “That’s probably for me, then.”

“Why did he call you Trousersnake?” I reprimand. “This really returns to that gay thing, Justin.”

“Everybody calls me Trousersnake. And I think you know why,” he winks at me.

Casting an eye downwards, I shrug. “I can’t think of any reasons.”

The easiest way to insult a man is to go for his penis size. Justin knows he’s perfectly fine in that department, but he still has an appalled, offended expression, as though I just said I thought his mother was a hooker. Honestly, men really need to calm down.

“I’m just kidding,” I whisper comfortingly, so our guest on the phone doesn’t hear us. “You’ve got an enormous penis.”

He quickly wipes off his stunned face, and replaces it with a self-satisfied smirk. “I thought so.”

Rolling my eyes at him, I hold out the telephone, surprised the person on the other end hasn’t hung up. “But I’ve seen bigger.”

Trying to stifle his laugh, he rises from the table to snatch the phone off me with a mock scowl. “Hello?”

I try not to listen to his conversation, but my attempt fails and I sit at the kitchen table, fiddling with a napkin.

Justin sighs in annoyance. “Yeah, I know. They’ve been getting on my back too.”

Who’s been getting on his back? About what?

“I guess they’re right, it has been a year after all,” he says in defeat.

A year since what?

“No man, I’m not worried. Is it just a meeting they want?”

“Cool, I can do that. But tell them I’m not making any promises.” His eyes fly to me. “There’s other people I need to discuss it with.”

Knots begin to tie themselves in my stomach as Justin turns away from me, suddenly engrossed in the cream wall.

“It’s not that, it’s whether I want to.”

“Well, I guess I do, sort of.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll be there at ten. Later, dawg.”

He hangs up the phone and turns to me, his hands twisting guiltily together. “Um…I need to talk to you.”

My heart fills with dread. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I can imagine. He probably hooked up with some old flame last night when I was watching Lynn’s spectacular show, and now it’s over for us. I hate him.

“Yeah, it sounds like you do,” I whisper.

-----------------------------------------------------

I know it makes me look even guiltier when I wring my hands together like this, but for some reason, I just can’t stop doing it. I haven’t even done anything wrong, but I’m still nervous.

Maybe it’s the somber expression that suddenly replaced the happy one on Cat’s face. Maybe it’s the way she didn’t even correct me for saying, ‘dawg’, on the telephone. Maybe it’s just me getting nervous about the meeting tomorrow already.

It’s nothing, really. I just have to go into Memphis tomorrow for a meeting with these big cheese execs, who will pound me to release another album, and I’ll just shrug politely and say I’ll think about it. Come on, I’ve been doing it for the last year, I can do it again.

Only, how effective is it going to be, again? My repeat performance must be getting old, and I can’t spin them the line that I’ll do occasional appearances and shit, because I know its gotten to a point where that isn’t enough. I really should go back to the studio, hell, part of me even wants to. After everything I’ve felt with Cat, I’ve got half an album’s worth of songs already, and I know they could do really well.

But then there’s still that part that’s dragging me down and saying, “Why do you want to go back? You know how crazy things will just get again. And, more importantly, you know Cat won’t like it.”

I’m sure she’d be supportive, I don’t think she’d give me an ultimatum of her or my career, but it would mean big changes for us. We wouldn’t be able to stay in Tennessee, I would have to start saying I was single, Cat would have to give up her job…would she really do that for me?

“Listen, baby…” I begin, before the realization that she hasn’t butted in to say, ‘Baby? Do I look like the type of girl who gets called baby?’ dawns on me. Have I done this to her? Have I made her softer? That would normally make me jump up and down, because yes, I’ve cracked Cat! But now…it worries me. She’s more in touch with her emotions than she was, and I have no doubt the press would pick up on that. What if she couldn’t deal with the cameras, the reporters, her life splashed across the headlines? What if she told me to go find someone else and I was on my own?

“Cat,” I start again, shaking my head free of the rapid train of thoughts as I sit down opposite her. “That was Chad.”

“Chad who?” she interrupts, causing a slight smile to appear on my face.

“He’s Pharrell’s partner in producing,” I explain.

She nods, her eyes filled with fear. “And…” she urges me to continue.

I take a breath. “Um…yes, well, he called to say…”

“To say what, Justin?” she snaps impatiently.

“Tomorrow, I have to go to a meeting to discuss…potentially doing another album,” I spit out, wild hand gestures accompanying my words. “The record label have been hammering on about it for months now, but I really think this time they mean it. I need to go into the meeting to see whether I can hold them off for a little longer, or whether I just have to do it.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” she accuses, folding her arms over her chest.

My eyes widen with surprise. “No! Hell no! Are you breaking up with me?”

“Of course not, I was just expecting you to say you’d gotten someone pregnant or something,” she waves off as we laugh, easing some of the tension in the room.

“Do you want to do another album?” she asks seriously, tilting her head to the side thoughtfully.

I pause. “I…I think it would be best. I’ve been away for far too long.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, nodding. “If that’s what you want.”

“Well, what do you want?” I ask, reaching across the table and clasping her hands.

“I want you to be happy,” she replies honestly.

“But if you really don’t want me to do another one, then I understand and I’ll just say--”

“No,” she silences me. “Look, Justin, I’ve been thinking about this, and times like last night reminded me who you are, and what’s expected of you.”

Leaning back in her seat, she sighs. “I mean, I just watched you go from one little circle to the next, talking with everyone, making everyone laugh, looking gorgeous, and I thought yes, entertaining is what he’s meant to do.” She puts her elbow on the table, supporting her head with her hand. “I know I don’t necessarily fit into that little world, nor do I want to,” she rolls her eyes. “But I don’t want to hold you back from what you were clearly born to do.”

I think I love her more with each word out of her mouth. “I don’t want to leave this, though,” I admit quietly.

“What’s ‘this’?”

“This. You and me. And Trace,” I add, smirking. “Us just…having fun, goofing around, waiting for you to come back from work so we can get into trouble.”

She laughs, replacing her hand in mine. “I know. I’ve had a lot of fun too.”

“And it’s natural fun, not the type of fun Trace and I had when we were drunk, or stoned, or whatever…” I sigh, looking down at the table for a second, my eyes dancing over a cut in the wood. “I don’t want to leave that, you know?”

She nods. “But…you can always come back to it. We have our whole lives to be the weird threesome we are now.”

I laugh. “So you’re okay with me going to the meeting tomorrow?”

She takes a breath, letting it out slowly. “Yeah, yes I am,” she says finally.

Placing a kiss on her forehead, I murmur, “Thing are going to be just fine Cat, just fine.”

She squeezes me hand and manages a weak smile. “I hope so.”

My right foot anxiously taps the hard wooden floor, my eyes flying between the elevator and the bent head of the secretary as she calmly types into her computer. Cold air filters out from the air vent unnecessarily, filling the already cool room with a chill. People rush back and forth, their eyes set forward, avoiding eye contact, avoiding communication, avoiding each other…because they’re just too damn busy.

I hate offices.

It’s times like this I can clearly see my popularity decline in modern pop culture. If I had been called into a meeting a year or two ago, before I even took this break, the very moment I stepped into the building I would have been politely escorted to wherever I had to be by a stuttering, star struck assistant, and then had some guy twice my age walk on eggshells to please me. But now, I was waved off by the secretary and told that I would be, “seen to shortly”. The last secretary had a crush on me and would swing in her chair as she talked to me, blushing as I complimented her. But this new one is a total bitch. I hope she gets fired.

“Mr. Timberlake?”

“Yeah?” My head snaps up to see the secretary standing over me, her thin eyebrow raised.

“They’re ready for you.”

They’re ready for you… This is a business meeting, not Judgment Day.

“Thanks,” I smile, rising from the scratchy material covering the seat. Yeah, thanks…bitch.

“Second floor, third right,” she says curtly, pointing towards the elevator with a finely manicured hand.

Beaming at her, I put on my most jovial voice. “Thank you very much!”

A few heads turn in my direction, but the secretary nods and returns to her fort at the entrance of the building.

If only Cat was here. She’d already have compromised a stunning list of faults for the woman already.

I would have loved to have Cat here, actually. She’d have made the whole thing a whole lot easier, with her insults that I’d have to shush because people were looking at us, or her loud remarks about whether dyed blonde hair could ever look natural. But she had work, and the longer I can keep her away from the record company the better. The last girlfriend I had was summoned in for an “evaluation” to see whether it was wise to let the public see her as my girlfriend, and she came home crying because they told her it would be better if she lost weight.

It sounds unbelievable people could possibly treat another member of the human race like that, but publicity and the handling of my image is almost as important as the music itself. Publicists are heartless, ruthless, cruel people, in my opinion. They scrutinize you until you can barely live in your own skin, they don’t hesitate to remind you of every flaw you have, and they won’t stop until you’re perfect.

Unfortunately, they do the same for the people around you. They did it to my ex girlfriends, they’ll do it to Cat. They used to tell Britney that she was too heavy, and although Cat isn’t fat, she’s no Britney. They’re going to crucify her. They’ll attack her weight, her hair, her job. Nothing about her will be left untouched. Hence the reason I'm slightly reluctant to tag her along to any of these horrible meetings.

Despite the whirlwind of thoughts stirring in my head, my feet carry me up the elevator and along the corridor, to the third door on the right. Frowning, I feel the butterflies twittering around in my stomach, reminding me that for the first time in a long while, I’m nervous.

But why? Normally I have these guys wrapped around my little finger. I control all the meetings we have because they know that if they lost me, there’d be trouble, and I’d easily get snatched up by another label. The moment I stepped through the door they would launch into a chorus of, “Oh, how lovely to see you Mr. Timberlake…” and practically cower in my presence. Rather amusing, in fact.

However I have the gnawing suspicion that this time, I won’t be met with such gracious hospitality. I’m not on the top of my game at the moment, I don’t own the number one album in the country under my belt anymore. I’m just…a someone. A famous someone, sure, but I’m not their most important client any longer. I’ve been replaced by other acts, other Justin Timberlake’s. Not to mention they’re probably pissed as hell that I have ignored them for so long. The very fact they’ve come all the way from their sophisticated LA offices to backwater Tennessee fills me with dread. Whatever they want, they want it now, and there’s no way I can wriggle out of it.

Resting my hand on the silver doorknob reflecting a skewered image of myself, I gently ease the door open, preparing myself for whatever they have to throw at me.

An oblong wooden table meets me, with three men and a woman sitting at its varnished edges. I immediately recognize one particular man, with his shaven head covered by a New York baseball cap and his broad back covered by a navy polo shirt. It can only be Johnny Wright.

His head swivels to see me, a broad grinning adorning the face I’ve come to know so well. “Justin!”

“Johnny!” I cry, holding out my arms to embrace him in a quick hug. “How you been, man?”

“Good, good,” he smiles, patting my back. “And you?”

“Can’t complain,” I shrug, beaming at him.

He turns to the other members of the room that have risen on my arrival. “Justin, this is Melinda Lorenz,” he says, pointing to a woman of about forty, dressed in a restrictive business suit.

“Justin Timberlake,” I reply, holding my hand out to her with a smile.

She sends me a polite, tight, “I don’t really mean this”, smile in return. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you know Sonny and Tony,” he says, motioning to the other two men.

Of course I remember Sonny, I can’t look at the guy without getting that Cher song in my head. You know, the “I got you, babe” thing…never mind. As for Tony, well…the guy is a true asshole.

Decked out in only the finest Armani suit, Tony is the typical music business bastard, with a thirst for money and a disregard for human emotion. He’s the guy that told Britney she had to show her stomach otherwise her records would never sell, he’s the person who told Christina the chaps were the only way people would stop singing Genie in a Bottle, he’s the prick that told me going back to Nsync would mean the end of my career.

He’s the Simon Cowell behind the scenes. The difference is, Simon Cowell gets paid millions of dollars for his insults, this guy is just a dick naturally. It kills me to admit that half of his predictions are right, and that if it wasn’t for him a lot of careers would have never taken off. I hate him, but I would be nothing without him.

“Hey Tony,” I greet curtly, dropping his hand quickly, as though his touch burned me. “Sonny,” I mutter, my eyes still fixed on Tony.

“Sit down, Justin, sit down,” says Johnny happily, pointing towards the seat beside him.

Sliding into the slick black leather, I sit opposite Tony, casting a critical eye over him. He looks no different from when I last saw him, he still has the same perfectly highlighted hair, he still has that wonderfully fake all year round tan, he still carries that air of arrogance about him, there’s still a sparkling Rolex on his left wrist. All I have to see is whether his tone is still quite as condescending.

“Justin, how are you?” he says, sending me a smile that I can so clearly see is forced.

“I’m well, thank you,” I reply shortly. The easiest thing to do with these people is to just keep your distance. It gives them less ammo to attack you with.

“Did you have a nice break?” asks Sonny cheerfully, momentarily cutting through the slight tension in the air.

“Thanks, I’ve been having a great time.” I don’t miss the fact he was speaking very much in the past tense, but it’s hard to dislike Sonny. He’s just a middle-aged man with three kids and a wife at home, who always has cute anecdotes about the wild antics of his children. Tony may be out to get me, but Sonny isn’t.

“And how long have you been absent from the music scene?” asks Melinda, her pen perfectly poised to jot anything I say down.

What am I, giving a statement for a murder? This is ridiculous. “I’ve been absent,” I mock, couldn’t she just say ‘away’? “For about a year now.”

“Over a year, isn’t it?” prods Tony.

Thanks a lot Tony. “Perhaps.”

“Do you wish to return to it?” asks Melinda again, her brown eyes settling on me.

Cut to the chase, why don’t you. “Maybe,” I reply simply.

“Have you got any material?”

“Some.”

“Have you been in contact with any producers?”

“Sort of.” Elusiveness is a wonderful thing.

“Who have you been in contact with?” asks Tony impatiently, his pen tapping restlessly on the dark hue of the table.

I shrug, revving up another wonderfully minimalist answer. “Just a few friends.”

Johnny taps my foot with his own under the table, shooting me a warning gaze. I know I’m being the cheeky pupil in class who just loves to push the teacher that little bit further, but the idea that I’m even slightly affecting Tony fills me with immature satisfaction.

Pulling down my defensive walls slightly, I sigh. These guys are paying for me after all. “I’ve been in brief contact with Chad and Pharrell, but I’m not sure whether that’s the sound I want to go for.”

“What kind of sound are you interested in?” asks Sonny, genuine interest coming through in his question.

“It can’t be too different, Justin. You have a staple audience that we want to keep,” reminds Tony.

Piss off and die, Mr. Perma-tan Man. “Well, yes, but I might appeal to a whole new audience with a different sound.” How good it would feel to add, “asshole” to the end of that sentence.

“What kind of sound?” he asks wearily, as though I’m just another spoilt pop star bitching about his music.

“Something more…organic, perhaps. More raw, acoustic guitars, less dance beats. Kind of…John Mayer-y.”

He chuckles, rolling the pen between his fingertips. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Why not?” I demand.

“Because raw, acoustic crap isn’t what’s in now,” he says bluntly, placing his pen back on the table. “I think you’d be better sticking with the pop-y sound you had on your last album.”

Pop-y? Pop-y? That was no way pop-y, you complete prick. It was much more R’n’B. “I won’t completely abandon my roots,” I say slowly through gritted teeth, trying to calm myself. “But the fans won’t buy the same thing again. I have to do something different.”

He shakes his head as I speak, which by the way, really annoyed me. “No, no, no, Justin. You have a core fan base which we wouldn’t want to lose.”

“I’m not saying it would be the complete opposite of Justified, I’m just saying it would have a more mellow sound to it.” Why the hell this guy even cares, I don’t know. I doubt he even listened to my album, he probably just signed a few papers and paid for my studio time.

He tilts his head back, as though he’s contemplating it, before shaking his head again. “I’m still not sure.”

“I think it could work,” cuts in Johnny, receiving a thankful glance from me. “The whole dance thing isn’t really in right now anyway.”

“I agree,” says Sonny, smiling at the grateful grin I send him. “But, at the same time…I’m not sure about a John Mayer sound. I’d say it’s definitely leaning more towards the direction of R’n’B or rap. You got people like Fifty Cent, Eminem--”

“But they’re always popular,” points out Melinda. “And they’re music is nothing like Justin’s. That would be too radical a change.”

Don’t you hate it when people talk like you’re not even there? “That’s true,” says Johnny thoughtfully. “But I still think that last album’s stuff isn’t what’s popular right now.”

“Pop is always popular,” says Tony disapprovingly. “There are millions of teenage girls ready to rush out and buy another album about love and trials and all that stuff.”

“How different do you want it, Justin?” Sonny asks, his gaze resting on me.

“Nothing too crazy. Tony’s right,” I admit unwillingly. “I have a signature sound that I have to stick to, but there will just be a few changes. I’ve grown up, it’s inevitable that my music has too.”

“Okay,” Tony relents, sitting forward in his chair and placing his elbows on the table, his contempt seeping through his words. “Why don’t you lay down a few tracks and we’ll see how we like it?”

“So you want me to start work on it now?” I strangle out, realizing I had inadvertently been discussing a matter that shouldn't even be on my mind yet. I was so busy defending a different style of music, I didn’t even realize the point of the meeting was whether I was even going to do an album in the first place.

“Isn’t that what you want?” says Sonny.

“So soon?” I stutter helplessly.

“What do you mean, ‘so soon’? It’s been a year for Christ’s Sake,” snorts Tony, running a hand through his bleached hair. “You should be thankful we’ve not dropped you.”

My mouth falls open in shock. What did he just say to me? “What the hell are you talking about?” I spit angrily.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “You haven’t been an economic asset to the company.”

“That’s because I was the only economic asset for three years,” I retort furiously. “I was the best client Jive fucking had!”

Johnny places a steady hand on my arm, pulling me back down slightly. “Justin, he didn’t mean that.”

“Justin,” begins Tony, his blue eyes blazing as he clasps his hands together. “I understand your reasons for taking a break, but it is my personal opinion that your return to work is long overdue. You can’t expect us to be happy about your sudden departure from the music scene because, as you said, you were our best client.”

Does he honestly think that a forced business like manner and a clipped tone are really going to make me less angry? “You try working for eight years straight,” I snap.

“Justin, do you want to do another album or not?” Sonny interrupts us, casting worried glances between Tony and I. “We can’t go any further until you answer that question.”

Sighing, a hand runs its way through my hair. “Yes,” I say quietly, as though I’m admitting it to myself.

I do want to make another album. I do want to go out and perform songs that I’ve written, and see legions of fans singing along to every word. I do want to go out and get utterly trashed with all of my friends at some high brow club, dancing on the tables and the whole shebang.

But I don’t want to do all of this at the cost of Cat.

“Then what’s stopping you?” says Tony impatiently.

“You seem slightly hesitant,” adds Sonny, raising an eyebrow.

Groaning, I shrug. “Well, it’s just…there’s something, or someone, that I have to take into consideration before I sign or do anything…” I ramble, not particularly keen on going into detail of what is bothering me.

“Is it a girlfriend?” asks Johnny.

“Um…well, yes…”

“A girlfriend!” Tony exclaims, as though I had just told him I had brutally murdered a group of innocent nuns with a chainsaw. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Shrugging, I take great pleasure in inspecting my nails nonchalantly, just to piss him off. “I didn’t feel the need to. She isn’t involved in this side of my life.”

“She’s involved, whether she likes it or not,” Tony scoffs.

Narrowing my eyes at him, I shake my head. “No, she isn’t. I have no desire to expose her to this,” I repeat, gesturing to my surroundings.

Tony rolls his eyes at me, shaking his head in frustration. “How can you claim she’s got nothing to do with this when she’s the one holding back another album?”

“She's not holding back the album. That’s nothing to do with her. That’s about me and where my priorities lie.”

“And where do they lie, Justin?” Tony spits spitefully. “In your career, or your girlfriend?”

My jaw clenches as I ponder a response. “In both.”

“You can’t have both.”

“Why not?”

He glares at me. “If you could, then why aren’t you touring right now with your girlfriend in tow?”

Silence envelops the room, everyone’s eyes landing on me. I try to conjure up a witty, sarcastic reply, but I can’t.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re going to have to make a choice Justin. The career that you’ve worked hard for, or some girl you’ve been seeing a few weeks.”

“I’m not going to give up either,” I protest.

“Then you’re girlfriend is just going to have to accept the fact that there will be a few changes.”

Feeling a wave of fatigue wash over me, I nod helplessly. “Fine. But the less we ask of her, the better.”

“Justin, we’re not giving trying to give you an ultimatum,” Johnny says comfortingly, sending Tony a piercing glare. “You’ve had girlfriends before. I don’t see why this poses a problem.”

“She’s…different,” I struggle to explain. “She would hate being in the public eye.”

Johnny shrugs. “We’ve dealt with that before also. You just have to be careful.”

“No, no, Johnny, I mean she really hates it,” I stress anxiously, my voice lowering as I discuss something a little more personal. “It could cause huge problems for our relationship.”

“Couldn’t it with any relationship?”

“This one in particular.”

“Is that the only thing holding you back?” asks Melinda, and for a moment, I had forgotten she was even there. It isn’t really any of her business, but I suppose if I’m going to make a “return”, I’d better get used to people I don’t know prodding me about my private life. It’s sort of like going to the doctor, you have someone you don’t even know seeing and knowing things you haven’t even told your own mother.

“Yes,” I admit. “She’s supportive and all, but I’m just unwilling to risk everything I have with her for…” I trail off uncertainly.

“Justin, it’s not a black or white situation,” says Johnny comfortingly. “You’re thinking far too negatively. Just because you get back into the music scene doesn’t necessarily mean the end for you and your girlfriend. It just means slight adjustments.”

“Such as?” I ask, feeling slightly consoled by his words.

Johnny leans back in his chair, shrugging. “The same adjustments we always make. A few appearances here and there, you’d have to move out of Tennessee…”

“See!” I interrupt. “There’s a problem right there. She won’t just up and leave her home to suit me.”

“Have you discussed it with her?” asks Sonny.

“No, but trust me, she won’t just give up everything she’s built here for me,” I say, dread filling me as realization hits me. Cat won’t leave Tennessee at the drop of a hat, even if I say pretty please. She has a whole life here.

“Well, you can’t make an album here,” points out Melinda. “Producers will be extremely unwillingly to come all the way down to the South to work, even if it’s for you.”

“I know I was,” mutters Tony, but I ignore him.

“Where would I go?”

Johnny smiles. “You have property all over, Justin. You decide.”

Grinning slightly, I shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, I do want to make music again, it’s just…” Sighing, I rap a knuckle against the table impatiently. “I have a great thing going here, you know? But then again, I do miss recording..." Conflict is a bitch.

“Why don’t you just try it?” offers Sonny. “You can have a trial period in LA, or New York, or something. You can see how you and your girlfriend adapt to the change, and we can see whether we like the new style you go for.”

Tapping my chin thoughtfully, I nod. “That is a good idea.”

“Yeah, just a few months in a city, sort of get back into the swing of things, and then we’ll see how it goes.”

“But whether she’ll come with me is still a problem.”

“Why don’t you sort out your personal issues, and we’ll deal with studio times and producers?” says Tony, leaning back in his seat and giving his wrist a shake, probably just so I’ll look at his watch. Who wants to bet he bought it for ten dollars at a flea market?

“Fine,” I reply in a clipped voice. “I’ll get in touch when I’ve sorted it out with her. Until I do though, don’t make any arrangements.”

“Alright,” agrees Melissa, punctuating her final sentence and gathering her papers. What the hell has she even written about? “I don’t mean to rush you, but if you could get in contact with one of us within the next few working days that would be great.”

“Of course,” I say, giving her a smile and wondering exactly how long I’m going to wait before I call her. “So no contracts?” I tease, knowing Johnny hates to just do something out of the blue. He much prefers to have something set in stone, or at least written down on some sort of legally binding piece of paper. To have loose agreements flying around the table must be killing him, but I refuse to rush into this. I’ll speak with Cat again, beg her to move out of Tennessee, and then it’ll be all systems go.

I can’t wait to be back in a studio again. To feel the spongy material of the headphones covering my ears as a producer nods at me through the transparent glass, to have the nights of lounging around in the studio, trying to think of that one thing that would piece together a song. It’s been too long since my finger toyed with all the various switches and buttons on the mixing board, messing around with beats and coming up with something crazy until that euphoric moment when I know I’ve gotten it just right.

But not until Cat says it’s okay.

He smiles. “No, no contracts.”

I shake hands with Melissa, Sonny and…ugh…even Tony. The child in me came out and I held his hand in a vice-like grip before letting it go and delivering a saccharine sweet smile. Serves him right, the orangutan.

“This girl must be really special for you to be so precautious, Justin,” comments Johnny as I quickly hug him.

“Trust me, she is,” I assure him, patting his back.

“She’s turned you into quite the emotionally alert man I always knew you were.”

“You calling me whipped, Johnny?”

“That I am,” he laughs.

Rolling my eyes, I suppress a smile. “Trace says the exact same thing.”

“He’s right.”

“I’m not whipped, I’m just…I swear, I was just having this conversation with Trace two days ago.”

“Don’t worry. Your pitiable state is endearing.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“No prob.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Do you think if you attached weights to the end of your hair, it would grow faster?”

Frowning slightly, I turn to Trace. Knowing him for a year should have prepared me for his streams of consciousness, but clearly, I can still be astounded by the undeniable crap that tumbles out of his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“Well, I read it in a Babysitters Club book once, and I always wondered…”

“Which brings us onto a more pressing issue: Why in hell were you reading The Babysitters Club?” I ask, closing my book with a confused expression on my face.

He shrugs. “My little sister used to give me books to read on plane rides, and she was apparently an avid fan of the whole Babysitter phenomenon, so--”

“No excuse,” I cut him off, tossing my book to the side. “And anyway, no, I don’t think attaching weights to the end of your hair would make it grow faster.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied, before looking at me again. “Do you think I should try anyway?”

Rolling my eyes, I heave myself off the couch, hopping over my discarded work shoes I had kicked off upon arriving home for my lunch hour. “Sure. I can always use a cheap laugh.”

He laughs and follows me into the kitchen, going through his usual ritual of opening every cupboard door and peering into it for food. “We got any chips?”

“No. I thought you and Justin were going to go to the store?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “Ever been grocery shopping with Justin? He won’t buy anything unless it’s on special offer or has a discount.”

“Because he’s just so poor,” I mutter sarcastically, pouring some milk into a glass. “I’ve always thought Justin was generous with money.”

Trace shrugs and settles on the counter. “He’ll go out and buy a car in a second, but he still refuses to spend an extra dollar fifty on the bread with the little seeds on top.”

Laughing, I pull out a chair and slide onto it, my thoughts traveling to Justin. “I wonder how his meeting went.”

Trace shrugs. “He said he’d be back around one, and it’s only twelve thirty.”

“What could they be talking about?”

“Stuff,” replies Trace offhandedly. “Whether it’s the right time for him to go back, what style of music he’s going for, which producers he wants.”

Crossing on leg over the other, I sigh tiredly. “So he’s definitely going to do it?”

Trace remains silent for a moment, staring at his swinging legs. “He wants to, but I think he’s just a little scared to be going back into it.”

“Is he…” I trail off, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “Different? You know, when he’s working and in the public eye?”

Trace pauses again, looking at my cautiously. “Honestly? Yes, he’s different.”

“How?” I ask timidly, almost afraid of his answer.

Trace sighs and shrugs. “It’s hard to say. He’s a little more confident, a little louder, he’s always the center of attention and he loves it…sometimes, he can get a little too caught up in everything, but other than that he’s fine.”

“Not too arrogant?”

He smirks. “You know Justin, he’s always arrogant.” I chuckle lightly, before he continues. “Sure, it can get unbearable at times, but you know deep down he doesn’t mean to get like that. It’s just a natural reaction to get a tad conceited when everyone who surrounds you is praising you and admiring you.”

“Do you think he’ll act differently around me?”

“He’s the same Justin, Cat. It’s just his…work act.” Trace shrugs. “Don’t you have a certain way you act at work?”

Thinking about it, I realize I do. At work, I’m relatively quiet and reserved. People like me, and every now and then I meet up with some girls from work to go out for a drink, but I mostly keep my head down and just carry on with my work. The only person who has any inkling of how I am out of work is Sean, and let’s not even go there.

“I guess. So you’re saying he’s just the same when he’s alone?”

“Of course,” he assures me. “Don’t worry about it Cutie, he’s not going to be a different person.” He pauses, eyeing me carefully. “You’re keeping your distance from the whole thing, aren’t you?”

“I most certainly am,” I snort, pulling out a few slices of bread to make a sandwich. “I plan to avoid every party, every public appearance, every launch, every interview, every press junket, every--”

“Yeah, I get you. Thanks for that list,” he groans, rubbing his eyes. “It was more than an adequate reminder of just what I’m returning to, thank you.”

“You don’t like your job?” I ask incredulously, taking a bite of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Excuse me, that is a perfectly mature sandwich preference, thank you very much.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” he sighs. “As I said, Justin sometimes gets a little involved in everything going on around him, and I’m just left in the shadows.”

Sitting down at the table beside him, I comfortingly pat his hand. “We all feel like that sometimes. At every family event I go to, everyone practically falls over themselves praising my sisters and then they turn to me and shrug.”

He laughs. “Even when Justin’s there?”

“Oh, of course no when Justin’s there,” I laugh, licking a bit of peanut butter that oozed out of the bread. “That boy’s the Golden Ticket.”

“You think they’re bad,” Trace snorts. “Wait ‘til you meet some hardcore journalists. Then you’ll see endless praise at it’s best.”

“Is it sickening?”

“Incredibly.”

Hearing the creak of the door, we both look up to see Justin standing over us, a smirk on his face.

“Did I just hear the word incredible? You guys talking about me again?” he teases, sliding off his jacket.

“Your ego, actually,” I reply, standing up to give him a quick kiss.

I don’t want to pounce on him and admit the only reason I came back on my lunch break was to interrogate him on his meeting, but I know I’ll be incapable of talking about anything but what happened. I have to know. I have to know whether he’s definitely, definitely going back to this whole world I know nothing about. I have to know whether the safety blanket of our relationship is going to be ripped away from me, leaving me cold and alone.

Stop being so dramatic Cat, and just suck it up and ask him.

“How was it?” I ask quickly, my words coming out in such speedy succession it’s amazing he can understand me.

“It was…alright,” he replies awkwardly, walking into the kitchen and putting down his keys. “It was…yeah, it was alright.”

Informative, Justin. “So, um,” I begin even more awkwardly, as Trace eyes the door with serious consideration. “It’s, um…on?”

It’s on? Could I sound more like a teenage boy about to embark on some stupid street race?

“No, not yet,” Justin replies, picking up an orange and throwing it between his hands a few times. “But as soon as I give them the word, it’s all set.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“You,” he replies simply as my breath catches in my throat.

“Me?” I strangle out. “Why me?”

“I don’t want to do anything unless you’re behind me 100%.”

Guilt bites at my conscience as I sigh. “I’m so sorry, Justin. I didn’t mean to make you feel as though you couldn’t--”

“You didn’t,” he interrupts. “I just know I won’t be happy unless you are.”

My heart melts at his words. “Justin…”

“Look, Cat, I need to be honest with you,” he says suddenly, halting my words.

A knot ties itself in the pit of my stomach as I try to calm myself. “What happened?”

He sighs. “As I was saying, a new album’s just waiting to be made, but…there’s just a few…adjustments that need to be made first.”

“Of course.”

“The main one being…” he trails off and clears his throat anxiously.

Spit it out Justin. You’re making me nervous.

“The main one being where we live,” he says quickly.

“Well, what do you mean?”

“I can’t make an album here Cat, it just wouldn’t work,” he begins apologetically, as I sense a big cloud of trouble on the horizon making itself known. “I’d…we’d have to move.”

“To where?” I choke out.

He shrugs. “New York, LA…”

“But-but,” I stutter helplessly, amazed this never occurred to me before. “What about my job? My friends? I have a whole life here, Justin.”

“I know,” he says, his calm, slightly nervous voice contrasting to my gradually hysterical one. “And I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but--”

“It sure as fuck is, Justin!” I exclaim angrily. “I can’t just give up everything I have to follow you around the country like some lost little puppy! What if we broke up? Do you know where that would leave me, Justin? Exactly where I was when I first came to Tennessee!” I spit heatedly, narrowing my eyes as memory upon memory comes crashing down on me.

Matthew and I being the sweet teens too in love to comply to their parents’ wishes, traveling off to unknown lands to continue our glowing love…Matthew making promise upon promise that we would live happily ever after, that he would get a job good enough to support us both, so I needn’t work or further my education...Matthew and I just being so in love.

But then, suddenly, Matthew leaving me alone and helpless, feeling more stupid than I ever have in my life. All of his promises meant nothing to me. Nothing.

And now Justin’s doing it. For the first time in three years, I’m back on my feet again. The image of me in a Shelby Forest General Store uniform may seem like a distant memory to him, but it’s not to me. I worked in that place for two years, knowing it was barely enough money to live on, knowing I was wasting my intelligence, and knowing I had committed the most stupid crime known to women by obeying a man’s wishes at the click of his fingers.

I never realized we’d have to move. It just never entered my mind. I suppose I assumed Justin would just work here in Tennessee, or he would go to New York for a week or something, and then he’d be back in the Southern Belt. The possibility of leaving everything I’ve worked so hard for just…it doesn’t seem fair.

“Cat, calm down.”

“Justin! How can I calm down? Do you even realize the magnitude of what you’re asking of me?”

“Cat, you know I wouldn’t do that to you!”

“You can’t possibly control our future, Justin. Things happen, people change,” I exclaim, shouting across the table over an uncomfortable Trace, who sits between me and Justin’s standing figures.

“Would you please just stop writing off our relationship before it’s barely begun!” Justin scoffs. “And I think you owe it to me to at least consider it.”

“I ‘owe it’ to you? And how the hell is that, may I ask?” I spit sarcastically, placing my hands on my hips stubbornly.

“Why the hell do you think me and Trace stayed in this piece of crap town? There’s only so many times we could have visited our relatives. It was for you, Cat! We stayed for you alone!”

“You didn’t have to!” I retort, before realizing that was the worst comeback, bar the infamous, ‘whatever’.

“But we did. Stop being so selfish, and just think about it!”

Letting out a groan of exasperation, I rub my eyes tiredly. Doesn’t he realize how difficult it would be for me to just leave everything I’ve known for the past four years? Does he have any idea how many stupid, ridiculous, pointless articles on hamsters or festivals or plays that I did just so I could have a chance of doing more serious issues? Does he know how much I love the job I’m in right now?

Maybe I am being selfish by not even considering it, but every time I allow my brain to work for a second, all I hear is the sneer of, ‘you’re falling for this again? Don’t you ever learn from your mistakes?’ I can’t. I just can’t do that to myself again. It’s too risky. I have too much of a good thing going here to just give it all up because Justin asked me to.

“Justin, this is going to get us nowhere,” I mutter, closing my eyes and lightly kneading my forehead to ease the pressure in it. Opening my eyes, my focus lands on the small green digits displayed by the microwave, reminding me that I’m already five minutes late for work.

“I need to go,” I announce, picking up my purse from the dark gray surface of the counter. “We’ll talk about this when I get back,” I mumble tiredly, quickly picking up my shoes from the living room floor and slipping them on.

Justin sighs and leans forward, against the back of the wooden kitchen chair. “Alright. Bye.”

I run out of the house before another word can be uttered, knowing I shouldn’t have just left in the middle of such a heated discussion, but knowing I’ll have no job to give up if I don’t leave. Work will give me the chance to relax, and think without the pressure of Justin and Trace. Maybe I could even talk to Sean about it.

Sliding into the leather interior of my car, I rest my head against the steering wheel, reminiscing the argument that stemmed from an innocent conversation. I love Justin, but I love my job too. My job is secure, Justin isn’t. If I leave, I’ll have to give up my job, and I desperately don’t want to do that.

But at the same time, I don’t want to give up Justin.

The bang of the door echoes through the silent house as Trace coughs uncomfortably, clearly embarrassed by the couple’s quarrel he just witnessed.

“That didn’t go very well,” I admit, staring at the empty doorway.

He grunts in response.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, though. Once she‘s had a chance to think about it.”

“Mm,” he agrees, apparently unconvinced.

“What?” I ask, turning to him. “You don’t think so?”

“Justin…” he begins hesitantly. “I don’t want to make you feel any worse, but…don’t you realize there’s the chance she won’t come?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, turning to him and placing my hands on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Of course she’ll come. She can’t just stay here. We’d have to break up.”

Trace shifts uncomfortably, as though he hates to be the one to tell me this. “Exactly.”

Fear grips me as I throw another glance in the direction of the slammed door. What if she truly doesn’t come with me? Would that just be the end of Justin and Cat?

No, no, it can’t be. The idea is just unfathomable. People like us strived to be together in the beginning, we overcame all the obstacles in our way, we’re modern day martyrs for true love…we don’t just break up.

“No…no, that’s out of the question,” I stutter quickly, the pressure of the situation dawning on me.

“I don’t want to worry you, man,” says Trace, holding up his hands in defense. “I’m just saying, this is a situation you really need to be careful about. You know how Cat is…always the big feminist.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, casting my gaze over the window to the frosty land outside. “I’m sure she’ll come round though, right?”

Trace is silent for a moment, twiddling his thumbs and staring at them intently. “I hope so.” He stops the steady whirling of his fingers too look at me. “As I said, be careful.”

“She’s just mad at the moment,” I say reassuringly, more to myself than Trace, who shoots me a disbelieving look. “She’ll be fine when she gets back from work.”

Trace snorts, unconvinced. “She might not be so angry, but remember what you’re asking of her, Justin. She has every right to be mad or upset.”

“I know, and I knew it would be difficult…but don’t you think she’s overreacting just a little bit?” Trace shoots me a look that clearly says I either retract my statement or lose my right testicle. “No, I mean of course I understand this is a big deal for her, but Trace, she’s twenty two years old. She shouldn’t just be stuck in the same state for the rest of her life. She needs to go out and live a little.”

“That’s true,” he nods. “But you know Cat isn’t the sort of girl to throw everything up in the air and do something irrational. She likes to think things through, make sure the advantages outweigh the disadvantages, have everything planned. She’s not like us, Justin. She’s smart.”

Laughing, I pull the chair out opposite him and slide into it. “But don’t you think she should try being just a little more adventurous at times? You know, just…throw the rule book out of the window!” The wild gesturing of my hands causes Trace to frown at me.

“Well…I suppose Cat likes the rule book.”

“But what’s the worst that could happen? She doesn’t get a job and gets to do whatever she wants in one of the most amazing cities in America? Oh yeah, disaster.”

“You know how much she hates to feel useless. She has to be working and making her own money to be comfortable in her own skin.”

“I would take care of her,” I mumble quietly.

“I know you would, and so does Cat.” Trace sighs, and I sense a large, ‘but’ coming up… “But,” there it is… “that’s not what she wants. She wants her own life.”

I remain silent, idly scratching my finger on the wooden surface of the table. “So you don’t think she’ll come with me?”

Trace’s eyes sweep to the left, settling on a picture of me and Cat that I stuck on the refrigerator a few weeks ago. We were repainting the spare room, which of course resulted in more paint being splashed on each other than on the walls, and Trace took pictures of us as he played with his new camera. For once, Cat wasn’t whining about the fact someone was photographing her, and let Trace take as many pictures as he wanted. One particular picture of Cat and I laughing as I try to attack her with a paintbrush struck me as the perfect expression of our relationship. Fun, teasing, but underneath the surface of what people see--a private love for each other, that no one can touch.

“I hope she does, man,” Trace finally answers, tearing his eyes away from the picture. “I know she’ll regret it if she stays here.”

“I guess I’ll talk to her when she comes back from work.”

Trace sighs, sending another fleeting glance toward the photo. “You’d better make it good, Justin. The last thing you want to do is lose her.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Trying to keep my head below the line of the cubicles, I scurry into the office, my eyes cautiously darting around in search of my ever-present boss. If he sees me scuttling in ten minutes late, he will not be pleased. I’ve been on thin ice with him ever since he heard me mutter something along the lines of how sorry I felt for his wife and what a difference a lack of sex can make to a person’s personality under my breath.

Quickly throwing my purse down at my desk, I tear of my jacket and hang in on the back of my chair, trying to look as unflustered and “What? I’ve been here all along!” as I can.

“He already knows you’re late,” says Sean, his fingers working at a furious pace as he types up something on the computer.

“Oh shit,” I groan, throwing my forehead down on the table with a thud. “That really hurt,” I complain, lifting my head up and rubbing the sore spot.

He laughs, taking a break from his typing to swing around on his chair to face me. “Have a good lunch?”

“The worst,” I mutter, turning on my computer and sifting through a few sheets of research.

“Why? What happened?” asks Sean, scooting forward to listen to me in a comforting manner.

Oh no. The last thing I need to is for Sean to start being all nice and to reawaken those guilty feelings I’ve had for so long. After we broke up, he was surprisingly civil to me. I expected him to bitch and send me cold glares but no, he was perfectly mature and adult about it. He said that he understood that if Justin was what I wanted then so be it, and that he hoped we could still be friends.

It doesn’t take away the nagging shame I feel every time Justin calls the office, only for Sean to answer the phone. His face droops slightly, and he just hands the phone over to me with this sad expression on his face, before taking little glances at me every now and then. I can’t possibly grasp why, but I know he still cares for me, and that there are faint traces of his boyfriend feelings towards me that have to die out.

“Cat?” he says, attracting my attention and waving his hand in front of my face. “What happened?”

Taking a breath, I open my mouth. “Well, it’s just--”

“Catherine!” barks Mr. Karter, my not so lovable boss, his bushy gray eyebrows set in a frown. “You’re late!”

“I know, and I’m sorry, Mr. Karter,” I whimper pathetically, adopting my best ‘kiss ass’ tone. “My…my car, you see, it broke down.” Excellent thinking on the spot, I’d say.

“Catherine, you live fifteen minutes away,” he scolds. “Couldn’t you have walked?”

“Well…um, I did. That’s why I was late,” I reply triumphantly. Years of making up excuses has finally developed to such a point where I can do it on the spot.

He makes a strange, ‘humph’ sound, before turning away and briskly walking towards his office, leaving a giggling Sean and I. “Nice save,” comments Sean. “So, you were saying?”

“Oh, it’s just Justin…” I trail off at the visible bristling of Sean.

He tries to hide his emotions, but the tightening of his jaw and the vanish of his smile does little to hide the fact that his thoughts towards Justin are still a little frosty. “What did he do?” he asks in a clipped tone.

“You know,” I begin, already feeling awkwardness seep into the air. “This is wrong. With all that happened…I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” I ramble, turning back to my sheets as a blush creeps onto my face. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, what about myself? Things with Sean are difficult enough at times, without adding an in-depth chat about my relationship with the man that I dumped him for.

His hand reaches out and grazes my arm, and I briefly think back to a time when his touch would have sparked something inside of me. He was such a great guy, there was absolutely nothing wrong with him…but he just wasn’t Justin. “No, come on. We’re friends, we can talk to each other.”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, feeling his eyes spear through me. “But it’s just…”

“Cat, I’ve accepted the fact you and Justin are together,” he chuckles lightly, although it doesn’t quite reach his saddened eyes. “Perhaps I’m not Justin’s number one supporter, but my dislike for Justin is nothing in comparison to my friendship with you.”

He reaches out and clasps my hand, gently rubbing it. “And I promise I won’t pull the bitter ex boyfriend gag and try to convince you that you can do better, and then suggest myself as a candidate.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Okay.” Scanning the office for signs of my boss or any tell-tale employees, I discard the research to the side and pull my chair forward a little bit. “In short, Justin’s asked me to move with him out of Tennessee.”

Sean gasps, his facial expression quickly folding into a disapproving frown. “What? What the hell makes him think you’ll do that? God, that guy can be so...”

“Don’t,” I interrupt gently. “You have to promise you won’t let your previous feelings on Justin influence this conversation,” I order.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Elaborate.”
I shrug. “There isn’t much to elaborate on. He’s going back to his album, he can’t work from Tennessee, I either go with him or I don’t.” I give another shrug.

“But…” his eyes widen in indignation. “But…your job! Your friends! What does he expect you to do about all these things?”

“Give them up, I suppose.”

“And are you going to do that?” he asks, lowering his voice so to not attract any attention.

“Well that’s my problem,” I fume, running a hand through my hair. “On the one hand, I have Justin, who I love and would do almost anything for. But on the other…I have my career, my life. I can’t just give those up to suit him, can I?”

“No,” says Sean forcefully. “You worked too hard to be where you are to just give it up for some little boy with a high voice.”

“Sean!” I reprimand him. “I told you, this isn’t an outlet for all your Justin-hate. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it--” I begin, turning away slightly.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away.” He holds up his hands in defense. “I’ll not say it again.”

Facing him again, I drop my head into my hands. “But do you really think that? Do you really think it’s too risky?”

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Cat, if you go with him, then…then I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.”

Lifting my head from my hands, I frown at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve made this mistake once, right?” Sean vaguely guesses. We never really talked about past relationships, but he’s dimly aware of the Matthew situation. After my nod, he continues. “So why would you do it again? Honestly, why would you put yourself through that when you know the consequences?”

“Because…um…” I flounder helplessly, suddenly feeling as though I’m being interrogated by my mother for raiding the cookie jar. “Well, I lov…care about him.” Out of respect for Sean, I don’t feel the need to flaunt the strength of my feelings for Justin.

“So?” says Sean, as though this bears no significance. He leans forward, and it strikes me how bothered he seems to be getting about this. “Alright Cat, put these three things in order of importance; your career, children or marriage.”

Immediately, I know it’s a trick. Sean and I used to discuss how ridiculous some people were. Ruining their lives by getting too involved in high school romances and ending up bypassing college or an education, people always seemed to realize what they need too late. I always wanted children and marriage at one point in my life, and whilst I didn’t want to head down the single career bitch road and end up a spinster with fifty cats, I knew marrying young and ending up with seven children at twenty wasn’t for me. There were other things I had to do before.

“Career first, obviously,” I mumble.

“Exactly,” says Sean triumphantly, slapping his knee. “So why would you cross your morals by putting Justin before your job?”

“I could get another job,” I suggest, suddenly feeling very small. “It’s not as though there aren’t any newspapers in the cities.”

“But you have no guarantee.”

“Let’s say I don’t go, and Justin for some reason decides he won’t move unless I do, isn’t that me doing the same thing to him? Aren’t I jeopardizing his career as much as he is mine?”

Sean pauses. “Maybe.”

“And let’s face it, if it weren’t for me, Justin probably would have returned to work a long time ago.”

Sean leans back and sends me a disapproving look. “Don’t let him guilt you into going, Cat.”

“He wouldn’t, I’m just saying…” I trail off and tiredly rub my eyes.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I just don’t want to see you making a decision you might later regret,” he says sympathetically, the edge coming off his voice. “You’re a clever girl, I don’t want to see you waste that for him,” he mutter spitefully.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I admit. “Maybe I’m too young to stay in the same place for such a long time, don’t you think? I’ve never actually lived in any big cities. It could be a good experience for me.”

“That’s the only reason I would suggest you go with Justin,” says Sean. “Other than that, I think you’d be giving up an awful lot.”

“Well, anyway…he mentioned it to me at lunch and I completely overreacted on him. Before he could even say a thing I was already running over his words with insults.” Placing my head in my hands regretfully, I mumble, “Why am I such a bitch?”

“Being a bitch pays off,” says a voice, causing me to lift my head and frown in confusion. Before me stands a stressed intern, his hair ruffled and messy, as though he’s run his hands through it a few times. “Mr. K said that the political thing you were going to do has been given to Stacey because he’s worried you’ll piss people off.”

“Me?” I feign shock. “Piss people off? My writing isn’t that controversial.”

“After that thing you said about that catholic church, just be happy you didn’t get shot.”

I shrug. “Anyway, he’s taking the article away?”

“Well, Stacey hasn’t done much work lately so he’s just reassigning it.”

“So can I go home?” I ask, my hand already inching towards my purse.

“Yup. It’s almost time for you to leave anyway,” the intern replies, shooting a quick look over at the clock.

“Great. Could you give these to Stacey please?” I ask, thrusting the research papers into his hands without waiting for a reply. “Thank you.”

The intern mutters something and quickly runs off as I slide on my coat over my black blouse, briefly checking my watch to see the time.

“You’re going to go home now?” says Sean incredulously.

“I may as well,” I reply, leaning over to switch off my unused computer. “I’ll just sit here and get worried if I don’t leave. The sooner we talk and get things sorted out, the better.”

“Have you decided whether you’re going or not?”

“Not a clue,” I mumble miserably, looping my scarf around my neck.

“I’m sure you’ll make the right choice,” says Sean, handing me my bag with a hopeful glint in his eye. “I would really miss you if you left.”

I didn’t know how to reply to him. Feeling uncomfortable under his gaze of buried and yet still there feelings and concern, I try to look everywhere except his face. I know there are still feelings for me underneath the surface, and perhaps even seeds of hope that we will get back together. He’s dated around a bit, getting a reputation as the greatest catch in the office, but nothing’s ever lasted. If he at least had a steady girlfriend I wouldn’t feel so guilty, or could at least feel comfortable in the fact that he was moving on.

“I’ll just do whatever I feel is best,” I reply, thinking that is the best answer I can give him.

Before he begins to tell me exactly what he feels the best choice is, I blurt out a goodbye and rush out of the office, leaving all of Sean and his opinions behind me.

-----

The house is silent when I enter, which immediately unsettles me. Justin and Trace are usually in the game room, cursing like troopers as they battle it out on one of the consoles, or in the kitchen making a mess as they try to cook dinner, or even in the back yard talking about gardening in low voices so that no one can hear them talking about something so ‘unmanly’.

“You’re back early,” calls Trace from the living room.

I walk in, taking off my scarf and jacket on the way. “I know. There was basically no work for me to do, so I thought I’d just come home.”

Trace nods as I fold my clothes over my arm awkwardly, remembering he had been in the middle, literally, of me and Justin’s heated debate. “Where’s Justin?”

“He went up for a shower.”

“Is he alright? I think I was a bit harsh on him,” I admit, watching Trace channel flick without much interest.

He shrugs. “You both had valid points.”

“Is he upstairs?” I ask, pointing towards the staircase with my finger.

Trace nods. “He got a little frazzled with your argument and he thought he should at least look good when you two talked it out, so he took a shower.”

I laugh, hanging up my coat in the hall closet and tossing my purse to the side. “I’d better go up and face the music, huh?”

“Made any decisions yet?” says Trace hopefully.

“No,” I mumble. “I’m so sick of making decisions, though. First it was Justin or Sean, now it’s this.”

“Well, you made the right choice last time, didn’t you?”

I fall silent, capturing very faint wisps of song. Justin is no doubt singing a wonderful collection of pop classics up in his shower as he cleans himself. He always sings in the shower, and occasionally dances, no matter how much I tell him it’s dangerous.

“Yes, yes I did,” I reply, smiling softly. Turning to the stairs, the smile becomes less bright. “I’m not trying to be a bitch here, Trace,” I explain, turning to him. “I’m just not the kind of person to give everything up for a guy.”

“I know,” he replies simply. “But this is Justin, Cat. He wouldn’t ask you unless he thought it was worth it.”

“I know,” I reply softly, his words playing on my mind as I slowly took the stairs one at a time.

Gently easing our bedroom doors open, I can’t stop the chuckle of laughter that escapes my mouth as the sound of Justin’s singing strengthens. I lean against the door, trying to pinpoint the song. I think it’s ‘Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone’, but with Justin, you never know, because he constantly throws in “Oh yeah, babaaay” and “Do wop do dee do” amongst the lyrics.

Deciding to wait until he’s out to make my presence known, I flop down on the bed, noting with some pleasure that Justin had made it. Presumably in an attempt to get into my good books, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless.

Feeling a rustle of paper underneath me, I frown and arch my back to feel underneath me. My fingers come into contact with some papers, and I pull them out to take a look at them. It looked like something printed off the internet, with various search engines at the top, with phrases like “newspapers in New York” or “publishing in California area” in them. Beneath this searches were lists of newspapers, with occasional ones highlighted with circles Justin must have done himself.

It must have taken him ages to find all this stuff. As I sifted through the pages, the searches got more specific, and Justin’s markings more advanced. He crossed out the tabloid ones, knowing a job at the National Enquirer is that last thing I would want. He circled companies with available positions, and put stars next to ones with higher salaries or kinder working hours. He had looked up all of this. For me. It made me want to cry.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opened and Justin, still humming an Al Green song, strolled into the bedroom, a pale pink towel wrapped around his otherwise naked body. My eyes unconsciously start to intently focus on the rippling muscles reflecting the light, admiring the thin sheen of water from his shower still on his chest. His hair, still damp, is at the point where he’s threatening to cut it because it’s past an inch and a half long, so it’s not too long, but it’s just long enough for me to want to run my fingers through it.

By emerging from the bathroom half dressed and wet, he just made this situation ten times harder. It’s so much more difficult to concentrate on my anger when he’s looking quite so gorgeous. It’s sort of like when you go on a diet and you try to convince yourself that all processed food is digusting, but McDonalds start doing a buy one get one free deal on the same day and you end up buying ten Big Macs.

“Cat!” he exclaims, as he jumps at the sight of me. “Sweetheart, what are you doing back so early?”

“Got off work early,” I reply simply, putting down the bundle of sheets and trying very hard to tear my eyes away from Justin’s stomach. “I wanted to apologize for blowing up at you earlier on.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he waves off, not bothering to keep one hand securing his towel in place. If that towel falls off, I will not be held responsible for my actions. “Now that we’ve both calmed down, we can talk about it rationally.”

“Right,” I agree, wondering whether he can see I was staring at his chest throughout his entire speech. It really isn’t fair of him to be so naked when I’m trying to think straight. He clearly has an advantage already.

“Alright, let’s talk,” he says, leisurely lying down on the bed, propping his head up with his hand.

Jesus, why am I not having sex with this man 24/7? Did I not see his body before today? “Well Justin…um, yes, well, you know that my main concerns are, er…” I can actually smell him from over here. The overpowering scent of coconut from the lotions in the bathroom hits me as he lies opposite me, that adorably sexy clean smell just pouring out of him and wafting straight over to my sexually aroused senses.

He looks at me curiously. “Is something wrong? You look a little flushed.”

Well no wonder. I’m sure if he had some half naked girl in front of him he’d get a little hot. “Am I?” I question innocently, pressing my hand to my warm cheek.

“Yeah, you look a bit…hot.”

Well guess what, you look extremely hot. Especially now that you’re sitting up and leaning forward in a concerned way, so that your face is now all caring and sexy.

This is going to be one long talk.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

I wasn’t expecting to see Cat sitting on our bed when I came out of the shower. I thought I had a little more time to perfect my begging speech in which she forgave me for shouting at her at lunch time and also said she’d move to the moon if I asked her. I had already started to try to look good by talking a shower and using all the nice body scent stuff that she loves to smell.

But she got back from work early. Perhaps it’s for the best. This way, we won’t bullshit each other, we’ll just be honest and tell each other how we feel. But she can go first.

“I’m not hot, I’m just…” she trails off and shrugs, one finger attacking her hair and raveling strands of hair around her finger. Doesn’t she seem a little nervous?

“Anyway, what did you want to say?”

“Oh yes, right, of course,” she rambles, bending her head down and hiding her face as her brown hair tumbles in front of it. But even behind the curtain of waves, I can see her eyes steal a quick glance at chest.

Ah, I see. Let's hope my choice to remain scantily clad will influence her decision for the better. “I was talking with Sean about this, and--”

“What?!” I screech, shocking her with the volume of my protest as any 'I'm so sexy' thoughts fled from my head. She talked to Sean about this? Jesus, why don’t I just pay her to dump me. Going to Sean for advice when she was in doubt of our relationship would be like going up to Hitler and saying, ‘Hey, those Jews, what did you think of them?’ I can’t believe she spoke to that stupid twinkly eyed turd about our relationship. All my hopes are ruined.

“Don’t worry, he was perfectly democratic.”

“Was he?” I snort disbelievingly.

She rolls her eyes at me and carries on as though nothing had been said. “I just wanted you to realize what I would have to give up to move. I’ve lived here for almost five years, and in that time I’ve gotten a job, a few friends I won’t just be able to wave goodbye to, and a lifestyle that I’ve grown accustomed to. You can’t just expect me to throw that all up in the air,” she says in an exasperated tone.

“I know what I’m asking of you is a lot, Cat. I truly appreciate the fact you’ve lived here for quite a while now, and that leaving it hasn’t seemed a priority, but I’m just asking you to consider it. You’ve never liked Tennessee that much anyway, and this would be your chance to travel, try new things.” She gives me a feeble shrug. “You always say living in the south is like living the life you’re going to lead when you’re in retirement, but you could leave all of that for a trendier lifestyle with more to do for younger people. Christ Cat, you’re twenty two. When was the last time we went to a club?”

“I just don’t like clubs,” she defends.

“Well, when did we last go out for drinks at a nice bar? When were we last able to go sightseeing? When was the last time there was excitement in this town? Don’t make yourself old before you have to, Cat.”

“Justin, that is not what I’m worried about,” she says. “I’m more worried about going out to some strange place and not being able to find a job, or breaking up with you and being left on my own, unable to support myself. Not to mention the fact we’re far more susceptible to the press.”

I shrug helplessly. “That would happen anywhere.”

“The media is just one small nuisance in the face of far more worrying things. What if I couldn't get a job?"

I snort. “You could find a job easily, and if you couldn’t, then I could always give you a job. In fact, if you weren’t working, then that would make it a lot easier for me to take you with me if I went on tour. That way you’re being productive, but we get to spend time together.”

“Doing what?” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don’t know,” I shrug, readjusting my towel and immediately attracting her gaze to my lower half. “There are always odd jobs like sewing, or…what?”

A horrified expression had crossed her face. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she says sarcastically. “I just can’t believe I’m being given the liberty of sewing.” She lets out a snort and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Honestly Justin, what is this? 1942? Get the little lady to make a nice tapestry whilst you go out and earn the bacon?”

I roll my eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was just a casual, offhand suggestion.” Although, it was kind of sexist, now I think about it. “My point is, I understand your career is important to you--”

“Very important to me,” she stresses.

“Yes, very important, but so is mine to me. I know I wouldn’t be able to do an album without you Cat.” Reaching out, I gently touch her hand. “I need your support, otherwise I won’t be able to do this,” I whisper, knowing I sound a lot more vulnerable than I wish I was.

“You have my support,” she say quietly. “There are just a lot of things that could potentially go wrong.”

"It wouldn't be our relationship if things didn't."

She smiles slightly, nodding her head in agreement.

“And no matter what happens, if the papparazzi get on our case or you can't find a job, we’ll always have each other to fall back on,” my grip on her hand tightens reassuringly. “And I got some information for you about some newspapers…” I begin, looking around the covers for my stack of papers.

“I know, I got them,” she says, holding up the papers.

“Look, here are the ones that are accepting employees at the moment,” I say, the desperation in my voice not as hidden as I wished it was as I point to the pages. “And these are the ones that balance pressing issues with gossip, which I thought you’d like better than straight gossip or straight spreadsheet,” I ramble helplessly, pointing at the random sheets.

“I know,” she says gently, placing a hand to steady my rapidly moving arm. “I can see you put a lot of effort into those. It was really sweet of you to look these up for me.”

“Cat, I’m never going to leave you in the dark,” I reply, putting the papers to the side and inching forward slightly. “I care about you and your feelings, and I wouldn’t put us at a risk by just throwing us out there.” I shrug. “If this broke us up Cat, then it would be the end of something great.”

“It’s not going to break us up,” she says softly, looking down at the research I found. She sighs. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

My eyes widen with surprise as my heart jumps for joy. “Are you being serious?”

She smiles and nods.

“Oh my god Cat, this is so fucking amazing! You’re so fucking amazing!” I scream happily, running around to her side of the bed to pick her up and swing her around, much to her protest.

“Justin, put me down!” she squeals as I place two feet firmly on the floor. “Don’t get too excited, okay? This is just going to be the beginning of a long line of problems,” she warns, wagging her finger at me.

“Fine!” I declare happily. “We’ll make it through the rain, hot stuff,” I say happily, grabbing her hand and leading her around a crazy waltz in the room. “We’re going to live happily ever after.”

She laughs, holding onto my tightly as I spin us around the room. “Just be warned, Timberlake, if I don’t get a job or you screw something up, I’ll crucify you.”

“You’ll get a job super fast, and I won’t do a thing,” I promise, dipping her down in the classic dance pose.

“I know you won’t," she says, clinging onto my neck as my hands support her back. "And I know you love me, and you know I love you. But for God’s Sake, put some clothes on.”

“I’m sorry, I just feel that it’s time for a change,” I explain meekly, my hands twisting nervously in my lap in an attempt to keep them away from diving into my hair and creating a Rastafarian look with all the twisting.

“No, I understand,” replies Mr. Karter, leaning back in the black leather chair teetering on its wheels. “We’ll be sorry to see you go, Catherine.”

“And I’ll be sorry to leave,” I hastily add. “I just…” Without even realizing it, I was about to repeat my “It’s just time for a change” line all over again. “I just…I hope I’m able to find such enjoyable work in New York.” I’m such a kiss ass.

“You will,” he says calmly, idly balancing a pen on its tip. “You have a very punchy writing style that is more suited to the city. I think you were somewhat stifled here.”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t say I was stifled. I very much enjoyed my time here.”

“Well,” he says briskly, leaning forward in his chair and bringing it back onto the floor securely, “I wish you all the best, Miss Saunders.”

“Thank you,” I smile and stand up to reach across the desk to have my hand gripped in a formidable shake for at least ten seconds.

“So is Friday your last working day?”

My eyes widen slightly. “Oh…well, I can work for at least two weeks from here. I was just telling you in advance.”

“So when were you planning to leave?”

Jeez, you don’t have to push. Why don’t you just clear my desk for me? “Whenever,” I spit with slightly more viciousness than necessary.

He chuckles slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I didn’t mean to sound forceful, it’s just so I know when we have to find a replacement.”

“Oh,” I mutter bashfully. “Well, ideally, I’d be working right up until I leave, but I think…” My eyes fly through the glass separator to where Sean sits, calmly tapping away at his computer. “I think personal issues may force me to leave earlier.”

He follows my gaze and smiles. “Yes, Sean will be very sad to see you go.”

My heart jolts at his words. “Excuse me?”

“He was in my office a few days ago discussing a feature and seemed rather agitated. I thought it might have something to do with you.”

“He’ll be very disappointed in me,” I shrug, feeling a wave of guilt sweep over me. “He thinks I’m leaving for all the wrong reasons.”

Mr. Karter coughs uncomfortably and I realize we’re getting into rather personal grounds. “Well, why don’t you organize your affairs and then we can speak about your departure again later in the week?”

I nod and put a hand on the doorknob. “Okay. Thank you for your time.”

“No problem,” he tosses over his shoulder, bending down to search through some files. Why is it the moment I mention I might be quitting he suddenly starts to like me?

Shutting the glass door behind me, I slowly approach me and Sean’s cubicle. Sean stops his typing to look up at me and smile.

“So what did he want?” he asks, leaning back in his chair and scraping a hand through his straight hair.

“Um…” My fingers twist the front piece of my hair. “Nothing important.” I hastily bend down to pick up my purse so he won’t spy my guilty eyes. “Do you want to go to lunch? I really want to talk to you.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Impatiently listening to the monotonous ringing for the last time, I groan and click the off button on my cell phone.

“Is she still not picking up?” asks Trace, turning around and straining in his seatbelt.

“Nope,” I reply, tossing my phone on the dashboard. “She must have gone out for lunch with someone else.”

“Have you tried her office?”

“Yup, but no one picked up. Not even my best friend Sean,” I mutter sarcastically, whirling the steering wheel round to take a left. “I hope she’s okay,” I mumble anxiously, taking one hand off the wheel to adjust my rear view mirror. “She’s supposed to be talking to her boss today.”

“Oh yeah?” says Trace, gazing out of the window at the shivering pedestrians walking by.

“Yeah. Fingers crossed he doesn’t give her a hard time.”

Trace nods and we lull into a silence, our eyes darting around the streets in search of a good restaurant. “Hey,” Trace says suddenly, tapping the window. “Isn’t that Cat’s car?”

Leaning over to peer out of his window, I slowly nod as I see Cat’s Volkswagen Beetle stationed in a small restaurant’s parking lot. “Yeah, it is. Let’s go in,” I suggest, making the decision more or less without Trace’s consent as I pull the car up to the restaurant.

“No, Justin, let’s not. She’ll probably be with her friends from work.”

“So?”

“We shouldn’t disturb her. And I don’t even like sushi,” Trace pouts, pointing up to the sign.

“Stop whining, bitch,” I laugh, opening my door and hearing Trace mutter a few disgruntled words under his breath as he hops out of the passenger’s seat.

Calmly putting my keys into the pocket of my pants, I open the door of the restaurant and keep it held for Trace as he continues to grumble.

“I mean, what is the advantage of raw fish? Would you eat raw poultry? Would you go to KFC and ask them to give you a bucket of uncooked flesh? No, so why would anyone--”

“Oh my god,” I whisper, cutting Trace short.

“What?” he questions, following my gaze to look for the instigator of my outburst.

Cat and Sean sit huddled together in a dark corner of the restaurant, deep in conversation. She nods at what he says and lets out a little laugh, as though he was her boyfriend…

What the hell is going on? Cat was only saying a few days ago that she was actually beginning to dislike Sean. She said he was too judgmental and close-minded, but she didn’t really expand on it and when I asked about it, she just got pissed. I think it had something to do with me, but she probably just didn’t want to make me feel bad about it. I didn’t mind in the slightest, of course. She had found a flaw in Sparkly Eyes’ personality; I couldn’t have been happier.

So what is she doing with him? How long have these cozy lunch dates been going on for? I can picture it all perfectly…a stressful day recording hard-hitting news, flirtatious comments being exchanged over the buzz of computers, accidental touches, little “brushes of the hand” as he tenderly gives her her morning cup of hot chocolate…all leading up to little lunch appointments and rendezvous’ in the copying room when they think no one’s watching…

“She’s cheating on me!” I exclaim in a hushed tone. It’s like having my gut brutally ripped out of my stomach to just see them together.

Trace snorts, his voice teasing. “Justin, are auditioning for some soap opera role or something?”

“This isn’t funny, Trace!” I snap, feeling a churning sensation in my stomach as Cat sips her wine delicately. I was about to march up to the table and scream obscenities at them both, but Trace calmly puts a hand on my shoulder, holding me back.

“Sure it is,” he grins, casting an eye over the rest of the quiet restaurant. “All she’s doing is having an innocent lunch with a co-worker, and already you’ve dreamt up a six week affair in your mind.”

“Do you think it’s been going on that long?” I cry, moving behind a plant slightly so that I can spy on them.

“Justin!” Trace snaps, delivering a heavy punch to my shoulder. “Calm the hell down! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Trace, look at them!” I justify, pointing an accusing finger in their direction. “They look like a couple!”

“So do we,” Trace snorts.

“Now is not the time for gay jokes!” I retort, moving a leaf slightly to get a better view of the them. “Do you think they’ve slept together?”

“Justin, do you know how crazy you sound?”

“I should have known. She was complaining about Sean…it must have been to throw me off the scent…” I think aloud, trying to pinpoint every Sean comment Cat’s made in the last few days.

“Justin!” Trace barks incredulously. “I’m going to have to slap you if you don’t calm the fuck down! He’s her co-worker, for God’s Sake. Of course they’ll have lunch together sometimes.”

“But why doesn’t she answer her cell phone? She must be ignoring me!”

“Justin, seriously,” says Trace sternly, jerking me to face him. “You may think you’re quite the detective, but it’s really annoying.”

“Do you think I should try calling her again? You know, to see whether she ignores it when she sees it’s me?”

“Justin, I could truly kill you right…” he trails of mid-sentence and frowns, staring over my shoulder. “Hey, what’s wrong with her?”

Spinning around, I squint to see Cat’s facial expression become exasperated and she shakes her hands about wildly, as though she’s defending herself. Sean replies, his face set in a frown as he angrily jabs the table with his finger. Cat closes her eyes and leans back in her chair, biting her lip as though she’s about to cry.

“What’s he said to her?” I whisper behind my plant, seeing Cat’s watery eyes avert their direction to the window, staring at the small gaggle of cars.

“Whatever it was, it upset her,” Trace replies, frowning as he stares at them. “Stupid bastard.”

“But what could they be talking about?” I question, pulling a branch up and trying to get a better view. “She looks really upset.”

“Probably how they’re going to break the news to you that they’re getting married.”

My eyes widen and I try to stifle a cry as Trace laughs. “Just kidding…but at least we know she’s not cheating on you, because she sure as hell isn’t having a good time.” He begins to giggle like some stupid little schoolgirl. “Oh man, you were being such a fool…”

Punching him in the shoulder, I scowl. “It’s a biological reaction to think of the worst when you see your girlfriend with her slimy ex. It’s natural.”

“And it’s natural for you to jump to conclusions and act like a drama queen…Remember when it was a little windy last week and you said there was going to be a tornado? Man, you were such a--”

Suddenly, Sean slams his hands on the table, making their glasses shake and Cat jump back in surprise as Trace stops mid-sentence. He begins to say something to her, running his hands through his hair in exasperation, and to my great horror, I see a tear roll down Cat’s cheek.

“Oh my god!” Trace gasps as Cat quickly wipes it away. “What is he saying to her?”

“Oh, no fucking way,” I say, pushing the plant out of my way and shrugging Trace’s protective hand off me. “I’m going to kill him.”

Trace doesn’t even attempt to stop me as I weave in and out of the tables, heading towards the corner of the restaurant to where Sean and Cat sit. My blood begins to boil as they continue to talk, Cat defensively shaking her head and inching back in her seat slightly with a timid look on her face.

No one, and I mean no one, intimidates my girlfriend, or ever worse, makes her cry. Especially not some southern kid who thinks he can get through life by using big words.

It’s about time I gave Sean the ass-whooping I’ve always wanted to.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I just don’t understand sushi,” I laugh, my eyes grazing over the hard-to-pronounce names such as Oshi-Zushi or Nigiri-Zushi. I don’t want to sound uncultured, but what the hell?

Sean smiles. “It grew on me when I traveled to Japan a few years ago.”

He went to Japan? The most interesting place I’ve been was France when I was twelve, but I got flu and ended up strapped to a bed with a red nose that would rival that of Rudolph’s. “Oh really?” I pause, trying to use this as a hand to guide us into the topic of moving and exploring new horizons. “Traveling is, um…good, isn’t it?” Oh, fantastic opening, Cat.

He glances up from his menu and raises an eyebrow at me. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“I think traveling is very important in the maturing of a person’s being, don’t you think so?”

“Definitely. Hey look, we could get raw squid.”

For someone so smart, it’s taking him quite a while to catch on. “I think I need to travel more, wouldn’t you say so?” I push desperately, ready to slap the menu over Sean’s handsome head if he doesn’t pick up on one of my clues.

He looks up to see me gripping the table tightly, staring at him intently. “Are you alright?”

“Oh Jesus,” I mumble, leaning back in my chair and running a hand over my eyes in frustration. “Fine, thank you,” I smile weakly.

He puts the menu down carefully, frowning at me. “Are you sure? What was it that you wanted me to talk about?”

“Um…” Why can’t I just tell him? Just say as proudly as I can, ‘I’m leaving Tennessee to follow Justin around as he makes some weird album about love and self discovery’ or whatever pop stars sing about nowadays.

“Cat, is something wrong?” he asks, reaching across and patting my hand.

“I’m leaving,” I blurt out, causing him to frown.

“What?”

Staring at him for a moment, I slowly admit, “With Justin.”

A brief look of surprise crosses his face, before it fades into slight pain, as though I’ve just slapped him. “Really?” he whimpers in a wounded voice.

“Yeah,” I reply, my eyes darting around nervously. Looking at the faux Japanese decorations hanging all over the restaurant is far more interesting than staring into his hurt eyes. He looks like some little kid who has just been told that The Smurfs were actually a drug dealing Mafia group set out to corrupt children.

“Why?” he asks.

Sighing, I lean over and take a sip of wine, my throat suddenly feeling parched. “Because I love him,” I admit. “And I need to do this.”

“What? Just because he asked you to?” Sean spits angrily, his hurt looking being replaced by a deep frown. “Shit Cat, I didn’t know you were stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” I whimper pathetically, staring down at the flower designs on the table cloth.

“Then why are you doing this? Are you going to stop working completely?”

I vehemently shake my head quickly. “No, of course not,” I reply exasperatedly. “I plan to look for work just as soon as I can.” I sound like some little chubby kid asked whether they’ve stolen anything from the candy store. Why is Sean making me feel so small?

“And what if that doesn’t work out? What if you just become another stupid stay-at-home girlfriend whilst Justin goes out and fucks random models?”

I lean back in my seat, staring out of the window as I bite my lip to stop myself from crying. Sean sure does know how to pick on someone’s sore spots. Of course that’s what I’m worried about, that’s my chief concern, but everyone has told me I’m just being paranoid and that Justin loves me, blah, blah. Sean is the only person to confirm my doubts. Thanks a lot, pal.

My eyes land on a shiny black Escalade in the parking lot. Justin has one exactly like it. He spent at least an hour talking about how it had a “banging stereo system” and then took me on this off-road adventure over some bumpy terrain he and Trace have been riding on since they were kids. It was petrifying, especially as Justin decided to do ‘wobblies’ every now and then and would veer in a different direction just to scare me.

But it was fun. I have no sense of adventure in my at all, but Justin always seems to drag me out to do things that under normal circumstances I would never do, but then I end up enjoying it. The same must apply for New York, right? And it’s nothing something he’s forcing me into, it’s something I’ve thought about and decided that yes, it is something I want to do. I wish Sean could just appreciate that.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply as calmly as I can.

Sean sighs, taking a drink of his beer. “Look, Cat, I’m sorry. I know you must hate me for telling you this, and I know I seem like the bad guy. It’s just…” he trails off before suddenly bringing his hands down on the table with a crash, causing me to flinch. “Fuck!” he whispers so other diners won’t hear us, putting his head in his hands.

“Sean, you’re supposed to be my friend!” I say defensively. “You can’t just jump down my throat because you don’t like Justin.”

“But you know what the consequences could be, Cat. You know what sort of life he leads, and I would hate to see you wasted on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re so much better than him!” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “And I really don’t want you to get hurt, Cat,” he says gently, his green eyes staring into mine.

Before I can help myself, a lone tear slips from my eyes and smoothly rolls down my cheek. “He won’t hurt me, Sean.”

“How do you know that?”

I shrug. “I have no guarantees, but I know he won’t. We love each other.”

“But is that enough?” prods Sean.

A shadow falls over our table and we turn to look at the person standing by our table, expecting to see some bored teenaged waitress with a kimono waiting to take our order.

You can only imagine my surprise when I saw a fuming Justin and Trace standing over our table.

“Justin!” I screech in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Justin ignores me and his contemptuous gaze settles on Sean. Trace reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter distractedly, looking over at the steady eye contact between Sean and Justin. “Justin, what are you doing here?”

“I think you and I need to have a little talk,” he says through gritted teeth, not even giving me a second glance as Sean stares defiantly back at him.

“About what? The fact you’re ruining your girlfriend’s career?”

Wrong thing to say, Sean. “She’s with me now, get over it,” Justin retorts harshly. “Stop trying to make her feel like she’s making the wrong decisions, because she‘s not.”

Sean pauses, before closing his eyes momentarily and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, I’m sorry. But how can you expect me to just sit and watch as she gives up everything for you?”

“She’s not giving up everything! She’s making a few adjustments that for all you know, could benefit her!” Justin comes back with, crossing his arms over his chest. “And anyway, she’s made her choice, so that’s that.”

Sean grunts and takes a swig of his beer. “So then why are you here?”

“To tell you to back the fuck off,” snaps Justin angrily. “You of all people have no right to upset my girlfriend.”

“I’m not upset,” I interrupt quickly. “I’m just fine.”

Justin turns to me, as if realizing for the first time that I’m even there. “Are you alright, sweetheart? What did he say to you?” he asks, crouching down and rubbing my arm comfortingly, looking at me with sincere blue eyes.

“I’m fine. I think you and Trace should leave,” I suggest quietly, noticing the glances of the people in the restaurant.

“But he made you cry!” he says, sending me an outraged look.

“I asked for his opinion, and he was fully entitled to express it,” I reply calmly, my heart fluttering nervously at the thought of a bust up between the two men.

Justin pauses for a moment, a look of annoyance flickering in his eyes. As much as I know he would love to pummel Sean, I don’t think that’s fair when I fully expected a negative response from him.

“But he made you cry,” Justin repeats adamantly. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Sean. “I’m not leaving until you at least apologize.”

“What is this, kindergarten?” scoffs Sean, imitating Justin’s actions and crossing his arms defiantly. “She knows I think she’s doing the wrong thing, I’ve not done anything except told her the honest truth.”

“You upset her.”

He shrugs. “And you don’t think what she’s doing is wrong?” He snorts. “No, of course you don’t, because you clearly only think about yourself.”

“Don’t talk to him like that!” I protest, frowning at Sean. I’ve never seen this side of him, and I don’t like it. He can be a little arrogant and won’t hesitate to persevere his point, but he’s never been this bad.

I know he might not agree with what I’m doing, but whatever I’ve done in the past Sean has always supported me. Glancing between them, I can see from the envious glare radiating from Sean his jealousy of Justin, and I know he’s made twice as angry for the simple fact that it’s Justin I’m sacrificing things for and not him.

“Sean, I’d better go,” I say quietly, bending down to pick up my purse. “I’ll call you, okay?” I will call him, one day, but I think the sooner I’m out of his sight the better.

“Cat,” he tugs at my elbow. “I’m sorry. I just…”
“No, don’t worry about it. I think we just need some time apart,” I reply, throwing down a few bills to pay for my drink. “Bye, Sean,” I say, bending down to drop a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Cat, I really am sorry,” he persists, standing up.

“I know,” I smile at him, before taking Justin’s hand and pulling him away from his protective stance. “Come on, you two, let’s go.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taking another glance at her out of the corner of my eye, I tap my fingers worriedly on the steering wheel.

“So when are you going to pick up your stuff from the office?” I ask, breaking the silence.

Cat shrugs. “I have no idea.”

“Trace could pick it up for you,” I offer.

“That might be a better plan,” she mumbles, keeping her gaze transfixed on the scenery whizzing past her window.

“Will your boss mind you leaving early?”

She shrugs in response, resting her head against the cool glass of the window. “He seemed more than happy to let me go. And I can probably finish up anything left to work on at home.”

By the tone of her voice, you would think she’d just witnessed the death of her childhood pet. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” I continue, taking another glance at her. “You’re very quiet.”

“I have nothing to say,” she says simply, folding her hands in her lap.

“Okay, Cat,” I reply, suddenly pulling the car off the road and stopping just to the right of the road. “What’s wrong?”

“Justin, what the hell are you doing?” she panics, glancing behind us to see whether there are any cars about to crash into the back of us. “It’s ever so slightly illegal to just stop driving on a road.”

“I don’t care,” I brush off firmly, turning to face her. “I’m not moving this thing one inch until you stop shutting me out.”

“I’m not shutting you out!” she insists, anxiously checking the rearview mirror. “Can’t we talk when we get home?”

“No,” I reply simply, pulling the keys out of the ignition.

“Justin!”

“It’s your choice,” I shrug. “Either you drop the Ice Queen act, or we get taken from behind from another car.”

She frowns at my crudeness and folds her arms. “I’m fine, honestly.”

I roll my eyes and lean back in my seat. “Baby, is this that thing where you say you’re not pissed, but then you don’t talk to me for three days? Because I’m really not in the mood for that.”

“That just wasn’t my ideal goodbye to Sean, that’s all.”

“It wasn’t for me either. I missed my last chance to just hit the mother fucker,” I smirk.

“Justin, this isn’t funny!” she snaps. “You and Trace made things extremely awkward for me.”

“Cat, the guy was making you cry! You expect me to have just sat there and watched?”

She shrugs grumpily but doesn’t reply, a sure sign she knows I have a point.

“I was just trying to defend you and myself. He would have just carried on badmouthing me if I hadn’t turned up.”

She rolls her eyes. “So? I know for a fact you value Sean’s opinion about as much as you do Paris Hilton’s.” She shakes her head. “You two are so alike.”

“What?”

She lets out a frustrated groan and brandishes a hand to the road in front of us. “Let’s just drive.”

I cautiously place a hand on her lap, praying it doesn’t get smacked away. “Has it changed your mind about anything?”

She shakes her head. “No. That was exactly what I was expecting. He just a little harsher than I thought he’d be and…touched a few buttons, that’s all.”

“Such as?”

She shrugs and looks down at her hands. “You know…just how it’ll affect my career and us…” she trails off and bites her lips shyly.

Leaning over, I quickly press my lips against hers. “You don’t have a thing to worry about, sweetheart.”

She sighs. “I know, I know. I just can’t help but think about everything that could go wrong, and--”

“And what if things go right?” I interrupt. “You said you loved New York, you said your job was getting boring, and you said you loved me. What’s the problem?”

She finally relents and smiles. “There isn’t one.”

“Exactly,” I reply triumphantly, turning back to the wheel. “So, how are fabulous me and Sean the Shithead alike?”

“You are!” she exclaims, laughing. “You both try to be so macho around each other, and more often that not fail miserably.”

“Excuse me, but I am much more macho than that little pussy,” I retort, putting the keys in the ignition. “I bet if I had threatened to punch Sean, he would have squealed like the little bitch that he is.”

She laughs. “Justin, I hate to say it, but he’s more muscular than you are. He‘s probably stronger.”

“So? I could have the little bitch screaming for mercy,” I smile, reaching over and entwining out fingers together.

“Is that your new nickname for him? The Little Bitch?”

“Good idea. Yes,” I nod.

She laughs and leans over to quickly kiss my cheek. “And you’re my little bitch.”

“Hey, I’m your bodyguard,” I tease. “I was valiantly defending you in the face of…um…danger.”

She rolls her eyes jokingly. “Fine, I’ll call you my Little Bodyguard.”

“My big bodyguard,” I correct.

“Why big?” she asks.

Giving her hand a squeeze, I turn to look at her and wiggle my eyebrows suggestively. “As if you don’t know, my dear.”

She laughs and slaps my leg. “Dear God, let’s pray city life cools that enchanting ego of yours.”

“So you’re definitely still coming?”

She turns to me with a shocked expression in her eyes. “I never doubted it for a second.”

Smiling, I pat her leg affectionately. “That’s my girl.”

Carefully balancing the box of cookies and three glasses in one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other, I cautiously open the door to mine and Justin’s bedroom, immediately setting the contents in my hand on the floor with relief.

As soon as I announced that I was going to go with them, Justin and Trace leapt into action, arguing over which was better, New York or Los Angeles, eventually settling on New York because apparently there were more “babes” there. Oh, and apparently some young producer lives there and it would just make things more convenient for Justin, but what does that matter when there are “babes” to take into consideration?

I was more than happy with the decision. I used to visit my uncle in New York every summer; it was my parents’ attempt to broaden my horizons and make me more streetwise, because apparently the mean streets of Beachwood, Ohio weren’t enough to tutor me in worldly matters. It worked though; when I was fourteen I told a mugger that I wouldn’t hand over my purse and simply turned to walk away. I don’t take bullshit now, and I didn’t take it then.

Justin apparently has some swish bachelor pad in New York, fully furnished and just waiting for him to move into it. I questioned whether this was a tad of a waste, just having property sitting unused, but he gave me the strangest look and said it was “normal”, before proceeding to list all the places he had homes. I swear to God that man gets more spoilt every day.

The only advantage is that we don’t have to worry about packing up all our stuff and shipping it up to the Big Apple, as Trace insists on calling it. The only things we need to take are clothes and a few items around the house, like paintings and photos, because everything is just waiting for us. So, when we woke up to a drizzly dreary weekend day, I suggested we do as much packing as possible. I had been working from home after the little scene in the restaurant, and it was driving me crazy not having anything to do.

Steadying the bottle, I frown. I left Justin and Trace messing around with tape and boxes, insulting each other’s wrapping technique as I hurried downstairs to answer the phone and root out some food. They, of course, were not taking anything seriously, and the room had been full of shouts and abuse.

However, when I reenter the room, it is unnervingly silent and someone has drawn the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. “Hello?” I say loudly. I couldn’t feel more stupid if I tried.

A faint giggle breaks the silence and I roll my eyes. Whatever game Justin and Trace are playing, it’s not funny.

Suddenly, a dark figure jumps from behind a box. “Intruder!” it screams, before rolling on the floor towards the other box and jumping behind it.

Dear God, what have the idiots done now? “Alert, alert!” a high pitched voice shouts, followed by a series of noises that I presume are meant to sound like gun shots. “Pow, pow, pow!”

Shaking my head and sighing, I reach over and flick the light switch, bathing the room with light. Two boxes are set up in the corners with Justin and Trace sitting behind one, pointing golf clubs at me.

“Commander, we have an intruder,” says Trace in a robotic voice. “Possibly female. I repeat, we have an intruder. Do you copy, commander?”

“I copy, T-Unit,” replies Justin into his hand. He makes a crackly noise. “Intruder could be armed, I repeat…intruder could be armed!”

“Justin, shut the hell up,” I mutter, rolling my eyes and advancing towards them, ready to pull their box away from them.

The golf clubs obstruct my path. “Do not come any closer, I am holding…a weapon!”

“What the hell is that on your head? And your face, for that matter?” I smirk, taking in the sight of their haphazardly tied bandanas and brown stripes on their cheekbones. “Did you boys get into my make up kit?” I joke, looking dubiously at the suspiciously eye shadow-esque powder on their cheeks.

“Yeah,” chuckles Justin, lowering the club. “We wanted to look like warriors and the bandanas looked stupid on their own.”

“Oh, because with the war paint they look fantastic,” I retort sarcastically. “What have you guys been doing?”

“We made a fort,” replies Trace, squinting as he aims the club at me. “And we are trying to reclaim no man’s land.”

“What’s no man’s land?”

“The area between these two boxes and the door,” explains Justin, adjusting his bandana. “You can either be an enemy, or an ally.”

Looking back at the box of cookies and soda, I shrug. “Well, people on my team get food.”

“She has…” Trace makes an odd coughing noise into his hand, sounding like a faulty radio transmitter. “Provisions! Do you copy, commander?”

“I copy. Let her in,” they move the box to the side and grin at me, looking like two five-year-olds playing soldiers. Which they are, if you consider their mental age.

“So, I’m guessing you got a lot of packing done when I was on the phone, then?”

They shrug sheepishly. “Not really,” answers Justin, beaming at me.

I let out a laugh, running my thumb along the streak of brown on his cheek, brushing the powder on my pants. “Okay guys, game over. You can play tomorrow.”

Trace jumps up, pulling the bandana from his head and tossing it to the side. “We’ve been playing that game for twenty years now,” he says proudly, looking at the two ‘forts’.

“Oh, so you’ve been this stupid for that long?” I giggle, holding out a hand for Justin to tug as he stands up.

“All little boys play soldiers.”

“But you’re not a little boy anymore, are you Justin?”

He shrugs and smiles. “My inner child couldn’t help it.”

Rolling my eyes, I turn back to my closet, pulling down a shoebox. “It never can, dear. Can you guys come and help me please?”

“What’s in that?” Justin asks, pointing towards the shoebox I had just hauled from the shelf.

“Boyfriend stuff,” I shrug, peering into it. “Mainly stuff from Matthew. I thought I’d thrown that out, actually,” I frown, scratching my head.

“Oh,” says Justin, in a tone suggesting he’s less than happy about me keeping memoirs of my old boyfriends around the house. “What’s in it?”

“Stupid girl stuff,” I reply, shuffling through the box’s contents. “Letters, diaries, our plane tickets out of Ohio.” I smile in memory of all the good times I had with him, before replacing the box’s lid.

“What was he like?” Justin asks, kneeling next to me and looking into the box.

I shrug. “He was a little too sweet for me. Very romantic, very idealistic. Sort of like how you get after you’ve watched Oprah,” I smile. “But he was a good first boyfriend to have. He taught me that at best men are romantics, at worst complete assholes.”

“So he was your first boyfriend?” Justin stresses as he opens a letter, scowls at its words, and hands it to Trace.

“Yes.”

“As in…you know…”

“Amazingly enough, no I don’t know,” I retort, rolling my eyes at his articulacy.

“Was he the first guy you slept with?” asks Trace straightforwardly, his mouth full of cookie.

Blushing, I turn away from them to concentrate on putting the picture frames in protective wrap. “Um…well, yeah…” I mumble shyly.

“He’s not as attractive as me,” says Justin matter-of-factly, pulling out a photo of us at a family barbeque.

“He’s not that bad,” Trace shrugs. “If his nose was just a tiny bit to the right he’d be perfect.”

“And he’d really have to work on his triceps and abdominals,” snorts Justin.

Sometimes I wonder where all the testosterone went from these men. “Hey, girl scouts,” I snatch the picture from their hands. “Stop bitching like a pair of litte girls and get some work done.”

They place the letters back into the box reluctantly, before Justin uses his height to search the top of the closet and Trace unfolds a box.

“Hey, who thinks I can get into this?” he grins, already crouching down into the cardboard.

Laughing, I gently tap his head with a magazine. “Out of there, little man. We need to move onto the kitchen next.”

Trace sticks his tongue out at me and starts to pour the soda into the three cups, doing absolutely anything but work. He hands me and Justin a cup, before sitting cross legged on the floor, watching as Justin and I round up the important items.

“Cat?” he asks in a questioning tone.

“Yeah?” I respond, refilling my glass and pinching a cookie from the box Trace held so tightly in his grasp.

“Did you date anyone between Sean and your first boyfriend?”

I pause my munching to think. “Not really. I went on a few dates, but they were all pretty disastrous. I even think one guy was gay,” I point out, taking a sip of Coke. “Or at least he was by the end of the night. Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “It just seems like a long gap from Matthew to Sean.”

“Why are we talking about this?” snaps Justin, and I give him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“It wasn’t the best two years. I just sort of floated around Tennessee until I met you guys and got promoted.”

“We were your saviors,” smirks Justin.

I roll my eyes at him and crouch down next to Trace. “Actually no, Trace was my savior. You were too busy screwing Natasha to care about little old me.”

“That’s not true!” he protests. “I was your friend before Trace was.”

I shrug, slinging an arm around Trace. “He was very supportive through my struggles,” I whimper pathetically, holding back my grin.

“I would have been too!” Justin objects, taking the Coke from me.

“I think what she’s trying to say…is that she likes me better,” says Trace, his eyes twinkling as I laugh.

Justin however, fails to see the amusement. “Is this true, Cat?”

“I love you both exactly the same, now quit wasting time.”

“So there was no one between Matthew and Sean?” repeats Trace.

“No!” I groan. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Well, me and Justin were trying to figure out how many guys you’ve slept with,” says Trace simply, popping another cookie into his mouth.

“Trace!” Justin exclaims, his eyes wide as he throws a balled up pair of socks at Trace. “You’re not supposed to tell her!”

“What were you guys trying to figure out?” I squeak incredulously, raising my eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, Justin said three, but I said no way, it must at least six or seven, so I thought I’d just ask you,” Trace shrugs. He’s as nonchalant as though he had just asked me whether I preferred cheese or ham in my sandwiches.

“For your information, you’re both wrong,” I hotly deny, feeling my cheeks burn as I turn back to my closet and start folding my clothes. Those boys can come out with the most unbelievable trash.

“What?” Justin protests. “But who else is there? Me, Sean and Matthew,” he lists off on his fingers. “How many other guys have there been?”

“Justin, stop it,” I order, knowing I’m an unattractive tomato color. “Why do you even care?”

“Because I’m your boyfriend,” he claims, putting his hands on his hips. “I need to know these things.”

“But I don’t know how many girls you’ve slept with!” I complain, busying myself with folding a t-shirt.

“That’s different,” he scoffs, waving his hand. “You know I’ve slept with tons of girls.”

“Oh, how modest you are,” I mutter, rolling my eyes into the wardrobe.

“But you know that,” he insists, walking towards me. “I thought you’d only slept with three guys.”

“Well know you know that isn’t the case, you can just forget about it,” I reply simply, putting a pile of tops into a box.

“Who was closer?” asks Trace, shuffling forward to offer me a cookie. “Me with seven, or Justin with three?”

“Guys, that’s a really personal question.”

“So? I’ll tell you I’ve slept with thirty four girls,” says Trace casually.

“What?” my mouth drops open. “How is that even possible?”

He shrugs. “What else is there to do growing up in Tennessee?”

Shaking my head at him, I start on Justin’s extensive pant collection, carefully folding up each pair. “I can’t believe that.”

“That’s not that much, when you think about it,” Trace defends himself.

“No?”

“No. I mean, it could be a lot bigger.”

“What, the number of girls or your ego?” I tease.

“Back to our original point,” Trace stresses. “Come on Cat, we’re your friends. You can tell us.”

Sighing, I throw a pair of Levi’s into the box. “Fine. I’ve slept with a grand total of five guys in my life, alright?”

Trace waves his hand. “See? That’s nothing. Why couldn’t you just tell us?”

“Five guys?” Justin repeats, his face oddly pale. “Five guys? What? When? Who are these two I don’t know about?”

“Justin,” I laugh. “Calm down. It doesn’t really make a difference.”

“It doesn’t really make a difference? It doesn’t really make a difference?!”

“It’s no big deal.”

“It’s no big deal!”

“Are you going to keep repeating everything I say? Because that gets really old after a while,” I scowl. “I never mentioned these other two guys because they were just casual boyfriends. It didn’t mean anything.”

“But I thought you’d hardly slept with anyone!” he exclaims.

“Well she hasn’t,” says Trace, shuffling the box of cookies to get the crumbs at the bottom. “I mean, five is nothing. Especially compared to our double digit numbers.”

“Still,” Justin huffs. “I just can’t believe there are two other guys out there that I had no idea about. Were they one night stands?”

“That really doesn’t matter. Why are you worrying about it?” I ask, throwing the last of our clothes into the boxes. “You’ve never cared before.”

“I was just curious,” he shrugs, sitting down on the bed. “I thought I knew everything about you there was to know.”

“What’s the matter, Justin? There are things about me that you don’t know, and there are things about you that I don’t know,” I reply placidly, sitting down beside him. “I don’t care how many girls you’ve slept with, because I don’t get jealous about exes like you do. I just accept it’s your past and that, oh dear, my little Justin isn’t a virgin.” I roll my eyes.

“But doesn’t it just make your skin crawl?” he complains. “The idea of someone you care so much about being with someone else?”

“It’s not something I choose to think about,” I shrug. “But it doesn’t bother me too much.”

Justin shakes his head. “I can’t...stand the thought of you being as intimate with someone else as we are with each other.”

My eyes fly to where Trace calmly examines the ingredients to Coca Cola, embarrassingly aware that he is still in the room. “Yes…well…”

Trace glances up and catches my eye, sending me a wry smile. “Are you two going to start talking about your sex life? If so, it’s time for me to make my exit.”

“All I want to know is if Sean was better in bed than me,” says Justin, hiding the fact he thinks making me blush is hilarious not too well by letting out a snort.

“Justin, shut up,” I retort, busying myself with staring at my shoes. Why oh why does he have to ask such a stupid question when Trace is in the room? Couldn’t he just wait until he left before allowing continuous streams of crap to pour from his mouth?

Trace laughs before springing up to answer the ringing telephone. As soon as he leaves the room, I deliver a swift punch to Justin’s shoulder.

He smirks as he rubs his attacked skin. “Ow!”

“You deserved that.”

“I was just asking!” he insists as I rise off the bed and continue folding clothes.

“Justin, if I must reassure you sexually, can’t you at least wait until we’re alone before you pester me?”

“Excuse me, but I don’t need reassurance sexually,” he says, wrapping his arms around me and resting his chin on my shoulder. “I know I can do things to you that that little hillbilly never could.”

I let out a quiet snort before reaching behind me to blindly pat Justin’s head. “Okay, then.”

A strong set of hands grip my hips and whirl me around to face him, almost making me drop the shirt I’m holding. “What are you trying to say?”

I almost want to laugh at the stunned expression on his face. It’s similar to the one he adopted when I insinuated he wasn’t as well endowed as he thought. “Justin, don’t look so shocked.”

“No Cat, seriously, what’s going on?” Justin demands, his baby face contorted into an offended expression. “Was Sean better in bed than I am?”

“As if it matters,” I shake my head. “God Justin, you’re so defensive. Especially when it comes to Sean.”

“Well what made him better?” Justin asks, looking upset. “Am I not attentive enough? Do I not do enough stuff for you? Am I selfish?”

My instinctive reaction was to laugh at Justin’s jump to defense, but it suddenly struck me how often he does this. Trace mentioned something about Justin thinking I was cheating on him when he saw me and Sean together, and that he thought there was a mutual jealousy between the two. Sean wants what Justin has, and Justin wants the compatibility that Sean and I share.

Justin always seems quick to pounce when I mention ex boyfriends or people that I care about possibly threatening his position as the most important person in my life. He seemed genuinely appalled that I had slept with people outside the little trio of my serious boyfriends. I don’t know why it even matters, but he has always expressed an air of dislike for anybody that I’ve cared about. Of course, this is often a factor in most relationships; it’s not exactly a hobby of mine to wonder about how fantastic Justin and Britney were, but Justin takes it to the extreme.

And I suddenly realize, for the first time in the crazy journey that is Justin and I, that I’m not the only insecure one in this relationship.

“Not at all,” I say gently, cupping his face in my hands. “Do you want me to be honest?”

“Yes,” he replies, frowning slightly, as though my reaction is seriously going to affect his self worth.

“Physically, you’re no better or worse than Sean was,” I murmur truthfully, receiving a hurt glare from Justin’s eyes. “But…” the glare softens. “I didn’t feel half of what I feel with you with Sean. With you…it’s like a whole different level,” I say earnestly. “I’ve never felt what I feel with you before, so I can’t even compare you two.”

A boyish smile crosses his features. “Really?” His adorable look is not unlike that of a child that’s just been told their finger painting was the best in the class. It’s as though my approval is held in such high esteem that when he finally gets it, he can’t feel happier.

But why? Why on earth would Justin Timberlake, pop star extraordinaire, the man worth millions of dollars, the face that makes people swoon, care so much about what I think? I barely even value my own opinion, why should he?

I suppose I take it for granted that Justin is just a confident, self-assured guy. He has a cocky exterior, and he will tell you honestly that he is loved by many, hated by none. It never crossed my mind Justin might be like me; he might worry that I think I’ve made the wrong decision by staying with him, he might worry that one day I’ll just change my mind and pack it all in, he might even worry that I don’t love him that much at all.

So perhaps Justin and I aren’t so different at all. Perhaps we’re exactly the same

“Justin, you know that I love you lots and lots, don’t you?” I ask, tipping my head to the side.

He nods his head, moving his hands in circular motions on my hips.

“And you don’t feel, I don’t know…threatened…by what I may have had with anyone else?”

He pauses, before shrugging. “I guess so. I mean, I know I’m different from all your other boyfriends, so I suppose sometimes I feel as though I have to work that extra bit harder for you.”

My heart breaks with every word he says, like when I see those charity programs on TV about sick children in Africa. “Do I make you feel inadequate?” I whisper, ready to denounce my title as a good girlfriend if he say yes.

“No,” he shakes his head. “It’s not you, it’s the rest of the world. I mean, what if they take one look at me and just say I’m no clever, or, or…reliable enough for you?” he stutters. “What if one day, someone tells you we’re two opposites that just don’t work, and you believe them? Obviously, we do work, and I love you to pieces, but what if…why are you laughing?” he asks, stopping mid-sentence to give me a crooked smile.

I shake my head, still chuckling slightly. “We’re exactly the same, do you know that? Everything you've just said is exactly how I feel. You and I…we’re two of a kind.”

“How?”

“We both worry about crap that we don’t have to,” I say, leaning in to rub my nose against his lightly, before dropping a feathery kiss on his lips. “Despite all the odds and logistics, I think this is the most rational relationship I’ve ever been in.”

He smiles. “Good, because you’re going to be in it a while longer.”

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I nod. “I hope so.”

We stay entwined in each other for a moment, before I can feel Justin’s breath tickling my neck as he asks me a question. “So…I am better than Sean then?”

I laugh and pull away. “Well, am I better than Britney?”

He shakes it off nonchalantly. “No contest.”

I giggle and turn back to my packing. “That hoe ain’t got shit on me.”

“Cat!” he exclaims, sending me a surprised look. “Why are you talking like that? I thought you hated ‘ghetto talk’?”

“I do,” I reply calmly, throwing Justin a basketball shirt. “But I figured since we were going to New York, I’d need to get some of that rough talking back in the game.” I tap my chin thoughtfully for a moment. “Yo, um…J-Dawg, wuddup?”

He laughs. “Just chillin’ in the crib, homie.” He rubs his hands together excitedly. “Okay, I’ll call you “my bitch”, and you call me Papa.”

“Papa? As much as I love being an incestuous “bitch”, I really think we should stick to Cat and Justin.”

“All right, all right…” he relents. “You can call me Jizzle Dizzle.”

I can’t suppress my laughter as Justin smiles at me. “Sorry Justin, I just really don’t think I’m cool enough to pull something like that off.”

He waves his hand. “Sure you are. You’re Justin Timberlake’s girlfriend. You can do whatever you want.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, you’re Cat Saunder’s boyfriend, and that strictly prohibits you from speaking a bunch of crap.” I snort. “And yet you somehow still manage to do it.”

“The language of Snoop Doggy Dog is not crap, Cat,” Justin whispers in a deeply offended tone, widening his eyes. “The language of Snoop Doggy Dog is the word of god.”

“Is it really?” I question disbelievingly, binding a box shut with tape.

“Fo shizzle ma nizzle.”

Placing my head in my hands, I moan in despair. “If you talk like this when we move, it’s over.”

“You’d throw away your kindred spirit just because of the way he spoke?” he asks, laughing.

“In a word? Yes,” I reply, throwing the tape to the ground. “Now finish that shelf, and we can start work on the kitchen.”

“Cat?” he says.

“Yeah?” I toss over my shoulder.

“Why do you think we work?” he asks, inspecting a t-shirt. “I mean, you said we’re two of a kind and stuff…but the only way we’re alike is in our insecurities? Is that healthy?”

I smile faintly. “No, but that’s what makes us us. We’re just human beings. We fret over shit that doesn’t matter, we’re dysfunctional, and we both know it.”

He chuckles. “What could be more perfect?”

I grin at him. “Exactly.”

“How can you not like flying?”

It was as though that question was on a constant loop in Trace’s mouth and he could say nothing else. “I’m just wild, I guess,” I mutter sarcastically, turning the page of my book.

“But it’s so much fun!” Trace exclaims, propping his elbow on the leather armrest of his chair and leaning over the aisle to talk to me. “You’re like…thousands of feet in the air.”

“Exactly. You’re suspended ‘like, thousands of feet in the air’ with nothing to support you but the clouds, completely dependant on the hope that the little piece of steel you’re locked in doesn’t suddenly plummet down to the ground at a record-breaking speed.”

Trace seem slightly stumped by my less than optimistic outlook on flying and leans back in his chair, frowning. “But flying is four times safer than driving,” he says eventually.

“Right,” I reply distractedly from the book. “I’ll think about that when we’re doing a spectacular nose-dive into the earth’s crust.”

“Cat, you’re going to make him cry,” reprimands Justin, pulling at his headphones. “I know for a fact you’re not scared of flying, so stop pretending that you are just so you can make Trace fear for his life.”

I let out a tiny smile. “As if I would do such a thing.”

Justin shakes his head at me before replacing his headphone and leaning against the headrest, his eyes closed. I return to my book, ignoring Trace’s shuffling in the seat across from me as I hear the rumble of the engines preparing the plane for take-off.

I suppose I should be doing cartwheels or some other form of excited anticipation, but I spent so long fussing over New York and what it will be like to leave Tennessee, any enthusiasm for the move as been vacuumed out. Justin has spent the last few days glued to his cell phone, talking with producers, managers; all those middle-aged had-beens with too much gel in their hair that I love so much. Therefore, his customary zeal has been somewhat lacking as of late, and Trace seems to be on some sort of self-deprecation thing where he doesn’t talk much, except to make a really stupid comment. Justin said it was his way of coping with change.

It was actually less hard than I thought it would be saying goodbye to Tennessee. I had a little bit of a tearful adieu with Diane, but I was quick to be assured she would visit me whenever I felt lonely. I even bid her hillbilly boyfriend a nice goodbye without mentioning the fact he wears cowboy hats in all seriousness, which I thought was an astounding show of maturity when all I’ve ever wanted to do was rip those stupid things off his head.

I’m not completely pessimistic however. Trace (who is actually Justin’s personal assistant--a fact that had completely slipped my mind in a year of knowing him) booked our flight tickets in first class, which meant we were ushered onto the plane by a model-esque flight attendant, and seated in extravagantly leather bound chairs that were about a mile wide. It’s a ridiculous amount of money of course, and I did hold up an admirable three minute dispute that we’d be better off in coach, but it’s sort of fun to be in the company of people who could leisurely burn hundred dollar bills.

“What are you reading?” Trace asks, poking me in the arm.

Ignoring the urge to cut off his finger, I murmur, “Just some stuff about New York,” in response. I hate it when people disturb my reading; I always get this incredible impulse to turn around and smack them, shouting “Can’t you see I’m busy?!” But as we’re seated in first class surrounded by tired Japanese business men, I keep my initial reactions to myself.

“What does it say?”

“It’s quite interesting actually,” I reply, straightening up in my seat. “Apparently, the Statue of Liberty was appointed a National Monument in 1924, forty years after its opening.”

Trace’s bored facial expression does not budge. “Is that so?” He was clearly hoping to hear that I was reading some Harlequin romance where some aging housewife gets involved in an intricate affair with her son’s seventeen-year-old friend.

“Yeah, and look, America reciprocated the favor to France by giving them a replica about a quarter of the size in bronze,” I point to a photograph.

Trace rolls his eyes and reaches over me to prod Justin. “Justin, Cat’s being a geek,” he whines as Justin wraps his headphone cords around his iPod.

“Are you still reading that American History crap?” he asks, stretching.

“Justin, this is not crap,” I defend, jabbing at my book with my finger. “How can you call the Statue of Liberty crap? This is a noble peace-offering from France in the wake of the American Revolution. It’s a milestone marking our ever-steady move towards more national alliances.”

“Cat, what the hell are you talking about?” Justin moans, burying his face in his hands.

“Merely trying to inject a bit of culture into you boys,” I tut disapprovingly, opening up my book. “You can’t just go to a place and not know anything about it.”

“Why can’t you be like the rest of my girlfriends and just read Cosmo?”

My head snaps to look at him and I deliver an appropriately pissed off look. “Oh, I’m so sorry, but my brain isn’t exactly capable of handling some of the important issues addressed in Cosmopolitan.”

He laughs, furthering my inclination to smack him on the head. “You read them sometimes.”

“It’s called boredom Justin, it makes one do crazy things. I don’t make them my staple reading material, unlike your past, and clearly highly “intellectual”, girlfriends.”

He shrugs and smiles, clearly very pleased with himself for irritating me so soon into our flight. “But aren’t they chockablock with helpful hints to make yourself a self-confident, sexier woman?”

“All they do is come up with weirdly wonderful sexual positions that I’m perfectly capable of coming up with myself without the assistance of a magazine, thank you very much.”

“Oh really?” he raises an eyebrow. “Care to share, baby?”

“Care to cease with the irritatingly chauvinistic comments, baby?”

He laughs and pats my leg. “I’m just teasing you.”

“Justin, the drinks person is coming!” Trace suddenly whispers urgently, pointing down the blue-carpeted aisle to the slowly moving flight attendant handing out drinks to passengers.

“He’s not your type, Trace,” I say apologetically, laughing when Trace scowls at me.

“Okay…Cat, ask for a decaffeinated Coke,” Justin says anxiously, glancing down at the man as he steadily approaches us.

“What? Why?” I protest, turning my head to look at him.

“Because he’ll have to go get some out of the refrigerator.”

“So?”

“Just do it,” he whispers through gritted teeth, smiling up at the man who had advance up with a cart of refreshments.

“Can I get you anything to drink, madam?” asks the sickeningly peppy man, smiling down at me.

“Um…yes, do you have a caffeine-free Coke?” I ask, feeling Justin squeeze my leg when I hesitated. I don’t even like caffeine-free Coca-Cola. Hell, I even draw the line at Diet. Where’s the fun in a sugarless soda?

“Of course madam, although I’m afraid I’ll have to fetch it from the refrigerator. I don’t have it in my cart at the moment.” He smiles for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

“Sure,” I beam at him, utterly clueless as the man turns around to get my drink and Trace and Justin dissolve into a fit of giggles. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“Come on Trace, go quickly,” says Justin, standing up slightly to talk to Trace.

Trace nods and immediately unbuckles his seatbelt before diving into the refreshments, rummaging through its contents.

“What the hell are you…” I trail off, suddenly feeling an overwhelming disappointment in the two idiots. “Oh no…please don’t tell me you’re stealing peanuts, Trace.”

“Hey, these peanuts are the shit,” says Trace, emerging with no less than ten packets of salted nuts and throwing a few at me and Justin.

“We have peanut wrappers from like, twenty different airlines,” says Justin proudly, opening a packet and popping a few in his mouth. “They’re high-quality, baby.”

“What an achievement,” I say sarcastically, torn between disbelief and depression in the knowledge that seeing Justin and Trace do mind-numbingly stupid things was the norm.

“Here you go, madam,” says the man, quickly pouring my no-caffeine, no-fun drink into a glass with some ice in it. “Anything for you, sir?”

“Can I have some peanuts, please?” asks Justin, smirking, hiding his previously opened bag

“Of course, Mr. Timberlake,” beams the man, quickly bringing out far more than the customary two-packet-per-person and passing them to him, his wide eyes doing little to conceal his excitement at meeting ‘Mr. Timberlake’. “I hope you enjoy your flight, sir.”

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I turn to Justin, trying to block out the sound of Trace asking for even more peanuts. “So this is how you two amuse yourself when you’re working?”

“Yep,” he nods, opening a bag and scooping up at least half of its contents in one handful. “And plus, first class is always really over expensive. They expect you to steal their snacks; it balances it out.” At my frown, he continues. “It’s like when you’re at a hotel and you take the little bars of soap and the bathrobes.”

“You’re not supposed to do that,” I interrupt.

He rolls his eyes, throwing a peanut at me. “Alright, Saint Catherine.”

Laughing, I pull out his iPod, running my finger over the touch-sensitive circle to activate it. “Do you have your album on this?”

He leans over my shoulder to look at it. “Probably. When I’m not listening to myself talk, I like to listen to myself sing,” he grins.

“Alright Justin, that’s enough of the narcissism for today,” I mutter playfully, scrolling down the menu at an alarmingly slow rate. I hate the whole circle thing; it always manages to outsmart me.

“Cat, I’m going to die watching you do this,” Justin snaps eventually, snatching the iPod from my hands. His long fingers expertly dance around the keys, before he hands it back to me, the faint notes of Senorita pouring from the headphones.

I put one headphone in, smirking when I remember Justin teaching me how to play it on the piano., before just begging to kiss me. I would smirk smugly, but it’s really Justin’s job in the relationship to be the irritatingly conceited one.

“What’s with the sudden interest?” Justin asks, rubbing my thigh in a very distracting and yet fantastically enjoyable way.

“I just figured if I have dragged my ass all the way to New York for your career, I may as well know a little about it.”

His eyebrows shoot upwards. “Really? You’ve never shown interest in it before.”

“That’s not true,” I defend. “I went to one of your concerts. I even helped my sister make a freaking banner, for Christ sake.”

“What did it say? ‘I Love You, Justin?’”

“Probably something more along the lines of, ‘Impregnate me, Justin’.”

He chuckles. “I’d be happy to.”

Shaking my head vigorously, I look down to see the song change. “Don’t even joke about it, Justin. The last thing we want to do is bring a human being containing our matching DNA into the world quite so soon. Can you imagine how screwed up that kid would be?”

He laughs. “Well, anyway, you might have to know snippets about me if you’re going to be my girlfriend.”

I frown. “I thought I’d been your girlfriend for the past seven months, or did I dream it all?”

“But ‘publicly’. My manager will think it very odd if you don’t even know what my second group album was called.”

“Let me guess…Let’s All Have Perfectly Legal, Innocent Fun? No? Um…how about, We Are Sexy Pretty Boys, But We Don’t Take Drugs And Neither Should You, Kids.”

As I was chuckling at my own wit, Justin was scowling at me. “No, it was called No Strings Attached.”

I raise an eyebrow in concern. “I hope you don’t mean that in the casual-sex sense of the phrase. Can you imagine the drastic rise in teen pregnancies from all the teenage girls taking your advice and getting in ‘no strings attached’, purely physical relationships?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he replies sarcastically, folding his arms grumpily.

“Cat, it’s really not interesting,” says Trace lowering his magazine. “Here’s how it goes…skinny kid gets into Mickey Mouse club, skinny kid gets into band, skinny kid releases solo album and tries to be black.” He shrugs. “Simple.”

Laughing, I turn to a very displeased Justin. “Is that how it went, skinny kid?”

“No!” he protests, glaring at Trace. “It’s a really great story, but if you guys don’t wanna hear it…”

“No, no…I’m sorry, please tell me,” I smile at him and rub his arm in what I hope is an encouraging manner.

“Yeah Justin, I could always hear this story for the fifteenth time,” says Trace, tucking his magazine into the little pocket on the back of the seat in front of him.

Justin shifts until his back is to the window so he can face Trace and I, his expression serious. “Well, I started off slowly. Doing things like mall shows, beauty pageants--”

“Aw, did you wear a pretty dress with a tiara?” I ask, sticking out my bottom lip.

He smiles. “No, I wore a white tux.”

“I thought beauty pageants were for girls.”

“They are,” says Trace. “It really says a lot about Justin’s confused youth.”

Justin rolls his eyes before continuing. “The main point is that I won it.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I have tapes of it somewhere. I’ll have to get my mom to root them out for you.”

“Cat, they are the funniest thing,” snorts Trace, scrunching up the bag of what might just be his fifth packet of peanuts. “Justin thought he was this big hotshot with the basketball, and then he goes and freaking drops it before he got off the stage! Oh, and then he wears this really fucked up shirt in the fashion bit which kinda looked like a patchwork of cellophane--”

“Then I did Star Search…” Justin tries to interrupt Trace’s steady flow of criticism.

“Oh yeah, the shirt for that is even funnier…”

“Did you win?” I ask, trying to keep the grin from my face as Trace’s criticism of Justin’s fashion choices lingers in the background.

Justin shifts uncomfortable. “Not exactly. But at least it got me into the Mickey Mouse Club.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh yes, the infamous Mickey Mouse Club.”

“It was the first big thing I had done. It had Britney, Christina, JC…people like that. We sang, danced, acted--”

“I used to watch it,” I interrupt, biting back my smile. “And I think regarding a collage of equally unfunny kiddy sketches ‘acting’ is taking it a bit far, don’t you?” Trace lets out a loud snort and we high five, much to Justin’s annoyance.

“You guys are hilarious, really.” Justin rolls his eyes at us before continuing, “Anyway, when I was about fourteen or so, I got into Nsync.”

“Fourteen? But that’s so young!” I screech. He shrugs in response. “At fourteen I was becoming increasingly more secluded and moody, my only achievement was winning the school Spelling Bee...and you were in a goddamn band?”

He grins cockily. “Yes. And by fifteen, I had an album out in Germany.”

“What the hell could you sing about at that age? Your job at the movie theater and how much you wanted a BMX?”

He crosses his arms defiantly. “I was incredibly mature at fifteen.”

“What, you had your own cell phone?” I say in a mock serious tone. I should really stop teasing Justin, but I’m finding it’s speeding along my journey very nicely.

He sneers at me. “Excuse me, but I was already in a sexual relationship,” he says smugly.

My eyes widen to unattractive proportions. It sounds more disturbing every time I hear that. “What? You were having sex at fifteen?”

“Fourteen, actually. And keep your voice down.”

My mouth gapes open as I stare at him in astonishment. “That’s so…”

“Admirable?” he grins.

“No. Disgusting,” I grimace. “My God, what a scandal. I didn’t even get kissed until I was fifteen, and it was by my lab partner who became a priest after I left, so it really isn’t something to brag about.”

Justin laughs. “Well, I did start a little early.” He shrugs. “But we broke up because I was so busy with the album. It did really well in Germany, and over a lot of Europe.”

“So you were this mega star by the time you were sixteen?”

“You could say that.”

“What were you doing at this point?” I ask, swiveling around to face Trace.

He laughs. “Basically the same thing that Justin was doing with all of those German girls, only I stuck to Tennessee’s own brand.” If the aisle wasn’t so damn wide, I would have reached over and smacked the smirk right off of Trace’s face.

Justin must sense my readiness to launch into a sermon about the women’s rights movement, as he swiftly interrupts me. “But then we came back to the states, and released the album here.”

“And it did great?”

He chews his lip thoughtfully. “Well…no, I guess it didn’t. But then we did this concert for Disney, and it exploded.”

“Would I recognize any of the songs.”

He pauses, titling his head back to think. “Well, what you like to refer to as the “God Song”, um…I Want You Back, maybe?”

“How did it go?”

He grins, before clearing his throat and delivering an embarrassingly loud rendition. “You’re all I ever wanted! You’re all I ever needed…”

“Yeah-eah!” Trace adds, his deafening adlib draw the attention of a few irritated passengers.

“Alright, alright!” I exclaim, blushing furiously at their public display. “That’s enough.”

Justin giggles. “Well, did you like it?”

“It was musical genius,” I mutter, still holding my head down in case anyone thinks I’m with these geeks. “Were you with Britney at this point?”

Justin’s eyes snap to mine in surprise. We’ve never talked about Britney, as I’ve never expressed any interest in her. My sudden curiosity is a little out of the blue. “Um…sort of. We started seeing each other when I was about seventeen or so. Maybe later.”

I nod. “I remember my sister freaking out when you and Britney came to this award show together. She thought you two were the most adorable couple.”

He bends his head to trace a pattern in the salt from the peanuts on his table. “We were, I suppose.”

Knowing I was getting into dangerous ground, I quickly pulled away from the Britney topic. “So, how many albums did you do with Nsync?”

“Three,” he answers. “But with the second one, we had a court battle with Lou because of financial issues, and--”

“Lou Pearlman?” He nods. “The guy that screwed over the Backstreet Boys?”

He frowns. “How do you know?” I shrug nonchalantly, sipping my no-caffeine Coke. “Were you a Backstreet…fan?” he asks quietly, with a hint of a smile on his face.

“No,” I deny hotly, returning my drink to the table with a bang. “I just liked one or two of their songs, that’s all. And I just happened to be interested in what was going on in their careers, for business purposes alone. It wasn‘t like I liked them.”

“Don’t worry Cat, so did I,” Trace says reassuringly. “I just couldn’t tell Justin. He still maintains that his hair is better than Nick Carter’s.”

Laughing, I turn back to Justin, who was looking not unlike his younger brother with his ridiculous pout. “Sorry. Proceed with your heart-wrenching tale of devastating youth exploitation.”

“Well, we were getting our asses sued for hundreds of millions,” at my gasp, he smiles. “But don’t worry, we won, and released No Strings Attached.”

“Which broke a ton of records by selling millions in the first week,” adds Trace.

“Really?”

Justin nods. “Yup. That was stuff like Bye Bye Bye--”

“So if they didn’t hear it the first time, you repeated it twice just to really get that message across?”

He ignores me. “This I Promise You…”

“Promise me what? That you won’t give me an STD?”

“Then we did Celebrity,” he finishes, throwing me an irritated glance.

“Oh yeah. I remember one of your videos. My sister taped its TRL premiere and played it over and over.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “I suppose I should prepare myself for another verbal bashing?”

“No! I actually liked it.” I protest. “I think it was…Gone? Something like that?” He nods. “I loved the way you went straight to the refrigerator for comfort. You’re my kinda guy.” My smile fades as I try to keep a straight face. “But that bitch left you out cold, man. No furniture, no food, no…shoes?”

Trace snorts as Justin smiles begrudgingly. “It was the director’s artistic touch to show how I was left with nothing.”

“Indeed. And what’s artistic about the way her ass fell out of her shorts when you two were frolicking in the meadow?”

He shrugs. “Well, that was a little touch of my own.” He dodges my slap and carries on. “Anyway, after Celebrity, I broke up with Britney and decided to do a solo album.”

“Why?”

He pauses to think about it. “I guess…I guess I just wanted to see if I could do it on my own. And plus, I wanted complete freedom on a record. To say exactly what I wanted to say.”

“And you hired our friends Chad and Pharrell,” I add, proud of my little tidbit of knowledge.

“Exactly,” he nods.

“Yeah, I remember that. Everyone went crazy when you did that scandalous video for Cry Me A River.” I send him a disapproving frown. “That was a little low of you.”

He nods mournfully. “I know. But it was a good video.”

“It was, just a little accusative.” Running my finger over the edge of my glass, I look at him carefully. “Is that actually what happened?”

“When?”

“When you and Britney broke up. Did she cheat on you?” I ask quietly, ready to retract my comment if he got upset or said it was none of my business.

He sighs, looking down at his fold-out table. “Well, yes, but it’s my fault we didn’t get back together. She made a mistake, and I was too pigheaded to forgive her for it.”

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, I turn away to meet Trace’s sad gaze, and it hits me how much this must have affected Justin. Knowing my sister and how she loves to keep abreast of all the latest celebrity news, she was probably right when she said they were the cutest couple. Put two gorgeous people together and you get an even better looking couple. They must have been great together.

Which brings me back to the faint, lingering point always in the back of my mind…what the hell is Justin doing with me after Britney? It would be like driving a Mercedes for four years and then suddenly being downgraded to a Volvo. Or having your local McDonalds shut down to be replaced by a health food shop.

“But you and I work a lot better than me and Britney did,” Justin says, interrupting my thoughts as he shifts in his seat.

My head snaps up. “Really?”

“Yeah, Britney didn’t have any of your fire,” Trace laughs. “You know when you and Justin argue, it’s like World War Three has erupted?” I nod sheepishly. “Well, with those two they had the piddliest of arguments, and then two minutes later it was, ‘love you baby’, and ‘no, no, you have better hair!’”

Justin laughs but quickly tries to scorn him. “We were not like that!”

Trace raises an eyebrow before putting headphones over his ears in a very, ‘whatever’ way.

“So that was your career in a nutshell?” I ask, placing my hand in Justin’s.

“No. He’s conveniently left out all the parts where he wore skin tight velour shirts and used bleach to achieve that natural, sun-kissed hair look,” says Trace over his music, loud enough to get the person in front of his to stop his typing and snort.

Justin blushes slightly, but acts as though he hadn’t heard him. “Yes, a very small nutshell. But we’ll find you a “Justin Timberlake’s whirlwind adventure of a life” program filling you in with the rest. You’ll just die when you see me at the beauty pageant.”

“I know. I can just envision the masculinity pouring off of you.”

“Shut up,” he prods me in the side, giving my hand a squeeze. “Oh! When we land, you’ll get to meet Tiny.”

“Tiny who? Tiny Tim?”

He smiles and brings my hand to his lips, giving it a quick kiss. “No, my security guard. I’m going to need him a lot more in New York.”

I make a face. “Is he going to be there all the time?”

“Pretty much,” he says apologetically. “But he’s really nice.”

“I’m sure he is,” I agree, yawning and resting my head on Justin’s shoulder.

“You tired, baby?” he asks, dropping a kiss on my forehead.

“Mm,” I mumble in response, snuggling up to him slightly.

Justin places another tiny kiss on my forehead, before very slowly pulling out a magazine and turning the pages at an agonizingly deliberate pace, so that the crackling won’t disturb me.

For a moment I debate whether I love him for being so sweet, or hate him for making me buy that caffeine-free crap. A normal, eight-spoonfuls-of-sugar-per-can of Coke would’ve boosted my energy sky-high.

Feeling his warm touch lifting my head to insert a pillow between the stuffed leather seat and myself before smoothing my hair away from my face, I decide on the former.

--------------------------------------------------

“Cat…Cat, wake up.”

My eyes sluggishly agree to open, squinting when the overhead lights blind them. “Are we there yet?” I ask groggily, rubbing my eyes as Justin smiles at me.

“Yes, we’re here.”

Stretching, I buckle my seatbelt and hear a monotonous voice announcing we are “preparing for landing”. My bleary focus adjusts to the light and I peak out of Justin’s window, still only seeing the fluffy white clouds obstructing my view of the city. Justin let out a small chuckle at my eagerness before leaning back in his seat. The plane dipped, causing my stomach to have that strange empty feeling, like the one you get one roller coasters where you’re at the very peak before you hurtle down a vertical drop.

My hand slips into Justin’s and I absentmindedly look over at Trace, who suddenly looks a lot more scared than he did when we took off. Was it perhaps wrong of me to describe exactly what speed the plane would hit the ground at?

“Hey,” I give Justin’s hand a nudge, attracting his attention.

“Hi.”

“You know I was just kidding before, right? When I was making fun of the stuff you’ve done?”

“Everything I’ve done,” he inserts, smiling. “You’ll have a field day if you hear the first album.”

I grin sheepishly. “But seriously, I am really proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he replies, kissing me quickly as the airplane hit’s the tarmac with a slight bump. His lip part to reveal a perfect set of straight white teeth as he smiles. “We’re here.”

I sigh. “Yep, we are.”

As we stepped down from the plane, Justin began frantically waving at someone. I looked in the direction his chaotic arm gestures seemed to be pointed to, to see a large black man smirking at Justin. He couldn’t have been less than 300 pounds, and yet didn’t look so much fat as…firm. His shaved head made him almost look like a convict out on parole, and his black shirt and pants did nothing to suggest anything other than murderous thoughts running through his head.

“Tiny!” Justin shouts, jogging across the asphalt the greet the man. Trace hangs back with me, placing a hand on my back to urge me forward.

I don’t want to go near that man. He could snap me in two. He’s like a big…block.

“Hey Trace,” his deep voice greets as he slaps Trace on the back.

“What’s up, Tiny?” says Trace, his short stocky figure dominated by “Tiny”’s.

“This is Cat,” says Justin, pointing towards me.

I shrink back timidly. What if he suddenly lashes out and kills me? “Hi,” I whisper.

“Hi,” he says happily. “Nice to meet you.”

“Mmmm…” I trail off uncertainly. “So…you’re Justin’s bodyguard?”

“Yup, I’ve been protecting his scrawny ass for years.”

I let out an unsure laugh. “Great.”

“Okay, I got a car for you guys parked out in the front,” he begins seriously, his face set into a frown. “We’d better get going before the paparazzi come.”

I can’t help but giggle nervously. “This all sounds very co-vert op.”

I don’t get the round of laughs I expected. “If the press see Justin, they’ll freak. If they see Justin with a girl…” Trace, Justin and Tiny shudder visibly. “Chaos,” Tiny finishes.

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow in doubt.

“You have no idea,” says Tiny, beginning to take brisk strides towards the car park.

“What about our luggage?” I ask.

“Someone will pick it up for us,” Trace waves off nonchalantly, following Tiny.

“Can’t we do it ourselves?”

“We could,” Justin shrugs. “But my people will do it.”

I stop in my tracks and let my mouth drop open in shock. “Your ‘people’?”

He rolls his eyes and grasps my elbow. “Come on, Cat. This place will be crawling with photogs in half an hour.”

“Can’t I at least get a bottle of water?” I ask, pointing towards the airport.

Tiny lets out a groan. Great, he likes me already. “Be back in fifteen minutes,” he orders.

I was tempted to make a smart remark about how it was “affirmative, commander”, but considering one of his hands is the size of my head, I quickly turned around and scurried into the airport. I wove in and out of the bustling crowd, darting into the nearest shop I could to get something to drink.

I pick up a bottle of water and waited in the queue behind an old man who took the liberty of paying in the smallest change possible. I tap my foot impatiently, thinking about Tiny’s various ways of wrath. Suddenly, a tug on my arm causes me to turn around, expecting to see Trace asking me to buy him some peanuts.

To my surprise, a girl of about fifteen was staring at me intently. “Can I help you?” I ask hesitantly.

“Hi,” she says nervously, peering at me curiously. “I’m Samantha, I’m here on holiday with my family,” she waves behind her towards a man and a woman trying to calm a screaming child. “And I was looking out of the window, and I think I saw you.”

What a weird girl. “Really.” I reply as more of a bored statement. “Is there anything I could do for you?”

“Um...this is going to sound a little freaky,” I haven’t heard that word in a while, “but where you with Justin Timberlake?”

“Yes,” I answer immediately, before realizing broadcasting I was with “The Justin Timberlake” was not the best of ideas. “I mean, um…no.” I am a genius. Give me a Nobel Prize.

“You were, weren’t you!” she exclaims. “See, I heard he was working on another album in New York, but--”

“How the hell did you find that out?” I blurt rudely.

She shrugs. “The internet.”

This must be the most surreal experience of my life. “Well, um…yeah…” Again, I deliver another brilliantly witty piece of banter, and try to turn away, feeling awkward. “Are you a fan?”

She nod. “I love his music.”

“Well, he loves his fans,” I say in the happiest voice I can muster.

“Are you his girlfriend?” she asks, gripping my arm intently.

“Erm…” my eyes glance towards the blonde-haired cashier as he scans my water. “No, no I’m not. I’m his…personal assistant.”

“Is that water for him?!” she exclaims, pointing towards the bottle excitedly.

“Um…yeah, sure.”

“So is Trace still his PA too?”

It took me a moment to understand what a PA was, but I nodded. “Yeah, but he can always use…a helping hand.” God, someone slit my throat before I start talking even more crap.

“Well, it was so cool to meet you,” she says, grinning at me.

“Likewise,” I reply, trying to smile.

“Thanks a lot, bye!” She waves over her shoulder, before running out of the shop and back to her parents, leaving me stunned.

Did that just happen? It was the strangest encounter I’ve ever had with someone, and I’m friends with Trace Ayala for goodness sake.

“She’s one of the good ones,” a rumble of a voice interrupts my thoughts.

My head snaps up to see Tiny standing before me, arms crossed protectively over his chest as he smiles. “You’ll get worse, trust me.”

“That was just…odd,” I complain, leaving the shop with a somewhat dazed expression on my face.

Tiny shrugs. “Hate to say it to you Cat, but it’s something you’ll have to grow to expect.”

“Really?” I ask, unscrewing the lid off of my bottle.

“Yep,” he nods, holding open the door for me. “Most of them are okay, but--”

All of a sudden a bright white flash seared through my vision, making me step back in surprise. My sight blurs momentarily, before I see a man in a white t-shirt and baggy green pants standing in front of me, his face hidden by an obtrusive black camera.

“Who the hell are you?” I demand, rubbing my eyes from the flash.

He doesn’t reply, but instead takes another picture of me. Tiny lets out an angry groan and moves himself in front of me, his overpowering physique obscuring mine from sight.

“Let’s go, Cat,” he says gruffly, pulling on my elbow and speeding towards the car.

I bite back the “What’s going on?” and follow him, bending my head to hide my face from the guy with the camera. Tiny leads me to a black Escalade, just like Justin’s back home, and quickly shoves me into it, trying his hardest to stay in front of me at all times. I crawl into the car, only feeling safe when I slam the door shut and put a protective blacked out window between myself and the man.

“Cat, what’s wrong?” says Justin, putting his hand on my knee. “You’re shaking.”

The car tilts under Tiny’s weight as he throws himself into the front seat, before bringing his door to a crashing close.

“Fucking photographer,” he mutters under his breath, hastily jabbing his key into the starter, missing a few times in his hurry.

Justin frowns, glancing out of the window where the man is doing some sort of crazy dance around the car in an attempt to get a picture through the windows. “Fuck,” he mumbles, leaning forward until his head touches his knees. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

My eyes dart between him and Trace, who starts to chew his lip nervously. “Was that a paparazzi?”

Tiny and Justin don’t respond, but Trace nods solemnly. “Get used to it, Cat.”

The car speeds off, leaving tire marks in the airport parking lot, before getting on the main road and racing away at a surely illegal speed.

And I realize with a jolt, that I don’t want to get used to it.

It’s as though everything in the world is just trying to piss me off. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and an particularly chirpy song by Aaron Carter seems to have been on the radio for at least ten minutes.

I thought things were supposed to match my mood. The sky should be overcast with dark, gray clouds ready to unleash a horrific storm, the birds should have flown away to escape the wrath of the downpour, and gloomy classical music should be droning on in the background. That’s how it always is in the movies. But of course, the day couldn’t be brighter. Nor could the tension in the car thicker.

Trace looks at Cat, Cat looks at me, I look out of the window blankly. Cat looks at Trace, Trace looks at me, I look out of the window blankly. Trace looks at Cat--well yes, you get the idea. The uneasy silence in the car has grown thicker by the second as Tiny swerved the car out of the airport’s parking lot and onto the road, taking a series of razor-sharp turns and speeding quite a bit until there was no sign of any goddamn, mother fucker, paparazzi.

So it’s begun. The moment my foot touched the ground, someone tipped some idiot with a camera off, and they got a picture of Cat. What makes it worse is it wasn’t even me that they caught, it was a girlfriend the world is utterly oblivious to, who in addition, has no idea how to deal with a photographer. I can only pray Tiny got there on time before the creep got any good pictures. As much as I’m sure Cat would just love to have her name slandered in a new city, I can appreciate it might make the situation a little more difficult.

I’m just so pissed off. It makes everything I promised Cat about the press not being that bad and keeping her out of the headlines, her welcome committee to New York had a camera strapped to his face. She couldn’t have had a worse introduction to this new part of our life. She was petrified when she came back into the car; I thought she’d been mugged or something.

She doesn’t look so much sad as nervous now, as her and Trace involve themselves in an intricate eye dance without ever bringing their eyes into direct contact. They seem to be aware that with my less than chipper mood simmering on the horizon, speaking to me is never a good idea. It is most likely I’ll explode at the poor person who attempted contact with me, and go into a three hour sulk with them.

Cat clears her throat nervously, clearly revving up her courage to speak. “Look, the Chrysler building.”

Trace gives a “hmm,”, Tiny nods, I grunt in response and continue to stare blankly out of the window, counting how many tourists are holding cameras. Wouldn’t it be really funny if all the camera spontaneously combusted?

Cat continues, apparently unperturbed by the unenthusiastic response. “The Chrysler building is three hundred and nineteen meters of steel and brick, with seventy seven stories to it. It was the tallest building in the world for a few months in 1930, before it was surpassed by The Empire State Building, which was two hundred and four feet taller.”

My head slowly turns to Cat, torn between disbelief at her disturbingly wide knowledge of New York structural design and the temptation to just kiss her senseless for being so adorable.

“How do you spell Chrysler?” asks Trace, peering out of his window at the building looming over us, squinting at the sun’s rays.

“C-H-R--”

“I was kidding,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes at her.

“Oh,” she slumps back into her seat as silence envelops the car again. “Hey,” she begins again, straightening up, “did you know that The Chrysler Building is considered one of New York’s finest displays of Art Deco, because of its sharp angular design?” I shrug halfheartedly. “Well, the spire at the top was probably there solely for the purpose of making it taller than the Bank of Manhattan’s skyscraper, so originally--”

“Cat!” I interrupt loudly, halting her flow of architectural riddles. “It’s a wonder. We get it.”

“Don’t act like some premenstrual bitch with me, Justin,” she snaps.

“I’m just not prepared to spend the next ten minutes listening to list of facts about some stupid building that barely even serves a purpose.”

“No, you’re just not prepared to do anything except brood in a little funk for a while, and then make pissy remarks at me.” She looks at me for a moment, casting a critical gaze over my frown. “It’s not as though I was the one boogieing around the car trying to get a photo.”

“I’m not angry with you. I’m just not in the best of moods.”

“And why are you taking that out on the rest of us?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest defiantly.

I sigh and rub my head vigorously, trying to pull myself from my grumpy disposition. “I’m sorry, but that wasn’t the best welcome.”

“So?” she shrugs. “I’m over it, and so should you be.”

“You’re not in the slightest bit irritated?”

“Of course I am. I was just thinking about how hellish it’s going to be ‘getting used to it’, as Trace put it. But I’m mature enough to realize I will find a while to deal with it,” she shrugs.

“Well having to ‘deal with it’ for ten years makes it somewhat tiresome eventually!” I retort, regretting the words even as they left my mouth. “Excuse me for not saluting the paparazzi like old friends.”

“There’s no need to dramatize this, Justin. You’re acting like a temperamental teenager,” she says, her words become more calm and thoughtful as mine get increasingly more hysterical and frantic.

“But I thought you’d be furious. This is the one thing you said you were worried about, remember? ‘Justin, I don’t want to deal with a bunch of unwashed forty year olds clamoring to get a highly unattractive picture of me’,” I impersonate in a falsetto voice, trying to capture Cat’s pitch.

She chews on her lips, biting back a smile. Trace lets out a snort beside her, and she finally cracks and giggles, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound.

“It’s not funny!” I exclaim, smashing my fist on the cream leather exterior. “You did say that!”

“I know, I know,” she says breathlessly, still laughing slightly. “But you sounded incredibly funny there. That high little voice over yours was just reaching whole new levels!”

I roll my eyes and push my back into the seat, crossing my arms over my chest. I hate it when people laugh at me, it always makes me feel stupid. Especially when it’s Cat and Trace ganging up on me.

“Oh Justin, I’m sorry. Things just got far too serious there,” Cat says, reaching over to pat my knee. “We were arguing over nothing. Let’s just forget about it.”

“But I’m pissed, Cat!” I complain, shaking my head at the bright yellow taxi beside us.

“I know. Your pout really does leave little to the imagination.” I open my mouth to reply, but she swiftly continues. “Justin, why are we letting one tiny photographer ruin our first day here, huh? I’m in a big city for the first time in at least a year. I don’t want to dwell on something as ridiculous as this.”

I begrudgingly nod, and take Cat’s hand in my own. I let out a small chuckle. “Your hands are tiny.”

She scrunches up her nose the way she always does when she doesn’t like something. “I know. It sort of look like a scarecrow where they ran out of material for my hands because they put so much of it on my thighs.”

I roll my eyes and tap her leg, still examining her hands. “Your thighs are just fine.”

“No, seriously, I think one’s bigger than the other!” she exclaims, pulling her pants tightly so that I can see the apparent difference in size. “See?”

“Cat, they’re exactly the same. And anyway, I spent half of my time in between those thighs, don’t you think I’d notice if they were different sizes?”

A deep red blush creeps into Cat’s cheeks as her mouth drops open in shock. My mood immediately notches up to relatively happy at her embarrassed reaction as Trace recoils in his seat.

“Oh yeah, thanks for that Justin. That mental image was just beautifully…vivid.”

Tiny lets out a throaty chuckle from the front seat and suddenly overtakes the tiny car in front of us, making a Mexican wave of movement as the seatbelts try to keep us in our seats despite the swerve. Apart from Cat’s rigid figure, which remains stationary as she continues to stare at me in shock.

“I cannot believe you just said that,” she says, slowly sinking back into her seat as Trace casts an amused eye over her.

“You know it’s true,” I tease, “so you can put those eyeballs back in their sockets. You know, you haven’t looked this shocked since we were browsing through AP and I suggested that I fu--”

The moment she realizes which certain lingerie shop ‘AP’ stands for, her hand flies over my mouth, clearly remembering that lovely shopping trip just a few months ago and exactly how I was going to finish that sentence.

“Stop right there,” she says, her tiny fingers tightly clamped over my mouth as her blush deepens. “Hey-guess-what-I-met-a-fan-of-yours,” she says quickly, clutching at straws to change the direction of the conversation.

“A fan?” I question, tugging her hand from my mouth after giving her palm the slightest bite.

She nods, scowling as she rubs at her hand. “Yup. Called Samantha.”

“How did she know you had anything to do with me?”

She shrugs. “She said something about seeing me out of the window.”

I smirk and recline in my seat. “Did she gauge your eyes out? Pull your hair? Insult you with a procession of unflattering remarks?”

“Oh no, of course not,” Cat shakes her head. “She was really nice. Actually,” she frowns, looking slightly guilty, “I was the one not being very nice.”

“What did you say?”

“Well I thought she was just some random girl coming up to me, and then she started talking about you and she said she knew you were in New York--”

“How on earth did she know that?” I ask incredulously.

“Exactly!” Cat exclaims. “Anyway,” she shrugs, “I was just saying the first thing that came to my head. I admitted I was with you before I even thought about it, but then had sense enough to say I wasn’t your girlfriend.”

“What did you say?”

She blushes sheepishly. “That I was your personal assistant.”

I laugh, the very thought of Cat catering to my every whim just seeming so preposterous in a ‘never going to happen’ way. I can’t even ask for a glass of milk without Cat telling me she won’t give up her independence for me. “I wish,” I snort, unbuckling my seatbelt.

She smiles and shrugs. “Well, I feel sort of guilty now. I mean, I wasn’t so much rude as just…not welcoming. Do you think she hates me?” she asks, biting her lip nervously.

I hop out of the car and hold out my hand to help her out. “No, of course not. She probably just thinks you’re a bit of a bitch.”

“Really?” she whines in an upset tone, taking my hand and gracefully stepping out of the car.

“Of course not,” I shake my head, smiling at her. I place a kiss on her head. “Hey, what shampoo did you use today?”

She runs a hand through her hair self-consciously. “I don’t remember. Why?”

I press my nose to her head again. “You smell of strawberries today. You normally smell of coconuts.” I shrug and steal a quick kiss. “It’s nice.”

She smiles coyly and opens her mouth to say something, but is swiftly cut of by a, “Jesus Christ Justin, you’re so gay!”

Trace jumps out of the car and smirks at both of us. I was about to retort with a fiery comment about his height, but Tiny got out of the car and turned to us, his frown telling us he was not interested in our verbal bashings.

“Okay, I’m going to tell Johnny you’ve arrived and then I got a few errands to run. Justin,” his stern gaze settles on me. “If you plan to go out, even for a walk, call me. Trace, don’t let his white ass think he can go gallivanting around the city with no form of protection. Cat, don’t let him entice you into taking a stroll into Central Park. You’ll be crucified.”

I don’t miss the amusement flashing in his eyes as Cat gasps and instinctively grips onto my hand a little tighter. I simply roll my eyes. “Already beginning with the dramatics, Tiny?” I turn to Cat. “He’s just kidding.”

“I’m not. And let’s not forget I can kick your ass, so just watch what you say white boy,” Tiny smirks, before getting back into the car. “Nice to meet you Cat, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few months,” he calls through the open window.

Cat nods and lets out a timid, “Good to meet you too.”

Tiny gives us a wave and drives off, and I give her hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry about him. He loves to tease people who are intimidated by him.”

“How can I not be intimidated? He’s huge,” Cat complains, turning the building. “And so is this.”

The towering apartment block looms over our rather pathetic looking figures with its colossal stature. It’s the same as every other uptown place in New York; ridiculously expensive and simply there for showing off purposes alone. I tug on Cat’s hand, pulling her towards the building. I nod at the vaguely recognizable doorman who graciously opens the door and greets us with a, “Sirs, Madam,” before entering the foyer.

Cat’s heels tap on the rigorously polished marble floor, and the varnished mahogany on the walls literally winks at us as the sun hits it. Upkeep in this place is tip top.

Stepping into the elevator, Trace pressed the button for our floor and we hurtle towards the top floor. “Justin bought the penthouse,” Trace explains to Cat, who was staring wide eyed at the number of buttons on the keyboard.

“Thank god there’s an elevator, then,” she mutters. “There was not way I’d drag myself up and down twenty stories worth of staircases every day.”

We slowly crawl to my floor, and the doors open. I happily pull Cat along to my door, fumble with the keys for a moment, before holding the door open for her and letting her in.

As emotionless as Cat can sometimes appear to be, she certainly does react to things interestingly. If you show her something truly amazing, she’ll shrug and call it cliché. If you show her something truly mundane and boring, she’ll rant on about how amazing it is. And, of course, it you talk about her sex life she goes as red as traffic light and threatens to kill you.

She steps into the apartment, her eyes darting in different directions as she gets used to her surroundings. The house in Tennessee was slightly routine and vaguely lacking in personality; yes, yes, my mother decorated it. Perhaps it wasn’t my most masculine moment, but I was eighteen or something, interior design meant as much as spoons to me.

However, the place in New York is one of my homes I actually took great time and aggravation decorating. I was going through an ever so slightly cocky, ‘I’m young and hot and sleeping with everyone’ phase at the time, so traces of a typical bachelor pad can be found in the black leather of the living room couches or the glazed worktops in the kitchen. As time progressed and I calmed down a bit, it’s a little softer around the edges, with rugs and pictures of my family dotted around the house.

“Justin, this is wonderful!” Cat exclaims, going into the kitchen and running her hands over the counters. “This looks just like an episode of Cribs!”

I laugh and wrap my arms around her waist, giving her a little hug. “I’m glad you like it, babe.”

“Because I love these faucets so much, I’ll let you off for that Freudian slip,” she says, grinning as she turns on the faucet to let a jet of water stream out.

I chuckle and place a kiss on her shoulder. “You’ll like my bedroom.”

“Where is it?” she asks, looking around. I point a finger upwards. “There are two floors?” she exclaims, grinning.

I nod, laughing at her enthusiasm. The normally so cool, calm Cat is actually a complete nerd. “Yup. The bedrooms, music room and another TV room are up there.”

She squeals and runs off in search of the staircase, and Trace and I hear her footsteps above our heads a moment later.

“She’s easily pleased,” he comments, laughing at the various squeals of enthusiasm. “It’s good to see her happy again. She’s been a bit rundown these past few days.”

“I know,” I reply, leaning against the counter. “I think we’re going to be okay here. Even with all the drama we’ve had leading up to it.”

“I hope so,” Trace says, hopping onto the worktop. “She dealt quite well with that camera guy.”

I frown, thinking back to the airport. “I suppose she didn’t run off screaming, which is a good sign,” I comment. “But she was shaken up.”

He shrugs. “She’ll get used to it. She was too busy worrying about your grumpy ass to be pissed off about it.”

“Oh my god…look at this closet space!” a cry from upstairs floats downstairs into the kitchen.

I smile and nod. “That’s my Cat. Always putting other people before herself.”

“That’s true. But…” he trails off and sighs. “Unfortunately, you’re being gay again.”

“Shut up,” I retort, reaching out to punch his arm.

“Justin, you didn’t tell me you had a TV that came out of the freaking ceiling!” calls out Cat, before she rushes into the kitchen. “It’s like being in an episode of Star Trek!” she says, leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen, breathing quickly from running about.

“Cat,” I laugh, “you do realize you’re acting like a teenager, right?”

She grins and nods. “I think it was that caffeine-free coke. It’s made me go crazy from lack of sugar.”

“Here you go, Cat,” says Trace, pulling out a packet of peanuts from his pocket. “Stock up on salt instead.”

She takes the bag from him and opens it up, quickly putting a few nuts into her mouth. “Think of all the places we can go…Central Park, Times Square, Knicks Games…”

“And we’re in the same city that Friends was based in.”

“Exactly,” she agrees, putting the peanuts down.

“Oh, and on Friday I’m meeting my new producer. Want to come with me?”

“Sure. Who is it?”

I shrug. “This relatively unheard of woman that Johnny says is amazing. She used to be a model, but now she’s in music.”

An uncertain look passes over Cat’s face at the word ‘model’, but she doesn’t say anything. “What’s her name?”

“Amber Sunflower.”

Cat snorts slightly. “She sounds delightful. I can’t wait to meet the inspiration of Van Gogh.”

“What?” say Trace and I in unison, frowning at Cat.

“You know, sunflower…as in his most famous painting? And her name…never mind,” she waves off. She checks her watch. “So, what are we going to do for the rest of the day?”

“Well, we’re pretty much stuck without Tiny, so we’ll have to amuse ourselves here.”

“Great!” she exclaims, grabbing our hands. “Me or Trace can go out and get a pizza, we can put in a good film, and christen the new super-cool TV that, oh my god, comes out of the ceiling!” she says happily, rushing off into the living room.

“Seriously, something must be very wrong for her to act this happy,” remarks Trace, clambering off the counter and leafing through a drawer for the pizza place’s flyer.

I shrug. “I think she’s just keyed up from being in a new place. It does make a refreshing difference to the cynicism though.”

Trace laughs. “Oh don’t get too comfy, that’ll be back as soon as she meets that producer of yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“Justin, a model? She’s going to freak out.”

“No she won’t,” I scoff, shaking my head at him. “Cat’s totally cool about that kind of thing. And for all we know, Amber could just be one of those elongated, stick thin models that aren‘t really pretty after all. She’ll be fine.”

He raises an eyebrow and lifts the phone from wall to punch in the number. “We’ll see.”

I shake my head at him and open a drawer in search of my hidden stash of Twinkies. And Trace calls Cat the pessimistic one.

So far, bar the airport incident, New York has treated us pretty well. Me and Cat have nothing to worry about.

Today’s going to be a bad day.

I was sleeping quite peacefully in the adorably soft white sheets which honestly feel like I was reclining on a cloud, when I was woken up by this odd…scraping sound. Justin and Trace were trying to make omelet (“for me”, apparently, but I have little doubt in my mind that was a pathetic attempt to get on the better of my worse sides) and it went horrifically wrong. I didn’t even know where to start with the coating of charcoal on the base of the pan, so I left the washing up with them to go and get some much needed hot chocolate.

I always feel cool when I go into Starbucks. Everyone is so busy and wrapped up in their own schedule, but they unknowingly look really trendy as they read the paper whilst sipping away at a caramel frappuccino or an iced Expresso. All you need is one of those little cartons in your hand and you’re definitely “with it”.

I got a weird concoction of ice and chocolate topped with whipped cream and was just debating whether I should be nice and go back into the store to get Trace and Justin some coffee (and one of those ridiculously large chocolate chunk cookies), when one of those infernal, omnipresent yellow taxis whizzed past me and positively drenched me in last night’s rainwater. I stood there in shock for a moment, feeling the murky brown water seep through my relatively thin shirt, before turning around and seeing a homeless person on the side of the street laughing his ass off at my expense.

So I decided my large chocolate chunk cookie and I would have to be united another time and headed off home; not after missing a round of catcalls from a group of teenaged boys hanging outside the record shop because my black bra was clearly visible through the soaking material of my shirt. I was going to turn around and tell them exactly how long it was going to be before they got laid, but I took the high road and scuttled back to Justin’s space age apartment.

Justin and Trace…what a pair. They certainly do know the right buttons to push when you’re just incredibly pissed off. Imagine being utterly humiliated in front of half of New York, and then coming home to this:

“Hey, baby. Whoa…what happened to you?” (Insert appropriately horrified expression--as though I had grown an extra head.)

“Cat, you trying to earn a few extra bucks or something?” snorted Trace, his eyes taking a gander down my saturated front and raising an eyebrow at my clearly visible cleavage.

“Shut up,” I retorted, thrusting my drink into Justin’s hand and stomping up the stairs to soak my top; the last thing I need right now is a huge stain saying ‘I’m the kind of idiot that stands too close to the road’ on my favorite shirt.

“Oh, is this for me?” he asked, already sipping at the melting ice. “Do I have to pay extra?” he called up the stairs.

“Shut up!” I repeated, peeling the cold material away from my skin. “I’m really not in the moods for prostitute jokes.”

Justin’s heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs until he was at our bedroom door, grinning. “Baby, why am I getting the feeling you’re pissed off?”

“Why? Oh, I don’t know why, Justin. Perhaps it’s because you and Trace woke me up at a ridiculous hour this morning--”

“Eight thirty, sweetheart. It’s not that bad.”

“And then I got pissed on by some fucking neon cab, so everyone from here to 59th Street now knows my preferred bra choice!” I snapped, heading into Justin’s bathroom and picking one of the three handles to turn, but no water came out. “And now I can’t even turn on the fucking shower!”

He snorted, but quickly stifled his laugh at my thunderous glare. “Here,” he said, twisting on of the handles and causing a spurt of lukewarm water to pour from the showerhead. He kissed the top of my head. “There you go, baby.”

I pouted. “You’re not supposed to be nice to me when I’m being a bitch.”

“If I was like that every time you were a bitch, how successful do you think this relationship would be?”

He dodged the swat I very carefully aimed at his head and grinned as he shut the door. I stood under the water and felt a little of the muscle tension in my shoulders ease up. It’s terrible to be so wound up at nine thirty two in the morning.

I was feeling relatively relaxed until I got shampoo in my eye and had to have Justin assure me I hadn’t poisoned my blood stream with Pantene Pro-V’s Smooth & Sleek. Hey, it could happen.

So, as I was saying…today is going to be a bad day. It’s a well known fact that the first few hours of your day can be a premonition of whether it’s ultimately going to be one of those “I hate the world and it hates me” days or “Wow, I can fit into those jeans…isn’t life wonderful?” days.

Dressed in my second outfit of the day, I plod down the stairs at an alarming slow rate, my footsteps landing heavily on each step. I drag my feet into the living room to see Justin muttering away on the phone in the corner and Trace watching TV, looking incredibly bored.

“Hey Catherine,” he says.

“Hey…Juan,” I reply, throwing myself down into the plush depths of the sofa.

“How’s your eye?”

“Sore,” I reply, rubbing the red skin for the fifteenth time in the last five minutes. “I think I’ve done permanent damage.”

Justin comes to sit next to me on the couch smacks my hand away from my eyes, frowning at me in disapprovingly.

“Alright…no, that’s fine Amber…sure, okay, bye.” He snaps his phone shut and quickly delves into his reprimanding. “Don’t rub it, you’ll make it worse. And you’ve not done permanent damage,” he snorts.

“I think I have. Look,” I point to my pupil frantically. “That’s not supposed to be that color.”

He rolls his eyes and reluctantly looks in the direction of my finger. His annoyed expression quickly fades into a frown and he peers at me curiously. “Oh yeah…oh my god, Cat. Maybe we should get you to a hospital,” he says.

“What?” I reply in shock, blinking rapidly. “Is it that bad?”

“Oh my poor baby,” says Justin, gently touching the skin around my eye with his thumb. “I hope you don’t lose your sight.”

“What?!” I repeat in terror, feeling my stomach knot up. “Am I going to lose my sight?”

It takes one moment for me to spy the undertakings of a smile playing on his lips, before it erupts into a full on grin and I hit him with a cushion.

“You asshole!”

“You’re such a prima donna, do you know that?” he giggles, holding up his hands to fend off my strikes.

“And you’re such an unbearable idiot, do you know that?” I mock, unable to keep the smile from my face as I throw my weapon to the side and sulk on the couch with my arms folded.

He taps at my arms until I lift them up and he can rest his head on my lap. “I know. It’s an endearing quality.”

“Yeah, like herpes,” I retort, before seeing his pout. I let out a little grin and run a finger through his hair. “So, was that the stick thin vegetation on the phone?”

He grins and tries to bite my wrist. “I take it you mean Miss Suflower and yes. We gotta go meet her at the studio today.”

“Oh do we?” I counter, wrapping a lock of wet brown hair around my finger absentmindedly. “Did she sound nice?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, she sounded alright.”

“Are you looking forward to it?”

He grins. “Definitely. It’s been far too long since I’ve felt those cans covering my ears, and the--”

“Sorry, the what covering your ears?”

“The cans. It’s what we of the musically gifted call headphones,” he smirks, receiving a swift eye roll from me. “But yeah, it should be fun,” he yawns, stretching out on the couch. “We’re recording at Electric Lady Studios.”

Is that name supposed to mean something to me? “Really? That’s…nice.”

He smirks and looks up at me from his position in my lap. “It’s the place Jimi Hendrix recorded in. It’s pretty dope.”

My fingers stop running through Justin’s hair and I frown. “I’m sorry, it’s pretty…what?”

“Dope.”

“Dope? As in cool?”

“Cat, no one uses cool anymore,” Justin says in a over the top, diva manner, poking me in the stomach. “Everything has to be “the shit” or “dope”.”

“Sorry,” I smile. “I guess I’m just not up-to-date in the lingo of hip pop stars.”

He smiles and closes his eyes, patting my leg. “That’s okay, my Cat.”

My heart melts at ‘my Cat’ and I continue to fondle with the tiny, soft curls sprouting from his head. As much as I hate those ridiculous Hallmark moments that couples have, I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else except on the sofa, my wet hair dripping down my back, with Justin’s head on my lap as I stroke his hair. Perhaps today won’t turn out so bad after all.

-----------------------------------------------------------

“So they actually grabbed his crotch?” says Cat through a throng of giggles, barely able to process the words through her laughing mouth.

“Oh yeah, they went straight in for it,” laughs Tiny, easing the car round a corner.

“Justin was practically crying like a little girl,” adds Trace, lowering his magazine to insert his commended opinion into my degrading story of humiliation. “‘I’ve been molested! I’ve been molested!’ he screamed!” Trace snorts, bringing his pitch to an earsplitting high tone, impersonating me. If I wasn’t such a good citizen, his life would have come to a bloody end long ago.

“Well I was!” I complain, placing a hand protectively over my groin. “That girl was going after the Crown Jewels, man. I don’t let just anyone near those babies.”

“Oh my god, Justin, you’re so protective,” laughs Cat, shaking her head as she sips at a replacement frappuccino from Starbucks. “I’m sure it was just a bit of fun.”

“Cat, if Trace leaned over and put his hands on your boobs, what would you do?”

“Justin, I don’t have ‘boobs’, I have breasts,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I’m sorry, was there an offer for me to squeeze Cat’s boobs in there?” asks Trace, lowering his magazine and reentering the conversation.

“Breasts, Trace, breasts!” Cat corrects exasperatedly.

He waves his hand. “Yeah yeah, whatever…so if I call them breasts do I get to squeeze ’em then?”

“No,” I interject harshly. “No one squeezes Cat’s boobs except me.”

“I’m going to put aside my extreme sorrow that this conversation is even taking place for a moment to just say last time I checked, these breasts where my own,” Cat argues, pointing towards her chest and frowning jokingly.

“Well, you were wrong,” I reply firmly. “In fact, you should really get some sort of tattoos on those babies…you know, like ‘Justin’s Property’ or ‘No Touchy-Touchy…Unless You’re Justin Timberlake, In Which Case Go Ahead’. It would be a great way to let people know whether they could cop a feel, or whether they should keep their distance, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re insane,” she says frankly, unbuckling her seatbelt and raising an eyebrow at me.

Cat thanks Tiny as he opens the door for us, and Trace and I quickly follow her out of the Escalade that has become the official vehicle to shepherd us around New York in. I remember the first time I came to New York with the guys and we were escorted around the city in a tiny Honda. As much fun as it was having Chris on my lap for three months, I’m more than happy with the upgrade.

“Oh crap,” whines Cat, glancing into the tinted window of the car. “I look awful,” she says, ruffling her hair with her hand and pouting at her reflection.

“No you don’t,” I assure her, wrapping my arms around her mid-section and resting my chin on her shoulder. “You look great.”

She smiles. “You’re like a boyfriend robot filled with appreciative comments and special programming about the right times to say them.”

I laugh and kiss her neck. “And you’re like a complete nerd who always seems to draw parallels between me and things that are smarter than myself.”

“I’m not a nerd,” she protests, slapping my cheek very gently and increasing her pout.

“Sure you are,” I reply, grasping her hand and pulling her away from her self-critical staring competition with the car window. “Remember when Trace messed up your sock drawer?”

“Hey, that was completely justified, okay? He put all my pantyhose in with my socks!” she exclaims, as though it was a federal offence.

“So?” murmurs Trace, opening the door to Electric Lady Studios. “I swear Cutie, that is the last time I do any washing for you.”

“Well, nevertheless, I wish your nerdy girlfriend would have had enough sense to do something with my hair today,” she complains again, stopping to run a hand through her hair once more as she catches sight of her image in the glass doors leading into the studio.

“Come on Cat,” I groan, tugging on her hand and pulling her into the building. “Quit using every reflective surface as a mirror and just hurry up!”

She rolls her eyes and falls in step behind me, grumbling a few choice phrases about me under her breath as we walk through the studio. Her grumbling slowly falters off and when I stole a sneaky glance of her out of the corner of my eyes, I saw her wide eyed gaze darting into the corner of the studio, drinking in her surroundings. She looks neither impressed or disappointed, she’s just…examining.

“Do you like it?” I ask, squeezing her hand slightly and snapping her out of her reverie as Tiny approaches the desk to confirm which studio I’m in.

Her eyes take another gander around the 60s themed building, taking in its dark purple and red velour décor. Finally, she nods. “It’s…dope.”

Laughing, I bend down to brush my lips against hers, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I prefer your hair like that, you know,” I point out, as Tiny and Trace head towards Studio A.

“What, frizzy?” she says, grabbing a strand of brown hair and pulling it before her eyes.

“No, curly,” I reply, pulling her closer to me and slipping an arm around her waist.

“Justin, this isn’t curly. And it’s not straight either, it’s just…blah.”

“Ooh, what an excellent addition to the Webster’s Dictionary--blah.”

“Shut up,” she huffs, contradicting her irritated tone by reciprocating my actions and putting her hand around my waist affectionately. “I’m just having a ‘blah’ day, alright? Look, I think I’ve gained weight,” she says as we step into the elevator and she pinches at her hips.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter, rolling my eyes and looking away. “You don’t look any different at all. Actually…” I lift up my shirt and pat the abs in my stomach. “I think it’s about time I called my trainer and had him put me back on an exercise regime.”

Cat laughs and shakes her head in despair. “Why on earth would you, the only person in the world who doesn’t have fat on their legs, need to have a trainer?”

“I think I’m losing muscle definition,” I whimper, tracing my not-as-evident-as-it-should-be six pack.

“Justin, this only confirms my suspicions that you are in fact crazy,” mutters Cat, rolling her eyes and shaking her head again.

“I don’t know why you’re complaining. You’re the one who’ll be benefiting from my new hot bod,” I grin, slyly bringing my hand to her ass and slapping it.

She blushes and smacks my hand away as the elevator dings at our studio. We are met by the tinkling noises of the piano, and no sooner have we stepped into the room the sight of a woman’s back as she sits at the piano greets us. She stops playing and scoots off the bench, pulling down her short denim skirt that seems to have ridden up when she sat down, and approaches us with a broad smile.

“Hi, I’m Amber,” she says happily, holding her hand out to me.

I return her smile and shake her warm hand. “Justin.” I motion behind me and she shakes hand with Tiny, Trace, and a very dubious looking Cat.

The moment my hand returns to my side, Cat grasps it protectively. Casting a quick glance into her direction, the fiery embers of distrust radiating from her as she stares at Amber.

Returning my gaze to Amber, I can’t imagine why. She certainly has the figure of a model, with a tall, slender frame absent of any spare flesh at all. Her indistinguishable color of blondish-brown hair sits in jagged lengths around her oval face, and her wide set green eyes stare at us inquisitively. Her thin physique is quite skeletal in appearance, with none of the Cat’s curves in sight. The excruciatingly short skirt shows miles of long legs, and a lace white tank top and a multi-colored scarf adorn her upper body, showing the distinct outlines of her collarbone.

She’s pretty, very pretty in fact, but so far from my type it’s ridiculous. Her figure is too…skinny, in a way. I can tell straight away she’s one of those girls Cat might refer to as “lucky bitches”, because she could eat a horse and never gain a pound. But to me, I just find it quite boring. Yeah, so she has great legs. Yeah, I could probably lift her up with one hand. Yeah, her green eyes are very intense. But…nah, there's no excitement. Cat has nothing to worry about.

Judging by the firm grip on my hand, I’m not entirely sure she knows this as well as I do.

------------------------------------------------------------

So her name is Amber, right? And her hair is an amber color, a mixture of browns and blondes and reds. How ingenious to call her after her hair color. Wouldn’t it just be fantastic if my name was Boring Mousy Brown?

I wonder whether anyone has every considered dying her hair a horrific red when she was asleep, just so she would have to change her name to Ginger or something. I mean honestly, Amber Sunflower. What a ridiculous, irritating, silly name. I haven’t heard a name that preposterous since that Spice Girl called her child Phoenix Chi or some other embarrassing term that represented “inner strength”. As far as I’m concerned, Amber Sunflower is the worst name in the world.

Listen to me; rambling like some demented housewife who saw her husband talking to the neighbor. I hadn’t had time to dwell on the “Ex model now producer” extravaganza before this day, otherwise I’m sure I would have spent the far too long fretting over it. You know how dramatic and fussy I get over things that are yet to even happen…I suppose you could call me neurotic.

But I think I have every right to have the urge to flush myself down a toilet at the moment. I knew, despite Justin’s claims to the contrary, that I just wasn’t looking my hottest today. It‘s a simple matter of fact. Some days you wake up and your hair is bouncy and tidy, your eyebrows are perfectly arched, your skin is flawless, your lips look pouty, and you’ve just found the outfit that makes proportions your figure perfectly…

Yes. Well.

Today just wasn’t one of those days.

I had accepted I was not exactly the epitome of gorgeousness, but I got sidetracked when I was talking to Justin and didn’t even trouble over the horrific state of my hair. Well, not for long, at least. In fact, I was in a good mood for once.

But then we walked into the studio and met “Amber”.

When I was in good old High School, contemplating suicide and hating life, there was always this gang of popular girls that were just immaculate. In the way they walked, talked, dressed, did their hair, their makeup, their jewelry... It just didn’t seem fair that I was this awkward geek with glasses and numbingly boring hair and yet they were these wonderfully rounded individuals with great teeth and gorgeous hair. Every time I saw those girls it was as though I had stepped in front of one of those mirrors at fair grounds that contorts your shape and makes you look hideous. I felt ugly and ashamed, it was awful.

But back to present day, where I’m a confident, beautiful, self-assured woman dating Justin Timberlake. As hilarious as that description of myself may be, it was exactly how I didn't feel when I met the walking twig. I was zapped right back into high school again, in front of the same gang of girls, feeling the same depressing things.

She was wearing one of those skirts that guys always look up to see whether the girl is wearing underwear or not.

The type of skirt I would look awful in.

She had this very stylish, trendy haircut, with carefully swept bangs and choppy layers.

I haven’t changed my hairstyle in three years.

She had an aura of bubbly confidence about her, as though she knew exactly how fantastic her life was.

I couldn’t be more pessimistic if I was dead.

So you see? Can you possibly grasp the suffocating feeling of inadequacy I felt the moment I laid eyes on her? I know the second I tell Justin any of this, he’ll launch into some sermon about self-esteem and my lack of it, etc, etc, and I’ll switch off before snapping back with some sarcastic reply. Perhaps I do have low self esteem, but I assure you it’s not by choice. I would give anything to be able to walk up to Amber confidently and feel terrific as I introduced myself. I would love to be a more social, approachable person, and that I didn’t scare off people with my immediate deadpan responses to everything.

But sadly, I can’t change who I am. And I do mean, sadly.

My only strand of confidence was Justin. He seemed a little taken aback with my somewhat fierce hand lock, but I had the awful feeling that if he wasn’t holding me up, I would have just fallen down. Not to mention the fact I was making it very clear to Amber who had priority over Justin. Dogs pee on their territory, I hold its hand. I am more willing to ignore the fact I haven’t been this immature since I demanded a later bedtime when I was seven, but I have been known to act in strange ways in the face of challenge.

“Cat!” A sharp voice jolts me from my thoughts.

I snap to alert. “Yes…sorry…yes?”

Justin frowns at me, before nodding towards a velvet couch in the corner. “I’m going to listen to some of Amber’s beats. Do you want to listen, or sit over there with Trace?”

“I’ll sit over there with Trace,” I reply, so engrossed in my thoughts Justin’s question was slightly hazy.

“Are you okay?” he asks, peering at me curiously. “Do you feel ill?”

I smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. You go…” I point over towards the table of different buttons and switches. “Make music.”

He sends me a confused look, before smiling. “Alright. I’ll talk to you in a few.” He drops a kiss on my lips, in full view of Amber, before sitting down in front of the table and messing around with the buttons.

Feeling ever so slightly smug about my kiss, I saunter over to the couch and collapse next to Tiny and Trace.

The welcoming cushions of the couch support me and remind of Justin’s bed back in the apartment, from which I was cruelly torn from at a ludicrous hour. Settling down into the sofa, I yawn and lean my head back, staring at the red lights above me.

I knew today was going to be a bad day.

“And I mean…yeah! That beat was just…bangin’! Don’t you think so, Cat?” exclaims Justin as he tosses his jacket carelessly in the direction of the couch, letting it slip off the leather upholstery and fall in a crumpled heap on the floor.

He ignores it and glances in the direction of the mail he didn’t have time to look at this morning, the broad grin on his face never faltering. I smile and pick up his coat, folding and placing it gently on the back of the sofa. Justin is normally never so careless and lackadaisical with his belongings, Trace can often be seen shouting “anal” as Justin meticulously folds his clothing; but today he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

“It sounded wonderful,” I say softly, watching as he opens a letter. He glances up and nods feverishly, grinning at me. He’s so adorable; like a kid who just won first prize at the science fair. He’s full of smiles and laughs and eyes full of happiness.

I wish I could be more like him, or the happy, animated girlfriend I really should be. But of course, I’m not. I sort of dozed in the studio for a few hours, caught between sleep and consciousness, before Trace offered to go out and get everyone some dinner and I tagged along with him, just to get out of the stuffy studio.

But it was interesting to watch Justin work. I’ve never really seen him quite so dynamic and enthusiastic about anything as he was when he was flicking all those switches and pushing various buttons. He has an impeccable ear; he would take one noise that quite frankly sounded like a wounded animal howling out its last words, mix it with another deep bass thumping noise and suddenly, this wonderfully melodic beat would be pouring from the speakers.

As much as it kills me to admit it, him and Amber work quite well together; even a clueless bystander such as myself could see that. They sat for what felt like hours, discussing what they wanted the sound to be like, and using all these weird words like ‘rhythm’ and ‘tempo’ in every sentence. It all sounded like gibberish to me, and yet they somehow produced something amazing. I thought it was finished, but Justin said it was just a tiny sample of something on a much grander scale, which would require lyrics, crescendos, change in dynamics, small noises that would contribute to the finished product…it made my head ache just thinking about it, but Justin can’t wait to get started.

“Did you like Amber?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can, staring down at his jacket and smoothing my hand over the material.

“Yeah,” he nods enthusiastically, putting a letter back into its manila envelope. “She’s very talented, from what I’ve seen so far.”

“Mmm,” I agree, tracing my name into the downy material of his jacket.

“Yeah, I’m going to bring in my guitar tomorrow and we’re gonna see if we can add a gentle strumming tune in the background,” he says gleefully, approaching the couch and kneeling on it, so that he is facing me. “Obviously she’s not going to be the only producer I work with, but she’s definitely a good start.”

Looking up at him, I smile weakly. “I was very proud of you today. You’re so sweet when you work it’s sickening.”

“Really?” he raises his eyebrow, his happy grin turning cocky. “Are you sure I’m not so sexy it’s sickening?”

I pause as though contemplating it, before shaking my head. “No, I think I was right the first time.”

He laughs and snakes his hands around my waist, pulling me closer to him and the back of the couch, which forms a barrier between us. “So, do you like Amber?” I give out a non committal shrug. “Skinny, isn’t she?” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“Malnourished,” I snap, before hurriedly bringing my temper down from its sudden rise. “I mean…she’s a little on the slim side, yes.”

He smirks. “Cat…” he begins in an all-knowing, slightly amused tone.

“What?” I reply defensively. He can’t know that I’ve already planned out a complex strategy to make sure she doesn’t lay one hand on Justin, could he? I thought I was very discrete about my slight aversion to her.

“The answer is no Cat, you didn’t hide the fact you hated her from the moment you laid eyes on her,” he says simply, grinning at my shocked expression.

It appears Mr. Timberlake has another talent to add to his increasingly large list of attributes--mind reading. “I don’t hate her…”

“It’s alright, I was jealous of Sean too,” he interrupts. “It’s just natural to be a little wary of your significant other’s work buddy.”

“Well, exactly,” I reply, amazed by Justin’s sensitivity to the subject. I’m worried; he’s been disturbingly close to being perfect all day.

“And remember how you used to always tell me I was being paranoid and that I had nothing to worry about?” he says, pulling my even closer and looking up at me with sparkling eyes.

“I’m vaguely aware of such conversations…” I mumble, feeling a smile tug at the corner of my lips.

“Well, I can just reiterate the same thing to you, before you get yourself worried about Amber and myself having hot sex in the studio. Just remember that you’re agonizing over nothing, as usual,” he rolls his eyes.

“But Justin!” I whine, placing my hands over his shoulders, “It’s easier said than done. Of course I’m jealous of some anorexic musical prodigy who, let’s be honest, is not exactly suffering from bad looks. And you two are going to be stuck inside a little hot studio, with nothing to do but--”

My complaints were cut off by Justin’s lips crashing upon my own, halting any of the irrational rambles pouring from my mouth. My instinct is, naturally, to kiss him back, and soon our mouths are battling against each other frantically, so used to kissing each other that our lips know exactly how to move at the exact right time. I’m vaguely aware that we were about to have a debate of some importance, but the thought lingers in my mind for a disappointingly short time before leaving again.

After the first wave of urgency, our kiss trails off and Justin pulls away. Oh, just wipe that cocky smirk off of your face, Mr. Timberlake.

“You were saying?”

“Shut up,” I protest, pushing his chest gently. “You think that you can get just anywhere with that stupid animal magnetism of yours.”

“That’s because I can,” he shrugs before crouching to avoid another hit. “Come on Cat, you know Amber isn’t my type.”

“Talented, slim and beautiful? Oh, I know; you’ll be beating her away with a stick.”

“Cat, please don’t do this,” he groans, resting his forehead on a very distracting place in the middle of my chest. “I really don’t want to have to worry that my work is causing strain on you or our relationship.”

“Neither do I, but I can’t help my natural reactions.”

“But you can, Cat,” he says, looking up again. “Isn’t my word enough comfort for you? Can’t you just trust me?”

“I do trust you,” I reply.

“Then why did you look at Amber like she was a leper for five hours?”

“I did not!” I protest. “I just…”

“You know Cat, we can’t keep on having this discussion. When are you going to learn that as long as I’m with you, I’m with you, and only want to be with you, exclusively…alright?”

“But Justin, she was at least twenty five pounds skinnier than I am!”

“So?” he retorts, shrugging indifferently. “Who cares?”

“Me.”

“Well if it bothers you so much, why don’t you do something about it?”

My heart jumped painfully in my chest as I step back in hurt, frowning at him. “Are you saying I should lose weight?”

“No, I’m saying you should do something about your shockingly bad self-esteem and if losing weight would make you feel better, then maybe you should think about it.”

Incoherent thoughts began crashing into each other, one after the other. Justin wants me to lose weight? Was this just the perfect opportunity for him to say so without hurting my feelings? Has he been wanting to say something for a while now?

Wait…perhaps I’m being irrational. Perhaps he’s genuinely just looking out for me. After all, he always does tell me I should do something about my low confidence, even going as far to say he’d pay for me to go to one of those “I love me” workshops with someone in a long white robe chanting about self-worth and the joys of masturbation.

Of course I would feel better about myself if I could get into a gorgeous pair of size four jeans, or if I didn’t find myself slipping quite easily into some stores’ plus sizes. I almost died at Old Navy the other day when I initially picked up a size twelve pair of pants and then found it I had to hold my breath for fifteen seconds before they buttoned up, only to find that breathing wasn’t actually an option once they were tied. Not to mention the cruel, unflattering mirror in the changing room that made me look like Homer Simpson on one of his bad days. It’s all the lighting’s fault, I swear.

“Cat, I’m really not trying to make you feel bad, but I just hate to see you get in a state over the tiniest of things.” He rubs my back reassuringly. “Maybe if you felt more comfortable in your own skin, you wouldn’t have that kind of problem.”

“Well…do you want me to?”

“I want you to do whatever you think is best for you.”

Sounds like a bullshit answer to me. “I’ll think about it,” I say quietly, unlatching his arms from my waist and turning away, feeling an odd tugging on my stomach that lets me know I’m about to dissolve into tears.

I walk into the kitchen, battling a furious war with my lips, which seem intent on drooping and letting out a howl of despair. I hear Justin quickly scramble off the couch and his footsteps follow the pattern of mine, until he joins me in the kitchen.

“Cat, I didn’t mean--”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” I interrupt, bending down to pull a bottle of water from the fridge before pushing past him and jogging up the stairs.

“Cat, why are you--”

Desperately trying to block out his voice, I hurry into our bedroom, swigging the ice cold water to calm myself. I’m not angry at him, I just have that feeling as though someone’s torn out my heart and played volleyball with it. So not too bad, really.

No sooner have I shut the door, it is reopened, and Justin quickly enters our room. “I think you took what I said in the exact way I didn’t want you to take it--”

“I think I got it crystal clear, actually,” I reply in a choked voice, opening the closet door to block him from my sight but also to search for something to wear to bed. Why are women so prone to tears? Why can’t I be as emotionless, cold and impenetrable as I thought I once was?

As my shaking hands sift through the various nightwear, Justin slowly walks up behind me. He makes the wise decision to not touch me; he must have realized if he even tries to pull any kissing or lovey-dovey shit with me right now, I’ll turn around and slap him.

“Why are you making a huge deal out of this?” he asks softly.

“I’m not. I already told you I’m fine,” I snap back, pulling out a particularly unappealing pair of baggy sweatpants and a shapeless white T-shirt. What’s the point in wearing that gorgeous satin slip with lace trim from Victoria’s Secret if I just look like an elephant anyway?

“I can’t believe you’re getting pissed off at me for trying to make you feel better!” he exclaims in indignation.

Gritting my teeth together to bite back a response, I put a hand on my hip, holding my clothes with my other. “Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” he asks, crossing his arms across his chest.

“The bathroom.”

“Why?”

“To get changed,” I reply, stepping to the left to get past him.

He quickly two steps me, blocking my path. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

“If I don’t feel comfortable changing in front of you, then I won’t!”

“Why wouldn’t you feel comfortable around me?” he demands, squinting at me. “I’m your boyfriend.”

“And also the guy who thinks I should lose weight!” I shout in a tone not entirely required, before barging straight through him and heading to the bathroom.

“You are so hypersensitive, do you know that?” he yells, falling into step behind me as I roll my eyes and storm towards the bathroom. “I can’t even talk to you without you freaking out.”

“I don’t freak out!”

“Oh yeah? Then what were you doing when you were fussing over whether you should leave pisshole Tennessee? Or the way you can’t stand me being with another woman who weighs less than four hundred pounds and dream up an affair before I’ve even had the chance to have one?!”

“Says the guy who would call me at work every two minutes to check I hadn’t fucked Sean by the photocopier!” I retort furiously, spinning around to face him.

“That’s different…” he sneers. “You two had a history. You already can’t bear the thought of me and Amber!”

Feeling my mouth dry up with no response, I spit, “Amber and I,” before turning around again and heading towards the bathroom, mentally scolding myself. Did I just use grammar as a way to respond to an argument? Jesus, no wonder I was never on the debating team at school.

“Whatever!” Justin answers, once again pursuing me to the bathroom. “The fact is you have issues.”

“And you don’t?” I reply angrily, resting my hand on the door handle to the bathroom. “You freak out if anyone else even shows the tiniest bit of attraction for me…what the fuck is wrong with this door?” I demand urgently, yanking the handle up and down and leaning into the door, which refuses to budge.

“I’m having a relaxing bath,” calls out Trace’s voice from inside the bathroom. “You’re going to have to go and have your argument somewhere else; I put in a ton of bath crap in here, I ain’t getting out for a while.”

“Shit,” I mutter, shaking my head. My head snaps up to Justin again to see his piercing blue glare staring straight back at me. Am I overreacting? Did he really mean it in a helpful way? No, no…I’m just making excuses for him.

Brushing past him and advancing back to our bedroom, I bite my lip to stop the telltale tears filling my eyes and spilling down my cheeks. Putting on an angry façade is so much easier than admitting I feel like I’ve been run over by a steamroller twice because Justin isn’t happy with the way I look.

Sitting down on the edge of my side of the bed, I carefully refold the undeniably comfortably potato sacks. I can’t help the mist clouding my vision as blurry tears form in my eyes, begging for release. I blink rapidly and let out a telling shaky breath. Although I am obnoxiously facing away from Justin, I can hear him come into the bedroom and slowly close the door, the soft click of the latch assuring me he’s shut out the world. It’s just me and him.

Great.

“Baby…”

Immediately, I know he’s going to stop being horrible and take the different approach of buttering me up. Hence the gentle, ‘baby’. Keeping my back to him, so as not to be swayed by his achingly deep blue eyes, I listen as he takes a deep breath before beginning.

“I wasn’t trying to make you upset, and I’m sorry if you thought I was insulting you. I just…” The bed shifts and he’s obviously sat down on it. “I just hate having to stand by the sidelines and watch you tear yourself to pieces, you know? I can’t bear knowing that you have all these wonderful qualities, that you just….you just can’t see,” he says exasperatedly, his gentle tone an odd lullaby to my ears.

Don’t cry Cat, don’t do it. It’s not worth it, crying really isn’t attractive, so just swallow those tears and--

Oh crap.

“Cat, don’t cry,” he says, crawling behind me and pressing into my back, kneeling behind me. “I hate seeing you cry.”

“I’m sorry,” I splutter through my pathetic tears. “I know you weren’t trying to be mean, I just…” I trail off and feel another bout of watery emotion build up behind my eyes. “I don’t know, I’m sorry. And not just for crying, for being a bitch in the hallway.”

“That’s alright,” he whispers, pulling back my hair and placing it behind my shoulder. “I’m sorry too. I can’t exactly reprimand you about Amber when I was exactly the same with Sean.”

“No, you were right. I don’t even have any grounds to get worried about you and Amber, you guys barely know each other.”

“Well, I didn’t want to make you feel bad by saying you should lose weight. I don’t mean you should, I meant if it’s something that bothers you so mu--”

“No, no, I know,” I interrupt, wiping away the dregs of my tears. “I just think I automatically take anything to do with weight of looks personally,” I reply, smiling weakly and turning to look at him.

He smiles. “I can’t argue with that.”

“Bastard,” I mutter, punching him in the shoulder and wiping my cheeks again.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his large hand working in small circles across my back.

I shrug. “I feel all stuffy from crying,” I laugh, “and I can’t believe we’re the kind of couple who practically run each other over with apologies after arguments.”

He laughs and wraps his arms around my waist, kissing the side of my head. “Well, it was a pretty ferocious argument.”

“One of our best,” I reply, giggling.

He sniggers and begins a trail of butterfly kisses down my cheek to my neck. “You did come up with a pretty pussy reply, though. Amber and I?”

Laughing, I shrug, catching our reflection in the window. “I was desperate.”

“I’m desperate too…” he sighs into my ear, his lips continuing their dance over my neck and shoulders.

“Desperate for what?” I ask, grinning.

“For you, baby,” he whispers huskily, before laughing.

Throwing the sweatpants and shirt to the side, I turn around to face him, getting on my knees to be roughly the same height as he is. “Worst pick up line…ever.”

“Hey, give me some credit,” he shrugs, grinning boyishly. “I slipped it in quite nicely.”

“You’re a dork,” I shake my head disapprovingly, leaning in for a kiss.

He sniggers slightly before slipping his hands up my shirt and rubbing my skin. My fingers quickly go to work at the button of his jeans, deftly working to undo them. He mutters something along the lines of “frisky…are we?” before shutting up all together as my fingers tease by dancing along the band of his boxers. His eyes flutter close and he whispers, “Just do it.”

I giggle. “You’re lucky I’m not selfish in bed.”

His eyes, an oddly darker blue, open and stare at me intensely. “And you’re lucky I’m not going to punish you for being a tantalizer.”

“And how exactly would you punish me?”

He pompously pushes his nose up in the air and crosses his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t have sex with you.”

Unable to stifle the giggles he so wants to hear, I smile. “Okay, I’m sorry.” He still remains in his statuesque position. “Come on Justin, I can’t exactly do it on my own.”

He slowly turns back to face me, raising an eyebrow. “Well…you could. And I could watch as you did so,” he offers, grinning devilishly.

Genuinely appalled by the porn-esque crap that comes out of Justin’s mouth, I smack him on the chest. “Absolutely not.”

“It might be fun…” he says teasingly, raising his both eyebrows for effect.

“And you might be dead if you don’t shut the hell up,” I retort, waiting until I turn away to let the smile break across my face. One of these days I’ll just agree to one of Justin’s disgusting sexual proposals, just to see the look of shock on his face.

Leaning over to unzip my boots, Justin’s warm touch starts to tug at the bottom of my shirt as his lips return to kiss the sensitive spot behind my ear. Smirking slightly, I kick off my boots and straighten up. As cocky as it sounds, Justin is not one to often pass off sex. Particularly when we’ve just had an argument; it always seems to make things better, and sort of melts away the horrible things we may have said to each other during out disagreement, reaffirming our feelings for each other.

I slowly back up into the middle of bed, letting my shirt fall to the floor thanks to Justin’s ever-smooth moves. I lie among the pillowy heaven of our bed as Justin trickles kisses over my skin, occasionally licking me cheekily and causing me to squirm and giggle beneath him.

“Maybe I’ll do it,” I whisper, feeling his hot breath tickle my lower stomach.

“Do what?” he murmurs distractedly, working the zipper of my pants.

“You know…lose some weight, perhaps get a new haircut,” I reply, reaching down to pull his T-shirt over his head. He looks up at me, resting his stubbly chin on my stomach.

“Do you think that’ll make you feel better about yourself?”

“I know it will,” I mumble looking away from him for a moment. “I mean…I know I’m no different from any other girl out there, I’m not hideously fat, I’m not repulsively bad looking…but maybe that’s what bothers me. I’ve never been different, I’ve never been unique. I’ve always just been…me.” To my great horror, my throat begins to clog up with tears again, and I squeeze my eyes shut before the tears even think of building up.

I don’t see Justin come back up to my eye level, but I can feel him gently kissing my cheeks and the one tear that sneaks out of my eyelids.

“Well, I think you’re wonderful,” he says, his arms wrapping around my waist, enveloping me in his embrace.

“I know you do,” I whisper, placing my hands on his neck and kissing his cheek.

“And maybe one day you’ll see I’m right,” he replies, tilting his head to the side to drop kisses on my neck.

Tracing the Celtic cross tattoo on his left bicep, a warm feeling spreads from the bottom of my stomach through my body. “You know…sex does actually always make me feel good about myself.”

“All the more reason to have it.”

I giggle and grip his arm as a little spasm of pleasure shot through me when he grinded into me. “Seriously though, it’s such a feel-good activity.”

“And good exercise. Hey, why don’t I just forget my trainer and we go at it like rabbits instead of working out?”

Laughing, I shrug. “But won’t Trace feel left out?”

“Well if that’s what you’re into…” he playfully bites my neck very softly.

“But I suppose it shouldn’t take sex to make me feel like that.”

“No, you should just know it anyway,” he replies, descending once more, using kisses as a hiker’s trail down to the top of my panties.

“I do, sometimes. It’s just…there are other times when I feel like I have absolutely nothing going for me. As though everyone in the world has a talent except me.”

“You’re talented,” he whispers, glancing up at me. “You’re good at writing, you’re good at making people laugh, you’re good at making people feel better--”

“Unless I’m the one who made them feel bed in the first place. I mean, I know I can be horrible at times. In fact, I can be such a bitch. Take today…I haven’t told you once that I’m happy for you because of the chemistry you and Amber seem to have, I just spent all my time whining about how slim she was. And I am happy for you, I really am, but I always let my selfish feelings override--”

My rambles are muffled by Justin’s lips crushing against my own, massacring my feeble ramblings.

“Cat, just…shut up, okay?” he whispers against my lips. “And let me make you feel really good, alright?”

He drops one more kiss on my lips, before kissing his way back down my body.

And this time, he stays there.

I think she’s hot, man. You know I’m more into skinnier girls, so maybe that’s why I like her.”

“I can understand why you would, she is attractive. But boring, you know? As in…where are the curves? How is she any different from a dude?”

“Justin, if you‘re calling me gay…” Trace threatens, narrowing his eyes at me menacingly.

I roll my eyes and click my seatbelt off my, flinging it behind my back. “You know what I mean. Amber’s just a little too on the anorexic side for me.”

“She’s not anorexic,” Trace defends. “That’s her natural body shape, and it looks great on her.”

I shrug. “You’re right. But I want more on the T and A scale.” Thank god Cat’s not with me…I can almost hear the disapproving feminist tone.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind hittin’ that,” says Trace, resting his hand on the door handle as Tiny pulls up in front of my apartment building.

Trace and I hop out, saying goodbye to Tiny, who squeezes in one last complaint about being the ‘fucking designated driver’, before speeding off. As soon as my Nike-clad feet hit the cold gray concrete of the sidewalk, the clickety-click of photos being taken and a bright flash of light in the dark to my right attracts my attention momentarily. The sight of three photographers squatting on the sidewalk outside of the grounds of my home, their faces concealed by the large black cameras strapped to their eyes, greets my gaze. I bow my head and quickly stride into the building, letting the old, camera-wary Justin take over and block out their existence.

“I wonder how long they’ve been there,” Trace says behind me as I get into the grounds of my apartment, resisting the temptation to turn around the paparazzi and say ‘Thanks to privacy laws, you can’t come on my property or I’m legally allowed to shoot you, so ha!’.

“Probably not long after they caught sight of that article this morning,” I mutter bitterly, casting a contemptuous gaze in the direction of the now silent cameras that are hidden behind the gates. “Excuse me, but how long have those photographers been out there?” I ask the wizened doorman standing at the entrance of the building in a dark navy blue suit.

“They came not long after your young house guest left about five hours ago, Mr. Timberlake,” he replies.

I frown. “What…after Cat left?”

He nods. “Yes sir.”

“So they didn’t get a picture of her?”

“No sir, she had already been gone for twenty minutes before they arrived.”

“Do you know what time she came back?”

“I haven’t seen her yet, sir.”

Pausing to jut out my bottom lip in confusion, I shrug. “Okay, thanks.”

He nods and opens the door for us as we walk into the ostentatious foyer of the apartment block. “I wonder where Cat went,” I murmur casually, hitting the white circle with the black twenty on it in the elevator to get up to my floor.

“Shopping?” Trace offers tiredly, tilting his head tiredly against the mirror and closing his eyes. Today was a long day; Amber and I were elaborating on what we had done yesterday and the time sped by without me even realizing. We barely know each other, and yet we have this unstoppable creative energy that just weaves everything together perfectly.

But working in the studio for ten hours can somewhat drain one’s get-up-and-go factor. The constant tweaking and altering that has to be done to every single little thing…it’s exhausting. There’s nothing I want more than to just crawl into bed and have Cat stroke my hair as she talks about random clever crap that I don’t understand. Last night she made the terrible mistake of trying to explain the judicial heresy…she was unsuccessful.

The doors slide open as I shrug in response to Trace’s suggestion. She probably did come back, the door guy just didn’t realize. After all, where the hell could she be at quarter past ten on a Wednesday night? We’ve not even been here for a week, so she doesn’t know the area well enough to go out walking in the middle of a dangerous city late at night.

Trace and I stumble into the apartment, more from tiredness than anything else. “Cat!” I call out, throwing my keys onto a small utterly useless table that was put into the hallway for appearance reasons alone, letting them slide across the polished mahogany surface. “Cat!” I repeat, kicking off my sneakers and plodding up the stairs slowly.

Poking a head around the doorway of our bedroom, I frown when I find it empty and slightly messy. I’m a tidy person by nature and can’t go to sleep if there’s that much disorder to my bedroom, and although Cat isn’t quite as “anal” as I am, she’s not sloppy. The jaunty angle of one of the drawers sticking out of the chest with a bundle of clothes all bunched up and crushed catches my eye. It looks as though someone was rushing through the drawers in such a hurry that they didn’t take much care with the folded clothes or even bother to shut the drawer. That doesn’t sound like Cat. She can rifle through the drawers without making such a mess.

My eyes flit around the room, taking in the rumpled appearance of the made bed. Although the comforter has been placed over the mattress and the corners tucked down, creases and ruffles contour the canvas of white, as though someone’s been stacking things on the bed or…I don’t know, jumping on it?

“What on earth…” I mutter, frowning as I walk into the room and slowly tidy up a bit, straightening out the bedspread and bumping in the drawer before closing the open closet doors. “Trace!” I yell.

“Yeah?” comes a reply from the kitchen.

“Is Cat down there with you?”

There’s a pause, before a, “Unless she’s hiding behind the couch, don’t think so!” is returned. Rolling my eyes, I quickly check all the rooms on the top floor; peaking into Trace’s room, checking the TV room, the music room in case she’s playing around on the piano, the work out room in case she suddenly had a spurt of energy to exercise, and all the bathrooms. I even walk out onto the balcony and up the fire escape stairs to the roof, despite knowing Cat is too scared of falling to her death to go dancing about on the top of a twenty storey building in the dark.

The prickly feeling of panic begins to rise in my throat as I jog down the stairs with a lot more urgency than I had on the way up. That’s what I hate about having a fairly big home--you just can’t keep tabs on people that way that you would like to. You’ll drive yourself crazy with worry thinking that someone you love has been brutally murdered with a pickaxe, until you realize that they are, in fact, reading at the opposite end of the house.

“Trace, she’s gone!” I exclaim, rushing into the kitchen, my eyes darting around for any sign of her.

“Gone where?”

“Gone…gone! She’s just…not here!”

“So? She’s still out. What’s the big deal?”

Why does this always happen? A nerve-racking experience arises and I tear my hair out with anxiety as Trace remains cool, calm and collected. Why can’t I be the level-headed one who never shows his worry? I swear, Trace makes me look like such a chick.

“Out at ten thirty in New York City? She’ll get shot, or raped, or…oh my god, there possibilities are endless,” I groan, clamping a hand over my eyes. “No…no, Cat’s not that stupid. She wouldn’t just go out meandering the streets of New York without letting anyone know. Especially when she doesn’t know the area very well.”

“Perhaps she went to the studio to meet up with us?” Trace suggests, slapping two buttered pieces of bread separated by a slice of ham together and taking a bite out of it.

“I doubt it,” I mumble, chewing anxiously on the skin of my thumb. “And the doorman said she left five hours ago. That’s ample time to get to the studio fifty times over.”

“I don’t suppose in the midst of your overreacting you ever considered calling her cell, did you?” Trace says calmly, taking another bite of his sandwich and staring at me in a way that makes me question my own intelligence.

“Of course!” I exclaim, digging into my pockets for my cell phone. I pull it out and flip it open, seeing a message typed out in black bold letters across the screen--1 New Voicemail. When I’m recording, I put all noise and vibrations of my phone off so as to not distract me. That was why I didn’t get the message. Note to self: don’t do that again.

“That’s probably from her, right?” I question, staring at Trace desperately. He nods slowly, looking at me curiously as though I’ve said something incredibly stupid. Which I haven’t, right?

Just as I was about to press the button that said ‘listen’, a flashing light with the name Cat displayed on the screen.

“Hello?” I answer quickly, bringing the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” comes a small voice softly through the phone line.

“Cat, baby, is that you? Are you okay? Where are you? I came back and you were gone!”

There was a slight chuckle down the line amid Trace’s, “She’s not a dog, Justin…”, but I ignored him and pressed the phone closer to my ear.

“Didn’t you get my message?” she asks in a tired voice.

“I just got it when you called,” I reply. “I haven’t had the chance to listen to it yet. What’s wrong? Where are you?”

She sighs. “I’m in Ohio.”

“What?!” I shout loudly, causing Trace to jump a foot in the air and almost drop the orange juice that he was rooting about in the refrigerator for. “Why the hell are you in goddamn Ohio? Have you left me?”

“Justin,” she snorts, “You really bring a whole new perspective to being melodramatic, do you know that?” At my sigh of annoyance, she continues. “No, of course I’ve not left you. There have been family problems, that’s all.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Do you remember Malcolm? My sister Sophie’s husband? You met him at Thanksgiving; he’s got sort of dirty blonde hair and glasses.”

“Yeah…” I reply cautiously, my heart gradually decreasing its rapid beating to a normal pace.

“Well, he’s left Sophie.”

“What? I thought they were okay.”

“So did everyone. But clearly they aren’t, and he’s left…I don’t know. I’m not aware of all the details; all I know is that Sophie’s got Cam to take care of, work to do…not to mention she’s crushed about her marriage. She needs someone to help her right now.”

“But can’t you’re mom help her?” I demand, before realizing just how selfish I sounded. I suppose I can’t help it. I just want Cat all to myself.

“No, she’s…she’s got my dad to worry about,” says Cat hesitantly, an ever wearier, more depressed tone taking over her voice.

“Your pops? What’s wrong with him?”

She’s quiet for a moment, before a choked sob rips its way out of her throat, startling me.

“Cat, what’s happened?”

“Oh God Justin, it was so awful. I had to go and see him in hospital, and he just looked so helpless on that cold bed surrounded by all those machines…”

“Baby, slow down, I can’t understand you. Just tell me what happened,” I say as calmly as I can, trying to soothe her as she rambles incoherently. Trace frowns and steps closer to me, folding his arms across his chest as he leans against the island and listens.

“He had a stroke.” My mouth drops open wordlessly but she carries on before I can utter a thing. “Not a major one. We were lucky. And I know he’ll be out in a week or so, but it’s just so horrible to see him in that place…” she breaks off into a sob again, her gentle cries hitting every single nerve of mine.

“Oh sweetheart, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she splutters through her tears, her voice contorted from her crying. “Everything just happened so…so quickly, and suddenly. I mean, what if he had died Justin…”

“Baby, he’s not going to die,” I firmly establish, the image of her breaking down in tears stabbing my heart like a knife tipped with poison. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Really?” she sniffs.

“Of course. This has just all happened so unexpectedly and you’re a little overwhelmed at the moment. Why don’t you go and take a nice long bath, and then go to bed, hmm? Things will seem ten times better in the morning.”

She sighs, her breathing calming down to a less erratic speed. “I suppose so. My head is just buzzing. I’m sorry I left so abruptly, but it’s not like I was doing anything up there and I may as well help out as much as I can before I start looking for work, so…”

“No, I understand. It’s not your fault,” I reply, kicking the soles of my socked feet against the floor. “Do you want me to come up there?”

She pauses, and I can just see her biting her lip like she does when she’s torn between decisions. Finally, she answers, “No…no, I can’t ask you to do that. Not when you’ve just started work on your album and--”

“Sweetheart, you know you mean more to me than a thousand albums. If you need me up there, I’ll be there in a second.”

She sighs, and to my horror I think I hear her crying again. “Oh God, Justin, I know you would…”

Just as I was preparing to hang up and call for the next flight, her voice came through again, more determined. “No, no…I won’t let you do that. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? Because I could probably get a flight tomorrow morning.”

“No, honestly, I’ll manage. You just work hard on making musical history up there,” she laughs. “How was the studio today?”

“Fine. Amber and I were doing really well.”

“I will be calling Trace regularly to check that things with you two are purely platonic…”

Her laugh tells me that she’s just teasing and I smile. The grin fades however, as I look down at my feet. “When are you coming home?” I ask shyly.

She sighs. “I don’t know. I mean, my mom needs help with my dad, Sophie needs help with Cameron, it sounds like Dawn is freaking out over the whole situation…I could be down here for a few weeks.”

“But Cat--”

“I’m sorry Justin, but I have to be here. You know I’d rather be in New York sightseeing and taking my first walk in Central Park, but I can’t. My family needs me.”

“So do I,” I whine like some desperate kid left for his first day at preschool.

She laughs. “I know you do, but you have me all the time. It’s only fair that they get a little of me too.”

Smiling, I straighten up. “I can pay you. Whatever they’re giving you to be down there, I’ll double it.”

She giggles, and I pray that her tears are at bay, for now at least. It’s always especially heartbreaking when Cat cries, because it has to be something fairly deep to hit her emotions like that. Apart from when she starts whining about the way she looks or weight, but I’ve come to the conclusion that’s just a universal attribute of women’s.

“You just want to indulge in a little prostitute role play, Justin.”

I let out a throat chuckle, pangs of longing to be with her already striking my chest. “Call me big daddy.”

“We’ve already discussed that particular incestuous nickname more times than I care to count, Justin. Accept that it is never happening.”

Smiling, I lean against the island, ignoring Trace’s questioning look. “I had paparazzi outside my door today. They snapped me walking into the building.”

“Well exactly,” she says sensibly. “This is a good time to let things cool down after that ridiculous article this morning. If they don’t see me for a little while, they’ll just assume they got it wrong and people won’t care by the time I get back.”

“Okay,” I reply. “Listen sweetheart, you sound really tired. Why don’t you go and take that bath and call me tomorrow, okay?”

She yawns. “Sure. I miss you already,” she chuckles.

“I know, I know…you want me in that tub with you, I understand.”

She lets out another laugh. “I certainly do. I could always do with having my hair washed with bubble bath.”

“That was one time, okay? I couldn’t see the label on the bottle!”

“Alright, well I’d better go.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you too,” she replies coyly.

“Call me if there’s a problem, I’ll be up there like a bullet.”

“Will do. Bye.”

Flipping my phone shut with a sigh, I look up at Trace. “Well?” he prods.

“It’s a long story,” I reply.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The horribly antiseptic smell of the hospital greeted my nose as I stepped back into the dreaded white walls of the building for the second time in the past forty eight hours. I had seen my dad the night before, after shouting at the bitch of a receptionist that I didn’t care if visiting times were over, I was seeing my father.

I hate hospitals, just being inside of one fills me with a nervous anticipation for the worst. Then again, who walks into a hospital thinking “Well, isn’t this just great?”? Something about the way people are either running around, rushing people into surgery or they are settling into those odd lulls of peacefulness, where nobody seems to move at all and it’s just waiting, waiting, waiting.

But I braved it for my dad. I can’t imagine how much he hates being here, strapped to some hard bed that isn’t his. When I was speaking to him he said he thought about just ripping off all of those little wires and stalking off because he was so bored. If there’s one thing my father hates it’s staying still and doing nothing, which is exactly what he’s forced to do as doctors and nurses buzz around him, fussing over him. I know they’re doing their job, but I just wanted them to leave him alone.

Walking along the white corridors with a dark blue strip running through the white, I arrive at his room. I open the door and walk inside, gripping a few books that he wanted to keep him amused. By standards, he’s quite young to be in hospital; he just turned fifty three a few months ago. That just makes the sight of seeing him stuck here even worse.

“Knock knock,” I say quietly, not wanting to startle him as I walked into his room, holding his various books about World War Two to my chest.

“Hey Catherine,” he says, sitting up slightly in his bed at my appearance.

“Morning Catherine,” greets my mom, standing up from the hard blue seat she’s refused to leave ever since my dad went into hospital.

The only people in the world aside from those that don’t know me at all that call my Catherine are my parents. I have no clue why the didn’t pick up on saying Cat like everyone else did, but for some reason it just feels right to hear them call me by my proper Christian name. It’s almost a nickname in itself, as no one ever calls me Catherine anyway.

“How are you?” my mom asks, taking the books from me.

“Fine. How about you two?”

“These ridiculous doctors are keeping me in here,” my dad mutters bitterly, folding his arms across his chest stubbornly.

“These ridiculous doctors are not allowing him to go out and cause himself even more damage by gallivanting around the place,” my mom adds, sending my dad a condescending gaze. “They need to make sure you don’t get another weak leg, Tom.”

My father rolls his brown eyes. “That is exactly the type of superstitious behavior that is dragging down America’s health service.”

“Soph’s got a meeting today, so I’m picking up Cameron,” I interrupt swiftly, recognizing my dad‘s preparation for a lengthy discussion on the health service. “She goes to St. Peters, right?”

“Yes,” my mother replies. “Just like you did.”

“At three o'clock, right?”

She nods. “It’s so kind of you to help your sister out like this, Catherine.”

I shrug. “It’s the least I can do. She is my sister, after all.”

“How are you finding New York? Do you remember it from when you were younger?” asks my father, preparing himself for the chit chat we didn’t have last night because I erupted into tears at the sight of him bed-ridden and he was drowsy from the prescription medicine. It wasn’t a good meeting.

I smile. “Dad, please. When I went to visit Uncle Alex I didn’t do anything touristy, I just went to ghettos to watch people that were a lot cooler than myself get into gang fights.” He laughs. “I haven’t even been to Central Park.”

“Sometimes I wonder whether sending you there ever summer was just a waste of money.”

“Well…it was,” I say cheerfully, sitting down on one of the uncomfortable seats. “But yes, I’m enjoying it.”

“How’s Justin?” my mom asks, a dreamy look coming into her eyes.

I refrain from rolling my eyes. “He’s as wonderful as usual.”

“He’s such a nice boy,” she continues, twisting a strand of her short brown hair the exact same color as mine around her fingers girlishly. “So polite and handsome.”

“Or so he would have you believe,” I mutter.

“And what about that other strange boy that you live with?” asks my father, smiling.

“He’s not a boy, dad. He’s twenty four years old.”

My father shrugs. “He’s still strange.”

“He’s fine,” I reply, grinning. “I talked to Justin last night, actually. He had no idea where I was.”

“I suppose he understands,” says my mother.

“Of course.”

She sighs happily. “I thought he would. You find that southern men are usually the most considerate.”

“Susan, shut up,” my dad says jokingly, avoiding the swat my mom aimed at his head. “No, I agree with your mother there, Catherine. He is a lovely boy.”

I smile. “Oh, I know.” I let out a little gasp of delight. “Things are just so fantastic. We’re at this strange point where we know we have flaws…but it almost doesn’t matter, you know? Because we work around them and it just makes our relationship that little bit weirder…sorry, I’m probably making no sense,” I shrug sheepishly, grinning at them, fully expecting a lecture on how to form a grammatically correct sentence.

“I don’t suppose you two are thinking about tying the knot, are you?”

“Oh God no, dad,” I jump back in surprise, shaking my head. “Absolutely not, no.”

“Just asking,” he shrugs. “I would bet money that you two will be in wedlock within these next two years.”

“Dad, don’t be stupid,” I retort, rolling my eyes at him. My parents like to think they’re perfect matchmakers, but I remember not so long ago them adamantly exclaiming that Bill Clinton would never cheat with ‘that Lewinsky girl’ because he was so dedicated to his wife. I think that is evidence enough to prove my statement.

“Why are you suddenly talking about marriage?”

“Well, I was thinking, what if this had been more serious? What if I had died, or…”

“Dad, don’t--”

“No Catherine, it’s something I’ve had to think about, being in here. What if I never got to see you grow up? What if I never get to walk you down the aisle?”

“Jesus dad, you’re even more depressing than I am,” I groan, burying my head in my hands and massaging my head. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I am grown up.”

He smiles. “No you’re not, you’re still a child.”

“I am not! I’m twenty two!” I exclaim, my head snapping up. I sound like one of those highly irritating teenagers that stomp off to their room after their parents refuse to extend their curfew screaming, ‘I’m not a child!’

“You know what I mean…a proper woman, with children and a family.”

“Hold on…you want me to have a family?” This is a tad ironic. My parents always threatened to kill me if I had a child before twenty five, because children age you. Your youth is supposed to be the most selfish time of your life, but with children you always have to put them first. They always wanted me to have a life before I tied myself down like that.

“No, no, I’m just saying. I think that you and Justin are going to come to the stage where you either take that big leap to be with each other for the rest of your lives, or you don’t.” My dad shrugs. “But that’s just my opinion.”

Your opinion scares me shitless, dearest daddy. Marriage? Children? Of course, one day, but I doubt in the next year or two. If I wanted a promised, stable marriage with adorable children running around by the time I was twenty three, then I would have married Sean.

“Dad, where on earth is this coming from?” I ask in bewilderment, wondering whether they had broken all laws against it and given my father cannabis for medical uses.

“I’m just pointing out that you could be very happy with him, Catherine. Very, very happy. I mean look at you now, even as you’re worrying about me and your sister with her own marriage problems, you’re still in a better place than I’ve ever seen you. Justin has somehow managed to capture a little part of you and made your life worth living, right?”

“Um…”

“Catherine,” he sighs, and I can see him revving up for an inspirational, parental talk with me. “How many times have you been in love?”

“Twice.”

“Right, and presumably the second one is Justin?” I nod. “What does it feel like?”

“It’s not perfect, we have our issues…” I mutter uncomfortable. I suppose this is just the automatic response to a brush with death, but I don’t understand why my father is suddenly delving quite so deep into my relationship. My parents and I acknowledge that my love life and theirs are matters that don’t concern each other; I don’t want to hear about some fling my mother had in the seventies, or vice versa.

“But try to imagine your life without him. Try to picture not waking up beside him every day, try to think of you and Justin just…ceasing to exist as a couple.”

“It would be awful, I would be crushed. But why are you telling me this?”

“Because Catherine, love won’t always be like this. Let’s say you and Justin got married…you would have to work at it, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“That’s all I need you to remember Catherine, you have to work at it. Things don’t fall into place magically.”

“You’re really starting to make me worry, dad,” I say, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’ve only met Justin a few times. I didn’t realize you two were big buddies.”

“We’re not. I barely know the guy. But I can see the difference in you, and I know that he’s done something to you that no one has ever managed to do before.”

“Um…okay,” I reply slowly, frowning as I look to my mom, who shrugs.

“So just remember, even when things get tough, you must remember that he is worth the work, he is the one you’re supposed to be with, okay?”

“So you’re saying that even when things go bad, I just have to get through them because things will ultimately be beneficial for me?”

“More than beneficial Catherine, they’ll make the ride of your life a lot more enjoyable to take. Just remember that, okay?”

I hate these talks. I hate the times your parents sit you down, eye you with a concerned look, and then say something like, “Honey, life has its ups and downs, and you just have to cling on for dear life as you go over every hill…” It’s such an awkward position, because you want to listen to them and take on their valid advice, but at the same time you really don’t want to have to hear a bad version of Jerry’s Final Thought.

My parents kindly spare me on these talks usually, but…my father has got it bang on. Justin and I know that we’re either at the brink of something great or something terrible with our relationship. What if I encounter paparazzi on a larger scale and freak out? What if Justin’s jealous finally get the better of him and he completely loses his trust in me? Or equally, the other way around?

Is my father saying that for my own sake…for my happiness’ sake, no matter what hits us, I’ve got to stick it out? It would make sense, especially as the thousands of factors that are bound to hit us in the next few months with the release of his album and such could potentially ruin us…perhaps my dad is seeing this as the calm before the storm, so he’s cramming as much advice in as he can.

“Oh sorry, I have to go and pick up Cameron, but I’ll try and come by later, all right?” I say quickly, glancing at the clock.

“Great,” my mom says, standing up to give me a hug. “He’s just had a lot of time to think about things,” she whispers in my ear before pulling away, winking at me before I kiss my father on the cheek.

Justin. I sigh as I walk out of the hospital, kicking tufts of grass as I walk towards Cameron’s school to pick her up. Part of me is unwillingly to admit that yes, I miss Justin already. If he were here, he’d be full of jokes and laughter, but at the same time he’d know when to pull it back and be serious…but I refused to let him leave his work just to come down here and sort of hang around me, cheering me up when I asked him to. I know he would in a heartbeat if I asked him, but I won’t.

Doesn’t mean I don’t still wish he was here anyway.

Leaning against one of the trees in the schoolyard, I take a glance around the school I attended for goodness knows how many years when I was younger. I immediately spot the places that mean something to me; the side of the science building where I tried my first cigarette, the steps where I cried my eyes out on prom night because Matthew had danced with that bitch Sharon Kockanowski, the stream of girls in shorts and t-shirts clutching their sides as the butch gym teacher ordered them to run around the track one more time, just like I had done…

But now I couldn’t be happier. Were those dark, bleak days of my teenage years the price I had to pay for living so well now? Will every unhappy, chubby girl on campus all grow up to have a fantastic boyfriend that seems to offer her the world on a regular basis?

I hope so.

But how long can this last? Justin and I have been together for, let’s see…eight months? Something like that? I guess we could still be classified as being in “the honeymoon period”, and are yet to take off those rose-tinted spectacles. We do argue, we have thunderous altercations at times, but we also participate in those sickening make-ups and tell each other how much we love each other at regular intervals. Things won’t always be like this…in fact, I should probably start counting the days until we get bored of each other and go for weeks without speaking directly to each other.

“Auntie Catty!” A lisped voice screams, and suddenly I spot the bouncy head of curls on my niece’s head in the crowd of running children.

“Hey, Cammy,” I say, holding my arms out to her and grasping her in a hug. Despite my complaints that children are noisy, irritating and Satan’s minions, I love children more than anything in the world. Even chocolate.

How can you not love them? As I take Cameron’s hand and her pink Barbie backpack to lead her back to Sophie’s house, she starts to talk and talk and talk about…nothing, really. She bounces between what happened at school that day, to who her friends are, to how many stickers she has on her reading book. She could talk for days about nothing in particular, and there would be nothing anyone could do to stop her.

“And then Miss Brian said that my drawing was the best in the class!”

“Really?” I smile, gripping her hand as I look both ways before crossing the street.

“Yup. It had a dog, a cat, and a duck.”

“That’s great Cam.”

“My daddy’s gonna real like it, dogs are his favorite,” she says happily, jumping over a crack in the sidewalk.

I freeze, an uneasy, embarrassed feeling taking over me. “Well…he’s not home right now, but you can show it to him as soon as he gets back.”

“Oh yeah,” she pauses, protruding her bottom lip in a pout. “I forgot.”

Biting my lip, we continue walking, and Cameron quickly starts chatting about what happened at recess. She’s so in the dark, it’s horrible. When I arrived yesterday, I didn’t really have the chance to talk about Malcolm with Sophie. I was tired and went straight to see my dad, before falling asleep in Sophie’s spare room without talking to her about it. I don’t know why he’s gone, where he’s gone, or what the chances of him coming back are.

As Cameron starts to sing the new song she learnt at school that day, I try to get my head around the thought of someone leaving their own child. How can they do that? I thought the bond between a parent and their baby was indestructible. Perhaps for some, it isn’t.

When we arrive back at the house, I quickly set Cameron to work on coloring in a piece of paper as I calmly wait for Cameron to finish so I can take her out for a treat. At the same time, the phone rings in the hall and I reach over to pick it up, expecting Sophie.

“Hello?”

“Do you have any idea how many Sophie’s you have in your address book? It’s taken me fifteen minutes to get the right number!”

“Hey Justin,” I smile.

“Hi baby, what’s up?”

“Nothing much. I’m just back from the hospital and picking up Cameron.”

“How’s your dad?” he asks quietly.

I shrug. “He’s okay. Pretending that he’s fine and trying to worm his way out of there, of course. Oh, he told me that we should get married, though. Apparently I’m not going to get any better than you.”

Justin laughs, sending shivers down my spine even from hundreds of miles away.

“So I could be with you for the rest of my life,” I continue. “How depressing.”

“Don’t sound too pleased,” he teases.

“I’m not. Where are you?” I ask, clasping the phone to my ear and sitting down at the table with Cameron.

“We came home for a late lunch and Amber and Trace are still talking away, so I thought I’d give you a call. I found this and a million other numbers in your phone book. Do you know that have somebody called Horatio’s number?”

“Oh yeah. He was a stripper for my friend’s twenty first.”

“I’ll be scribbling out that name, then…”

Giggling, I stand up to get a carton of apple juice out for Cam. “How’s work?”

“It’s okay. We’ve got half of a song already, which is pretty cool for the first three days.”

“Good,” I reply, sticking a straw in for her. “Are there still cameramen hanging around you?”

“Yes,” he groans. “Even more, right on my doorstep. I almost flipped them off this morning.”

“Classy.”

“I was in a bad mood!” he moans, his whining voice tickling my ears. “Do you know how much it sucks not having you sleeping beside me?”

“I can only imagine.”

“Let’s make up for it…let’s have phone sex!” I giggle and hear the smile coming through in his voice. “Say something dirty.”

“Cameron just spilt her apple juice,” I reply with a broad grin, reaching over to get some towels to mop up the liquid.

“Ooh, that’s naughty.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “I’d better go. I can’t tie up Sophie’s line.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll call you later sweetheart.”

“Bye Justin. And Cameron says bye too,” I add, looking at the animated waving five year old.

He chuckles. “Bye to both of you beautiful ladies.”

Laughing, I hang up the phone and return it to its cradle, sighing contentedly as I sit back down with Cameron.

“Catty?”

“Yes?” I respond, turning away from gazing out of the window.

“Was that your special friend?”

A smile eases over my face. “You mean Justin, honey?” See the effect children have on me? I haven’t said honey for about three years, and it was presumably in reference to some bees’ product.

“Yeah,” she replies, frowning in concentration as she shades over the butterfly on the page. “Why isn’t he here?”

“He has to work, sweetie. Up in New York,” I reply, running a finger through her tight ringlets.

“Is he going to be your husband?”

Did Justin and I get engaged and I just forgot about it? Why is everyone buzzing about marriage that includes me and yet I have no clue about?

Then again, the thought of marrying Justin and having a dozen curly haired cherubs running about with high pitched voices is dangerously appealing. In fact, I can imagine nothing more pleasurable than being with Justin forever and ever and ever, until we’re both old and gray and talking about ‘the old days’.

Stop it Cat. You sound like one of those pathetic girls that daydreams about her wedding and picks the church before she’s even got a boyfriend. I must self impose a strict rule of never fantasizing about marrying Justin, no matter how appetizing it may be.

“I don’t know. Um…maybe,” I decide, an involuntary grin once again spreading across my face at the thought of me wearing a stunning Vera Wang creation dares to creep into my mind. “Yeah, maybe. But he would have to ask me first.”

“Are you going to have a baby with him?”

I laugh. “No, not yet.”

“If you have a baby, what will you call it?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” I smile, handing her the pink crayon she was reaching out for. “What do you think I should call it?”

She finishes the final flower with flourish. “Princess Cinderella.”

I stifle the snort and quickly nod. “Good idea. And if it’s a boy?”

She jumps down from her chair and potters over to a drawer, rooting around for some tape so she can stick her picture on the wall. “Usher. Aunt Dawn says he’s cool.”

I laugh and pick her up, her tiny chubby legs wrapping around my waist. “Oh really? And what does Aunt Dawn say about my Justin?”

Cameron smiles and shrugs, her fingers attacking the earrings that Trace gave me for my birthday. “She says he’s got a nice tummy.”

I laugh and spin her around a little, causing her to scream in delight. “So you think me and my special friend should have a baby?”

She nods quickly, the little blonde curls bouncing up and down. “A girl. ‘Cause girls are better than boys.”

“Oh, of course,” I agree, nodding. Smiling, I set her down on the ground and clasp her little hand in mine. “Tell you what…I’ll think about the baby, and we’ll go and get an ice cream. What do you say?”

She giggles and runs into the hall closet, picking out some sandals and trying to work the hook with great determination. Sighing, I bend down and do them for her, feeling her hand immediately returning to mine once I’m done.

“I’ve missed you lots and lots,” she says, standing on her tiptoes to open the front door.

Dropping a kiss on her forehead, I smile warmly. “I’ve missed you too.”

“And if you don’t marry Mr. Justin…can I?”

I laugh at pull out my sunglasses, shielding my eyes from the harsh glare of the sun as we walk along to the ice cream parlor. “Sure.”

“Seriously, I hate school. I can’t wait until I can just give it all up and leave that fucking hellhole.”

Nodding sympathetically, I prop my head up with my hand. “I know exactly how you feel. I despised school and everyone in it when I was your age.”

“I just feel as though I don’t fit in anywhere, you know?” my sister Dawn complains, swishing an elbow length strand of highlighted light brown hair over her shoulder. “It’s like…I’m not popular, but I don’t qualify to be a total loser, because I do have friends.”

“So you’re just…in between.”

“Yeah.”

“Dawn,” I sigh. “School is the biggest bitch in the world. It’s oppressive, it can suck any vigor that one may have towards their life, and everyone seems to be that little bit better than you.”

“Exactly!” she exclaims. “I mean, it’s just crawling with this pretty, popular bitches who all wear Versace, have flawless hair, and even though they’re all as clever as they are modest, everyone still seems to love them!”

“Schoolyard politics: they suck,” I state simply. “It’s not a just or fair society in most high schools, but that’s just the way it has to be.”

“Will it always be like this?” she asks miserably, falling back into her seat in a slumped position.

I snort. “I can assure you that when those pretty, popular bitches leave high school, they’ll find that being prom queen and having a good looking boyfriend means shit all in the real world. Half of them will be pregnant and living in a trailer by the time they’re twenty.”

“At least they’ve got boyfriends,” she mumbles, picking up a lock of her long hair and idly picking at the split ends.

“Dawn trust me, you do not want to get heavily involved when you’re in high school,” I warn, shaking my head. “I know this all too well.”

“Cat, I’ve never even had sex!” she suddenly exclaims, looking up from her hair to give me an angered look.

“Good!” I reply. “The longer you can put off sex, the better.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s bull. Everyone talks about how fantastic sex is.”

“Everyone’s full of shit,” I say bluntly. “Listen, I was your age when I first had sex and I can safely say that it did not benefit me at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because I started doing crazy shit like dropping out of college!” I justify, gesturing wildly with my arms as if to show how stupid I had been. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, because it’s not. Sex can make a good thing great, and it can really deepen your relationship. But, it introduces you to a whole new lorry load of worries that you never had to think about before, and it would just be better for you if you were at a more mature age to deal with those problems.”

“And what are those problems?” she says in a voice that tells me quite clearly she doesn’t believe me.

“Putting aside practical things such as pregnancy, sexual diseases and the chance you’ll wake up to the other side of the bed being empty; sex can make you doubt yourself to the extreme. Who am I doing this for, me or him? Am I doing this right? What if everyone thinks I’m a whore?” I shake my head. “It really isn’t worth it; not at your age. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

She throws her hands up in despair. “See? Everyone says that, and they’re all fucking patronizing me!”

“Dawn, I am really in no position to patronize; I’m just suggesting that it’s something you shouldn’t worry about at the moment.”

“But you did it.”

I roll my eyes. “Haven’t I ever warned you I’m stupid?”

She sighs. “It seems like everyone else is doing it except me; I’m just so boring, you know? I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t have sex…”

“Hold on a sec there, or I’ll start calling you Sandra Dee,” I grin, only to be met with an icy glare. “Sorry. But you shouldn’t look on the fact that you don’t indulge in teenage habits a bad thing. I know a lot of people your age are having sex and whatnot, and if that works for them, then great.”

“But I thought you said we were too young and immature,” she mumbles from her drooped sitting position.

“Well, a lot of the people your age probably are. I know I don’t regret sleeping with my boyfriend, but I regret what happened later, and I think sex intensified our relationship a lot and made me do things I wouldn’t have otherwise done. I don’t want to see you making the same incredibly stupid mistakes I did.”

Dawn lets out a frustrated sigh. “Well, nobody’s even remotely attracted to me, so don’t get yourself worried in the slightest. The chances of me having sex are about as likely as Christina Aguilera becoming a nun.”

I laugh and reach out to pat her leg. “You are so exactly like me when I was your age, do you know that?”

“Great,” she mumbles sarcastically. “You were a moody bitch.”

Just as I was ready to lash out with an insult, she grins to let me know she’s just teasing and stands up from the sofa, stretching from the sitting position we were in as we sat and caught up. Sometimes I feel so sorry for Dawn, all by herself with just our middle aged parents. At least I had Sophie to talk to, and even when she left for college she would come home and confide in me occasionally as I sat in my PJ’s, listening with wide eyes as she told me about the parties she’d been to or the friends she’d made. But Dawn is pretty much an only child since I left five years ago when she was twelve; Sophie’s got her family, and I’ve been in another state. It was really the worst time for me to leave, just as she was on the brink of the most crushing time of her life--her teen years.

But she’s alright. I know she’s at a horrible point in her life where she’s just finishing the transaction from child to adult, and right now her life probably seems as bleak as her mother’s funeral. I only hope I can somewhat inspire her to believe that she will pull through it. If I did, anyone can.

“You look good,” I comment, eyeing the flat stomach revealed by the riding up of her shirt as she stretches.

“Thanks,” she yawns. “I’ve started jogging.”

I cough in surprise. “What? Jogging?”

She shrugs casually. “Yeah, jogging.”

“But…why? And voluntarily…I don’t understand!” I smile, standing up and brushing off my pants.

She laughs. “Well, I’ve got prom coming up and I really didn’t want to look like a block of lard in my dress, so I decided to shed a few pounds.”

She says it as though being a block of lard is a bad thing. “I’ve been thinking about losing weight myself, actually,” I say, pinching at my hips. “Justin really wants to take one final vacation before his album drops, and knowing him it will be somewhere like Hawaii where beautiful women are as common as those garland things that they put around your neck.”

“You mean leis?”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, I want to be able to wear a bikini or at least a swimsuit without looking like a giant ball of dough.”

Dawn smiles. “You could wear a bikini now and you look just fine.”

I shrug. “I probably could, but I would feel too uncomfortable. I actually think I may be pregnant--there is no other explanation as to why my hips seem to have expanded so much.”

Stifling a laugh, she shakes her head. “Well, you must look half decent naked if you’re bedding Justin Timberlake.”

“True…” I agree, letting a smug grin creep onto my face. “But it’s a bit depressing when your boyfriend’s got a smaller ass than you do.”

She giggles and links her arm through mine. “You could always come running with me. I like to drop into the bakery on the way back and pick up a muffin,” she laughs. “Why burn off those calories if you’re not going to replace them with other ones?”

“That is so true,” I muse, letting her lead me out of the house and into the sparkly new car my parents’ unwillingly bought her for her seventeenth birthday. “Where are we going?”

“Shopping,” she replies, stepping into the silver jeep.

“But I hate shopping.”

“But I have to prepare a welcome home party for dad,” she mocks. “And plus, I kinda…I kinda like talking to you,” she adds shyly. “I don’t really have anyone else to speak with about this stuff,” she shrugs, putting the keys in the ignition.

“Well, I’m not sure if I’m the best person to come to for advice,” I laugh.

She smiles. “You’re okay. I was worried you’d be all Hollywood when you came back, but you’re still the same.”

“And how is that a good thing?” She giggles. “I’m just kidding, I like talking to you too. It must be hard being left with just mom and dad.”

She rolls her eyes and reverses. “Don’t I know it. Mom would completely freak out if she had an inkling that I even knew what the term sex meant.”

“Hence the reason mom still thinks I’ll be wearing white to my wedding,” I grin.

“Speaking of weddings, thrill my virgin ears and tell me how things are with Justin,” she asks, running straight through a red light.

“Dawn, slow down,” I order, gripping at my armrest as the jeep speeds past an old lady looking to cross the road. “And we’re fine, thank you.”

“Just fine? I thought you guys were on the brink of marriage.”

“Why is everyone saying that?” I huff, rolling my eyes. “We’ve never even talked about marriage.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it, though,” she grins mischievously, halfheartedly looking to the right to make sure there are no cars coming before speeding on. “Have you ever seen yourself when you mention his name? You go all wistful and start whimpering about how great he is.”

“Do I?” I ask in a surprise. If I’ve turned into one of those ‘isn’t he dreamy?’ girls I may have to gauge out my own eyes with cutlery just to stop some sort of longing expression I possible have when I talk about my significant other. It’s so annoying when people do that; you just want to give them a harsh slap to bring them down to earth.

“Yeah. It takes you five minutes to get back into the conversation.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Well…I can’t help it!” I defend, feeling a grin tugging at my lips. “He’s just so…”

“Cat, please.”

“Sorry, sorry… But back to my point, who started this marriage crap?”

She shrugs. “Well, now that dad seems to be thinking he’s got to dish out as much insightful advice as he can in case he suddenly drops dead, he’s taken it one step further. And after you guys came up for Thanksgiving, everyone was buzzing about how in love you were, blah blah blah,” she rolls her eyes. “Ever since you have been in New York, people are saying you’re either going to break up or get married.”

“That’s what dad said,” I mumble, staring out of the window. “And who are these ‘people’?”

“Sophie, that prick that she married, mom and dad, Aunt Janice, that woman with the weird second name that used to live next door…basically everyone that you guys met at thanksgiving.”

“I hate it when people talk about my love life,” I whine. “It puts on way too much pressure.”

“Don’t feel too bad. They said you might get pregnant too.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “Oh, what a comfort.”

She grins and haphazardly parks the car in the parking lot of the mall. “I know.”

“I just wish people could just leave us as we are and not psychoanalyze our relationship. I worry and think about it enough for everyone. The last thing I want is people backing up my theories.”

“And what are your theories?” she asks, slamming the door shut and slinging her purse over her shoulder.

I shrug. “Well, sometimes with Justin I just…wonder. I mean, we’re both insecure in our own little ways, and we have completely different outlooks on life, we don’t really share the same interests…” I trail off and find myself in Old Navy. “And yet, I just can’t imagine my life without him.”

“How are you insecure?” Dawn asks, sifting through the sizes of a blue t-shirt with a flower design in the corner.

I snort. “How am I not? I get so paranoid and wonder what the hell is he doing with me? He’s a world famous obnoxious celebrity and I’m a judgmental, sarcastic normal girl. How can the two mix?” I sigh and rifle through my own rack of tops with plunging necklines. “Weirdly enough though, I don’t get worried about him with other women like he does with me and men. Well, apart from that emaciated producer of his, but that’s thoroughly justifiable.”

Dawn laughs. “So Justin’s a little jealous?”

“A little?” I laugh. “He seems to think that any man that comes within a two foot radius of me is desperate to sleep with me. And that, as much as I would love for it to be the case, is ridiculous. At the very mention of ex boyfriends he gets so menstrual and catty, saying stupid things like, ‘ugh, well, I bet they weren’t as good in bed as I am’.”

She giggles at my impression. “He doesn’t seem like the kind to doubt himself.”

“It’s only when it comes to me. Otherwise, he’s quite the Narcissus; he spent fifteen minutes staring at his stomach from all different angles in the mirror just so he could see how the light reflected on his abdominals.”

Dawn shrugs. “Well, he has got rippling muscles.”

I sigh and lean against the racks of clothing. “Yeah.”

Before I can completely dip into a delicious Justin-reverie, Dawn turns and slaps my arm. “Cat, wake up. He’s not here, you can fulfill whatever sex fantasy you have right now when you get back to New York.”

“I am not having a sex fantasy!” I hotly deny in a whisper. “You pointed it out, not me.”

She grins. “So tell me, how good does he look naked?”

I can’t stop the smile that swoops over my face. “I could try and get you a picture, if you want.”

Her eyes widen and she whips around. “Seriously?”

“No, but I could describe it in graphic, almost porn-esque detail if you’d liked.”

She smiles and pulls out one of the blue tops, grasping my hand and steering me towards the changing room. “That’ll do.”

“I mean, I guess I could marry him…” I ponder as she slips into a changing room, before shaking my head at myself. “What am I saying…of course I would. But I can’t help but think we must look ridiculous together. Kinda like Beauty and the Beast…and let’s put it this way, Justin isn’t no beast.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she calls out from inside the stall. “Everyone thinks you guys are great together. If they were skeptical of one of you, it would be Justin.”

“Why on earth would it be Justin?”

“Because you’re this high powered intellectual that hates people with an IQ lower than 120 and he’s this pop star whose spelling abilities are limited to his autograph. Or that’s how it may seem.”

“Justin’s quite clever,” I reply, opening the curtain and leaning against the side of the wall, looking at Dawn’s top. “He just doesn’t show it.”

“And you’re quite sexy, but you don’t show it,” she retorts, looking at me in the mirror.

“I’m not sexy,” I snort. “I couldn’t seduce a cucumber.”

She laughs, turning around to look at her reflection from all sides. “Of course you are. You’ve got great boobs.”

My hands instinctively reach up to my chest. “Really?”

“Sure. You should show them off more.”

“I don’t think so, Dawn,” I reply shyly, blushing slightly and looking at the floor.

“Don’t be so prude, Cat. See, you’ve got quite a small waist too. You should wear corsets or something.”

“What?” I exclaim. “Corsets? This is the twenty first century, Dawn. Not the eighteenth.”

“Maybe one of those thingies from Victoria’s Secret. You know, give Justin a little surprise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I snap, my blush deepening, glancing out of the cubicle in case anyone might have heard us.

“But you’d look good.”

“I would look absurd.”

“Don’t you do that kind of stuff for him?” she asks, twirling around.

“What stuff?”

“Sexy underwear, little outfits…I thought all couples indulged in games like that.”

I raise my eyes heavenward and shake my head. “Not exactly. Sex is not quite the whole, ‘Naughty Nurse and Frisky Fireman’ playful outfits that everyone with a fantastically rampant sex life has in the movies.”

“So what’s it like?” she murmurs quietly, looking down and picking at the hem of her shirt.

I smile. “You’ll just have to see for yourself.” Suddenly, years of preaching slapped me in the face and I hurriedly continue. “When you’re older, I mean. And using protection. And not doing it because your friends told you to.”

She laughs. “And in love.”

I grin. “That too.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’m cheating on Cat.

It’s true. I, Justin Randall Timberlake, am cheating on Catherine Grace Saunders, and I don’t even feel the tiniest ounce of guilt. In fact, I couldn’t be happier.

My intense love affair with my cell phone started exactly five days ago, when Cat first left. I have grown to worship that phone more than my new album; I’m surprised I haven’t built a shrine to it in my basement or joined some cult venerating the wonders of modern communication. Every day, at seven thirty two precisely, the little silver gadget that always seems to be banging against my leg as it lays in my pocket, starts to rings frantically, and I lose multiple cool points to pick it up hastily. Amber and Trace know not to speak to me, not to touch me, not to even make eye contact with me as soon as that phone greets my ear, but to just leave me alone as I whine into the phone how much I miss Cat.

I hate this. I loathe being one of those guys that becomes the bitch in every situation because they’re just so head over heels for their girl; they let down their guard and forget that they’re supposed to be macho. The sooner Cat gets back, the sooner I can return to my usual, rugged manliness, because I know I’m quite a masculine person by nature. When I tried to tell Trace this, he started to laugh quite hysterically. I wonder why?

“So technically repeating this beat on the hook would--”

“Excuse me,” I quickly interrupt as the shrill ring of my cell phone resounds in the room. It’s time. “Can I take this?”

Amber obviously swallows her frustrated sigh and nods, her layered hair bouncing. “Of course.”

Grinning at her, I quickly snap it open and exit our recording room, shutting the door behind me. “Hey baby.”

“How did you know it was me?” her voice laughs.

“Caller ID. But also you always seem to pick a time to call when Amber’s about to launch into some intricate sermon about music. It really pisses her off.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I always thought I was her sunshine, her only sunshine, making her happy when skies were gray.”

Laughing, I shake my head. “When are you going to let her upbeat surname go?”

“When she changes it.”

“Anyway, how are things?” I swiftly move on, knowing that if I let Cat continue, and I really wish I could, she would point out every single one of Miss Sunflower’s flaws in such an amusing fashion I would never be able to look at Amber with a straight face again.

Cat’s good at that. During one of her hilarious anti-celebrity rants, she was saying something about how ridiculous Hugh Hefner was, and then put in the rather amusing image of him dying on top of one of his exploits in my head. Needless to say, when I passed him in the hall a few weeks ago at a business meeting, accompanied by a bevy of beautiful blonde women of course, I had to bite my lip with brutal force to stop laughing.

“Good. I just put Cameron to bed, and I got to spend some time with Dawn today, which was great.”

“Cool. What did you two do?”

“Just sister things,” she says happily. “Went shopping, talked about men and sex. Girl stuff.”

“She’s not having sex, is she?” I exclaim, somehow not linking the shy, slightly star struck girl I met at Thanksgiving with a cosmopolitan-drinking sexual temptress.

“Sorry, but I can’t break the sister’s rule of silence by telling you that.” She suddenly giggles. “No, she’s not. She was mainly asking things she can’t ask my mom.”

“Mmm, and did you reflect on your own experiences?” I ask slyly, raising my eyebrows.

“Yes, I did. That’s why Dawn has taken a vow of celibacy and has promised to never engage in sexual pleasure with a man, even if his nickname is Trousersnake,” she says, and I can hear the grin on her face.

“Excuse me, but before you were with me you were not having--”

“Justin!” she quickly interrupts. “I was kidding. I said it was a mind-blowing experience and that your admirable prowess was a sexual awakening for poor, virginal me.”

“Really?” I beam.

“No.”

“So how are things with Sophie?” I continue.

She groans. “Complicated. Malcolm’s called her, and I think they’re going to meet up and talk things out, but I’m not sure. I need to take care of Cameron if she leaves.”

“But Cat,” I draw out slowly. “I really want you back here. I need you back here.”

“Why?”

“The press are sort of slowly ebbing away, but they’re still there and okay, I admit I may have given the finger to a few of them…”

“Justin! That is so low class.”

“Don’t pull highbrow crap on me, baby. They are so fucking annoying!” I exclaim, kicking the wall in frustration.

“I understand that, but you’re just provoking them.”

I’m silent, before a whiny, “Caaat, stop being logical!” crawls out of my throat. “It feels good to flip them the old birdie.”

“And I’m sure it feels good when they get an unreasonable sum of money to sell pictures of Justin Timberlake acting like a wannabe hard ass nineteen year old.”

“I am not a wannabe,” I reply quickly. “I really am a hard ass.”

“Of course you are, Justin. And I’m really Mother Theresa reincarnated.”

I laugh. “It’s possible.”

“How’s recording going?” she asks politely. “Come up with any ingenious rhymes such as love, glove and dove today?”

I chuckle. “No, today it was you, blue, and true.”

“Oh, wasn’t there a Madonna song like that? ‘True blue baby, I love you!’,” she sings.

“Yeah, but mine runs along a much deeper, profound line,” I grin. “My philosophical and heartfelt words come have been the poetic creation of Shakespeare himself.”

“And they are?” she asks slowly.

“I love you, so don’t be blue, to you I will always be true,” I make up instantly on the spot. The sad thing is, it really does sound like something I might sing.

A silence falls on the other end of the line. “You are joking, right?”

“Cat, it’s almost as though you’re saying my song lyrics are overused or insincere,” I reply in a shocked voice, trying to hold back my grin.

Another silence envelops her. She always teases me for rhyming stupid words together or writing cheesy lyrics, but if she thinks I’m being serious then she’ll say it’s the best thing ever written. “No, no of course not. I didn’t mean it like that at all, I just meant that lyrics can often contain words that have nothing to do with each other, but people just use them because they rhyme…not that yours do, of course. They’re great, it’s going to sound wonderful, I’m sure…” she rambles, much to my amusement.

“Don’t worry baby, I was just joking,” I smile, hearing her sigh of relief. “My songs are yet to reach that level of crapness.”

“Sorry, did you not hear that God song?”

“That was a good song!”
She giggles and mutters, “I know, I’m just teasing.”
“And what are your plans for the rest of the evening, Miss Saunders?” I ask, leaning against the wall and smiling.

“Oh, it’s funny you should ask that. Well, when I was picking up Cam from a party today I ran into an old friend of mine and we arranged to go out for drinks.”

“Oh really?” I stretch and adjust the navy blue baseball cap adorning my curls. “That’s cool.”

“I know, I haven’t spoken to him in years. He used to be my fr--”

“I’m sorry, what?” I interrupt, my actions frozen as .

“What?” she mimics, oblivious to my concern.

“It’s a he?”

“Yes,” she says slowly, as though there’s nothing wrong with it.

“What are you doing with him?”

“We’re just having a drink, that’s all,” she replies defensively. “It’s not like I’m embarking on a rampant affair with him.”

“How can I believe that when I’m up here and you’re down there, all alone, I might add, with some asshole!” I snap into my cell phone.

She lets out an exasperated sigh of disappointment. “Are you being serious?”

“Deadly serious, Cat. I don’t want you to go out with him.”

“Justin, I’m not going out with him. We’re just having a drink together and catching up, that’s all.”

“That’s what it may seem to you, Cat, but to him, it’s the perfect opportunity to fulfill his high school fantasy. Can’t you see he‘s just trying to get you drunk so he can take advantage of you?”

A high-pitched giggle travels down the line, and I roll my eyes. She’s laughing? She’s laughing? Would she laugh if I were locked in a house with girls running around in little cotton panties? Don’t think so.

I can see it all now; Cat walks into some seedy bar, clutching at her purse, her eyes darting around self-consciously. Some dark brooding man sitting in the corner waves her down. She slides in next to him, and he orders her a double shot of vodka before she can explain she doesn’t really like vodka all that much. Two hours and eight shots later, an inebriated Cat is taken back to the stranger’s home and in his sleazy little shack in the middle of the forest, he does the unthinkable: he takes my girl.

“What is so funny?” I snap.

“Justin, you are too cute. Obsessively possessive, yes, but cute nonetheless.” She sighs. “I have no idea exactly how you’ve managed to conjure up a steamy affair within a two second time allotment, but I can assure you it’s ridiculous, not to mention impossible.”

“Is it?”

“Of course!” she laughs again. “Look, what do you think he was doing at a kid’s birthday party?”

“Probably seducing some young girl with pigtails--perhaps he likes them young.”

She laughs again as my face remains in its stony frown. “Close, but no. He was picking up his son. He’s married, with two children.”

My mouth clamps shut and I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes,” she giggles. “And if you had waited for me to finish my story, I would have told you he used to be friend’s boyfriend and how we all wanted her to dump him because he wasn’t the best looking guy. Honestly Justin, you are just so melodramatic.”

“I am not melodramatic,” I scoff, scowling and shifting my hat again. “I’m just protecting what’s mine.”

A gasp escapes her lips. “Excuse me? What’s…yours?”

“You know what I meant,” I roll my eyes. “Look,” I groan, preparing an unwilling apology, “I’m sorry I pounced on you. But I just miss you so much, I can’t help if I’m a little…”

“Crazy?”

“Thanks,” I snort. “It’s just…you’re all by yourself down there. If something goes wrong, I can’t protect you.”

She sighs and is quiet for a moment. “Why would I want anyone else when I have you?” she says softly.

“I miss you,” I mumble, digging the toe of my black sneakers into the floor. “I want you back home, where I can keep you safe.”

“Justin,” she moans, and I can hear her running a hand through her hair. “Don’t make this any harder than it already is. You know I want to come home.”

“When will you, then?”

“You know I don’t know the answer to that.”

“Okay, I’ll back off,” I murmur. “But just to be on the safe side, be careful with your friend. Don’t leave him alone with your drink--he might slip some pill into it.”

She giggles but abruptly stops. “Affirmative, Mr. Timberlake.”

“And make sure you take a cell phone with you in case of an emergency.”

“Of course. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Love you, baby.”

“Love you too, Justin,” she says with a sigh.

I click the phone shut with a moan, and tilt my head back, banging it against the dark red wall of the recording studio.

When is she coming back?

-----------------------------------------

I’m going to die.

Or perhaps I’m already dead, and my sins have placed me in hell. Damn, I wish I had never stolen that candy bar from the grocery store when I was eight.

The hard concrete of the sidewalk greets the pad of my foot, one after the other, sending a jolt through my leg each time. And because life is the biggest bitch in the world, every time I stop moving a sharp pain runs the bones in my legs; starting at my ankles and finishing at the top of my thighs. My breath comes out as short gasps for air, as though there are a million little hands trying to grab at some form of oxygen to keep my body going.

The sun that seems to have suddenly sprouted from nowhere breaks through the misty dark clouds, slowly pushing them away and shining down onto the back of my neck. The hasty ponytail that my hair was pulled in as I woke up swings irritatingly to and fro, dancing between my shoulder blades. If I had a knife, I’d probably just chop it off. Or perhaps kill myself.

I fucking hate jogging.

“Dawn…” I pant, my feet plodding endlessly on the gray sea of asphalt. “Dawn!” I shout with more vigor.

“Yeah?” she responds, glancing back at me as her painfully long hair swings over her shoulder.

“There’s only so much lactic acid my body can handle,” I groan, stopping and bending over, placing my hands on my knees to steady myself.

“You’re doing great. I thought you’d be more unfit than this.”

I slowly raise my eyes to stare at her, hoping my stony glare is transmitting my “shut the hell up” message. My labored breathing echoes in the still morning air. Christ, anyone with half a brain is still curled up in bed. Why the hell am I spending a Sunday morning hitting the streets of Beachwood, Ohio when I’d rather be buried in the sheets of Sophie’s guest room, watching dreadful morning television?

“How can you do this every morning?” I moan, bring the back of my shin up and stretching my hamstring.

She shrugs and wipes the sweat from her brow. “I use prom as an incentive.”

“And what can be mine?”

She turns it over in my mind for a moment, before replying, “Victoria’s Secret corsets?”

I stare at her for a moment, contemplating a lengthy discussion on women’s independence and femininity, before shaking my head. “Let’s keep on going.”

“So, what time is dad coming back?” she asks, picking up a steady pace.

“Dunno,” I answer. “Three?” I see I’ve had to resort to fragmented sentences. Fab.

“S’at mean you’re going back to New York soon?” she asks.

“Probably,” I reply. “It’s been a week.”

“Oh…no,” she pants sarcastically.

Giving her a shove, I speed up. “Shut up, or I’ll tell Justin you used to call yourself Miss Nsync.”

“Don’t!” she exclaims, racing to catch up with me. “Don’t you dare!”

I manage a short laugh, before my lungs remind me that breathing has priority over jolliness. Finally, Sophie’s white brick house comes into view, and as much as I want to sprint over to it, my legs let me down and I plod pathetically through the brown picket fence to her front door.

“Well hello, my little joggers,” she snorts after opening the door, sipping a cup of coffee in her pajamas. “I was just about to fetch out my camera to catch you two in this wonderful moment.”

I glare at her and push past her to the bathroom, taking one glance at my horrible appearance and sucking in my breath. With my hair slicked back and my skin shiny, I look…vile.

“At least you’ve done a third of your exercise for this week,” Dawn says, leaning against one of the wooden stools in the kitchen and stretching.

“Christ, I am not doing this another two times,” I mutter, splashing some cold water onto my face and cursing the mirror. It’s clearly made me look ten times worse than I really do; yeah, that’s it. It’s the mirror’s fault.

The three Saunders sisters sat down at the table; Sophie ran her fingers over the rim of her cup, Dawn concentrated on her shoelaces, and I contemplated attacking some sort of chocolate pastry in order to replenish any calories I burned on my run.

“Oh, Cat, Justin called while you were out last night,” says Sophie, breaking the silence.

I smile. “What did he say?”

“Actually, he was calling to ask me who your friend was,” Sophie giggles. “Whether he was good-looking, successful, you know. He sounded a little jealous.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s a lot jealous. He always is.”

She nods and sips her milky coffee. “He seems very eager to have you back.”

“I know,” I reply softly. “We’ve never really spent more than a weekend away from each other before; we’re a little reliant on each other’s presence.”

“When are you heading back?”

“Whenever I’m not needed,” I reply, shrugging. “I do miss him.”

“Then why are you still here?” Dawn laughs. “Dad’s fine…Sophie, you’re managing, right?”

She nods and looks at me shyly. “I will be when Malcolm moves back in next week.”

I gasp. “Really? You’re sure?”

She beams and nods happily. “Well, you guys know we’ve been talking it out these past few days, and I think we’ve got things sorted. He was under too much pressure at work, as was I, we were never seeing each other…but we’re going to see how things go. After all, he really misses Cameron, and vice versa.”

“That’s great,” Dawn and I say in unison, reaching over to hug Sophie. I stifle the voice inside of me that says Malcolm is still a stupid bastard and congratulate her. After all, she loves him, Cameron loves him, and he loves them back. I suppose that’s all that really matters.

I also stifle the voice that brings out the party hats because…

I can finally go home.

------------------------------------------

Excitement tingles through my veins, lighting my body with nervous energy.

He has no idea.

Three days after my dad was home, Malcolm was back, and things had somewhat settled down into the weirdness that my home life always had been, I rang up the airline and proudly announced that I wanted to schedule my return to NY, New York City, The Big Apple…

Home.

I didn’t want to leave Ohio like a bolt of lightening as soon as things had gained a semblance of what they had been before, so I hung around pointlessly for a few days, doing odd jobs like going out and buying my dad a chocolate shake and taking Dawn shopping for her prom outfit, which of course we never found, due to our conflicting wardrobe likes.

Two weeks is not a long time. It’s fourteen days, so that’s what…336 hours? Yes, about that. And it’s around a twenty-sixth of a year, if we’re talking fractions. A mere half a month, is another way of looking at it. So, in conclusion, two weeks is not a long time.

Or so I thought.

Being away from Justin certainly had its benefits; I didn’t have to hear his and Trace’s mind-numbingly stupid conversations that always seemed to begin with “You know what’s great about orgasms…” or one of their ‘worthy’ debates that run along the lines of “Oral sex is better than anything else: discuss”. I even got to walk down the street without even worrying a cameraman might suddenly jump out screaming, ‘you’re on candid camera!’ and then strew my face across every magazine cover in the country.

But these benefits…these reimbursements were meaningless when I would wake up in the morning and miss his daily praise of cereal, or would go a whole day without hearing him make some utterly stupid comment such as “You know, homeless people look really short. Maybe it’s because they’re sitting down”. I missed him, having grown so accustomed to his…Justinness. Having him suddenly yanked away from was like being told I wasn’t allowed to breathe anymore; it was just unfathomable.

Hearing the elevator bing its way up through the various storeys, my grin widens. Over the past few days, I’ve been deliberately ignoring his calls–I can never keep a secret and I desperately wanted to surprise. So, whenever the name ‘J-Dawg’ came up on my screen, I smiled and canceled the call.

He has no idea.

Finally, the long black arrow points towards the top floor–Justin’s floor. Almost shivering with excitement, I quickly step out of the elevator and slip my key into the lock, turning it as noiselessly as I can. I caught a flight early in the morning, so that I could catch him before he rushed off to the studio. Hell, if I have my way, he’ll forget the studio and we’ll spend all day together, being a saccharine sweet couple. I think I deserve it; I never even got to kiss him goodbye.

Creeping into the apartment, I lean forward, putting the weight on the balls of my feet, so that the heels on my plum-colored sandals don’t tap on the polished wooden floor. The apartment is oddly still: I don’t hear Trace whistling, or Justin singing, just silence. Glancing at my watch and realizing it’s only eight o’clock, I assume they’re both still asleep. That’s even better; I can think of interesting ways to wake Justin up.

Slowly, I set my bag down and smile, looking around at my surroundings. Things are still the same; in fact, surprisingly clean, seeing as Justin and Trace have been left to their own cleaning devices, as I was gone. I tiptoe into the kitchen, nodding approvingly at the washed dishes and cleaned counters. My boys have been good boys.

The large hanging calendar on the wall catches my attention, and I let out a gentle, girlish sigh at a large red X filling the day that I left. Of course, there was an equally large red arrow pointing to it, proclaiming that Justin was ‘gay’, but I shook my head at Trace’s handwriting and left the kitchen, smiling to myself.

My feet sink into the plush beige carpet on the stairs, and I quickly hop up them, biting my lip in anticipation. At the summit of the stairs, I tug at my tight fitting, ever so slightly cleavage-revealing top that Dawn insisted I have, and smooth down the black skirt that is just a little shorter than I’m comfortable with. Taking a breath, I smile excitedly, ready to cross the hall into Justin’s bedroom.

He has no idea.

As my right foot makes its move forwards onto a dark burgundy rug on the floor, my breath hitches in my throat. My stomach plummets to the floor painfully, and my heart does an agonizing display of acrobatics in my chest. It feels as though someone has poured burning wax into my heart and left it there to congeal and stain my insides forever.

Amber closes the bathroom door behind her carefully, letting it shut quietly. She gasps upon seeing me, and instinctively reaches to cover herself, although there’s little she can do in the large t-shirt I’ve seen Justin don on numerous occasions that hangs over a pair of black panties. Her short, auburn hair is tousled her eyes are bright; there’s no mistaking her radiant morning after glow. She's spent the night here and, even worse, she's spent that night having sex.

I had no idea.

Ever single cliché that I never thought possible seemed to apply to me. My breath caught in my throat, my heart skipped a beat, my eyes widened. All those silly formulaic lines that are sprinkled over books and magazines were applied to my stunned body. If I hadn’t been struck by my anger so quickly, I would have probably suffered some kind of heart attack due to the absence of oxygen thanks to my lack of breathing.

And when I say my anger struck me, I mean it hit me like a thousand spiked bricks being hurled towards me at lightening speed. Suddenly, any of the hurt or confusion that had abruptly boiled in my system started simmering down to pure, unadulterated…anger. Fury. Rage. Any other noun that possibly describes uncontrollable ferocity. Instead of standing in a shocked daze, my breathing became heavy and fast, as though I had just run a hundred meter sprint.

How could he do this to me? No…really…how could he? I had heard his sob stories about his other girlfriends cheating on him, just like the rest of the world had, and being the complete idiot that I am, I believed him. I truly believed that Justin Timberlake had a quality that few men or women across the globe could boast: faithfulness.

I was wrong. So, so wrong. And I hate him for it. It isn’t helped by the fact I spent the whole plane ride back to New York daydreaming about the warm, fuzzy feeling that would settle in the pit of my stomach if I saw Justin’s smiling face at the end of a church aisle, and how fantastic he would look in a wedding tux. It isn’t helped by the fact my whole family is insistent that I marry him because a) it’s not like I can do any better and b) we’re perfect for each other, in an illogical, nonsensical way. It isn’t helped by the fact my only alternative to bursting into upset tears is to get radically pissed off and shout at someone, only to find there’s no one to shout at.

Amber’s wide set green eyes stare at me, still spacious from the surprise of seeing me. “Cat! You’re back!” she smiles at me brightly, revealing a sparkling row of white teeth. “We weren’t expecting you for quite some time now.”

Clearly.

“How was Ohio?” she asks politely, crossing her arms over her chest, seeming only a trifle embarrassed to be caught in my boyfriend’s t-shirt and not much else first thing in the morning.

Is she crazy? Does she now realize how much I want to tug at her short, fashionably tousled hair until there’s nothing left? Doesn’t she know how much I despise every breath of air she takes? Is she not aware of the hot angry tears that are burning in my eyes, and my devoted refusal to let them fall?

“Are you alright? You look a little…off,” she suggest, peering at me curiously.

I glare at her incredulously. It wouldn’t exactly take a genius to realize that I’ve found her and Justin out. And yet she maintains her nonchalant, polite manner. Ah, I see. So not only is Miss Hobag an immoral whore, she’s stupid too.

Congratulations, Amber, you’re a wonderful asset to the human species.

Although I should probably spare the sarcasm with her; she simply doesn’t have the brains to understand it.

Without saying a word, I brush past her, and when I say brush I mean roughly push, into Justin’s room. I swing the door open, hearing it ricochet off the wall and bang loudly, letting a pocket of light from the hallway flood the dark room. My eyes dart over Justin’s angelic sleeping form sprawled across the bed to the tightly shut curtains, refusing to let in the slightest bit of light.

Furiously exhaling a lungful of angry air, I stomp over to the curtains, brutally ripping them open. The morning sun pours in, bathing the room in light, but Justin simply emits a few groans before rolling over away from the window, draping a muscular arm over his eyes. My eyes take a little gander over his cross tattoo and onto his chest, observing the deep grooves of muscle artfully sculpted into his body, down the little line of downy hair on his stomach, disappearing under the sheet, leading to what I can only imagine is…

No, Cat, no. That is completely off topic and irrelevant. Stop it.

I need to do something. Something that will snap him out of his post-sex slumber and make him as pissed off as I am. If he could only feel the nervous shaking of my stomach, as though someone has simply stuck a knife in my insides and proceeded to turn it in rotation, over, and over, and over again.

Seizing a stuffed toy cat he bought me months ago, when I was angry at him and Sean and stormed off to Diane’s and he bought it as a peace offering…whatever, I don’t remember. Regardless of its origin, I hurl it towards the bed. The small cat bounces off his hard body and lands with a soft thump a few meters away, but provokes a slight stir from him. He shuffles in the bed, rubs his eyes, and turns over towards the window, squinting at the sun.

But it’s not enough. Being temporarily blinded by the morning light cannot possibly create the same gut-churning feeling in my stomach as I stare at him, my perfect little world coming crashing down with a resounding bang. Wedding? Pft, there will be no wedding. There will be no relationship; there will be no Cat and Justin.

There will just be me. Alone. Again.

I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later; I was the chubby little girl that got her ten seconds of happiness. My mind tells me to be grateful, as some people don’t even get as much. I just wish my heart would follow suit.

I wonder whether he was going to tell me he had cheated on me. Would he have just written it off as a one time thing and never spoken of it again? Would he and Amber have embarked on some strictly screwing relationship behind my back? Or would he just have dumped me and started to date the malnourished twig who is named after a particularly ugly plant? It could be any of the three.

The choking feeling of tears creeps up my throat, like ivy wrapping around a tree. I swallow desperately, trying to ignore the stinging sensation in my eyes and channel more energy into the slowly dwindling anger. Hate him Cat, hate him for what he’s done to you. You can deal with the bitch later--just breathe on her and she’ll snap in two.

“Cat?” comes a low grumble from the shifting figure on the bed. “Cat…is that you?”

No. It’s the angel of the Lord. “Yes it’s me,” I reply, in what I had planned to be a confident voice, but what actually sounded like a five year old who had just been told off.

“Baby?” he smiles weakly, trying to sit up as he rubs his eyes again. “Are you back?”

My natural instinct was to run towards the bed and jump on it, engulfing Justin in a hug as I did so, and perhaps shower him with kisses to show him my jubiliation about returning. But I manage to harness my natural instincts and stay frozen by the window, staring at him blankly.

“It looks like it, right?” I manage to strangle out frostily. My hand unconsciously reaches behind me to grip the curtain material for support, much like a child would do if they were crossing the road.

He gives me a confused look, before washing it away with a smile. “Well, c’mere girl,” he says, holding his arms out for a hug.

My grip on the curtain tightens. “I don’t think so.”

He frowns slightly. “Why not?” He grins slightly. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that that skirt exposes copious amounts of sexy legs, Miss Saunders. And what’s been up with your cell? I haven’t been able to get in touch wit--”

“I suppose you’ve been having your fill of sexy legs lately, huh?” I interrupt, looking down at the carpet.

He opens his mouth to reply, before pausing. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Justin. I’m not as stupid as you think,” I viciously retort, locking eyes with him. “I mean Christ, you don’t even have the audacity to look ashamed.”

“Ashamed about what?” he asks, kneeling on the bed and letting the comforter slip to reveal little black boxer shorts covered in bright red hearts, which I bought for valentine’s day as a joke.

He’s fucking her in our bed, beneath our sheets, and he’s wearing my valentine’s joke. Bastard bitch bastard. I hope they both die from…looking too good or something.

“Oh wow Justin, I didn’t know you were an actor too,” I snap sarcastically, pushing myself away from the window to pace the room. “Honestly, I was trying to surprise you and all I see when I get back is…”

“Is what?” he asks in a frustrated voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Bullshit,” I reply angrily. “You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about!”

“No I don’t!”

“Honestly Justin, I was taking care of my sick father, and you took that as an opportunity to fuck around? God, that’s twisted,” I mutter, turning away from him and glaring at the very interesting shade of blue on the wall.

“Cat, have you finally gone crazy?” he says loudly. “For some reason, this isn’t exactly how I saw us reuniting!” he says sarcastically.

“Don’t act like this is my fault!”

“Like what is your fault?” he groans in an exasperated voice, shifting his weight on the bed.

“You’re full of shit, do you know that?”

“Cat, just tell me what I’ve done to get this Ice Queen Bitch attitude from you.”

“You know full well what’ve you done!” I exclaim, spinning around. “Jesus Justin, drop the Bible Boy act for just one moment and admit you did something wrong!”

“Fuck this, Cat! I’ve done fuck all wrong, and you know it! Who the hell are you to accuse me of…well, I don’t even know what the hell it is!” he shouts, his once sleepy appearance suddenly alert and angry.

“Don’t speak to me like that!” I defend, narrowing my eyes at him.

“What the hell is wrong with you!” he barks, shaking his head at me. “You won't even tell me what I've supposedly done!"

“You were supposed to love me!” I suddenly scream, silencing him. “And you don’t, you just fucked me over…just like I should’ve known you would!”

“What? I do love you!” he defends, shaking his head.

“Yeah, right,” I scoff, turning away from him as a tear burns its way down my cheek. “I’m sure you were thinking that when you were having sex with that emaciated beauty queen.”

There’s a silence only disturbed by my strangled breathing as I desperately try to keep my hysterics under control. Hastily wiping at my cheeks to remove the rivulets of black, mascara stained tears, I look at the floor.

“It’s oddly ironic, in a sadistic way,” I murmur quietly, a stark contrast to my previous shrieking tone. I shuffle the heels of my high heels together timidly. “You made it seem like I was the only one susceptible to cheating, when really it was you all along.”

“Baby,” whispers a small voice. “I haven’t cheated on you.”

I let out a quiet snort of disbelief, wiping my nose with the cuff of my shirt. “Justin, just don’t bother.”

“I’m being serious. I don’t know who told you or how the hell you got that assumption, but it’s true. I haven’t done a thing with Amber, or anyone.”

My heart flip flops dangerously in my chest, leaping at the chance that I may be wrong. “But I just saw her…out in the hallway.”

“So? She lives way down town. She sleeps over all the time because I don’t like her getting a cab so late at night. We live in New York city, for God's Sake.”

“But…but,” I mumble, turning around, still wiping my face. “She was wearing your t-shirt. With the…the thingy on it…the basketball. And she was all happy--”

“Cat, that t-shirt is from CFTC.” At my blank expression, he continues. “Challenge for the Children. Everyone who participated got a free t-shirt. Me and Trace have got one each.”

I chew my lip. “But she looked--”

“Like she had just had sex?” provides Justin gently. He nods. “She has.”

My heart plummets from its hopeful climb in my chest. “Oh.”

“But not with me,” he says softly. “With Trace.”

My mouth drops open. I pause, as though expecting to have misinterpreted his words as those which I really wanted to hear, but they seem to echo in the room, and I know that I heard correctly. He…he wasn’t cheating on me? Amber and him didn’t…

Oh god. My stomach knots up almost as soon as it loosens; I have just made the biggest idiot out of myself.

Shit.

“Are you telling the truth?” I gasp, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Of course I am,” he says, crawling out of the bed slowly, before standing in front of me, towering over my shocked frame.

"But..."

"Amber and Trace have been all over each other for weeks now. I thought you knew that?"

Relief mixed with embarrassment slowly gushes through my system, producing the odd effect of a sigh of relief and burning cheeks. My mind began to function properly again, and begged the question how could I even think Justin would do something like that? And if he did, he'd be a man and admit it. Why didn't I realize this ten minutes ago? Oh God, I could win prizes with my idiocy.

"Thank God," I whisper, burying my face in my hands as the tension in my body eased. "I was so worried," I say, more to myself than him.

"Baby, you know I would never do that to you. Just like I know you would never do that to me."

“I know, it's just..shit, Amber’s going to hate me,” I mumble suddenly, attacking my bottom lip with my teeth again. “She was trying to talk to me in the hall and I sort of…made it very clear how much the very sight of her despised me. Shit!”

Justin chuckles slightly. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve almost finished the work I have to with her. And then,” his voice drops to a whisper, “she’ll be gone!”

“Not if her and Trace become a couple," I don't suppress a shudder. “I’m getting sick of making jokes about her second name," I say meekly, trying to inject some humor.

He grins. “And I’m pretty sure she’s sick of hearing them.”

I shrug. “So, what’s been going on with her and Trace?”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Same old thing that happens to everyone, really. They flirted so much, sex was just inevitable. I could’ve told you that, had you returned my calls,” he teases, poking me in the stomach.

I grin. “Sorry, but I was canceling them; I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, next time, just answer your cell phone. And ask me straight out, rather than screaming and then asking," He rolls his yes. "Guessing games suck.”

“Oh God,” I mutter, dropping my head to my hands. “I’m so sorry, Justin. I just saw her and the first thing that came to my head was--”

“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupts. “I know I’ve done my fair share of doubting too.”

"But I feel so stupid," I grumble.

"How do you think I felt everytime I accused you of sleeping with Sean?" he chuckles.

"I'm beginning to think trust is something we ought to work on," I smile, running a finger over his jawline, before sighing deeply. “I must look such a mess,” I murmur, running my hands over my face again.

He grasps my wrists and pulls them away from my face. “You look great.”

I laugh and sniff. “My great seduction return isn’t really going to plan,” I smile sheepishly, wiping at my face.

He laughs and uses his own hands to wipe away the scars of my tears. “I don’t know about that. Somehow the way you were telling me to drop the Bible Boy act really rang my bell.”

I giggle and bury my face in his chest, feeling his skin upon mine for the first time in two weeks. His arms wrap around me, embracing me in a tight hug as I deeply inhale. A moment later, his lips press softly against mine, and his hands slip into their usual position at a respectful place on my hips.

How could I even think about letting this go?

Alas, the tables did turn for my fairest and I.

Loosely translated: For once, Cat was the one that freaked out, not me.

I can understand why she was suspicious; if I had seen Sean casually stroll around my house one fine Sunday morning in a tiny pair of boxers…well, let’s just say I probably would’ve acted first, asked questions later.

In retrospect, it’s quite funny. But that’s only because things always seem funny in retrospect, when you know that they ended positively. I’m sure Snow White laughed her ass off when she was tucked away with her Prince Charming because she choked on the tiniest piece of apple. Either way, the idea of Cat experiencing the gut wrenching fear of suspicion for once at least balances the somewhat tilted scales of jealousy between us. I’m always the one worrying about someone taking her away from me, I’m always the one frowning at some guy I think is getting too close…basically, I’m always the bitch.

But really, how could she ever think I could cheat on her? As horrifically immodest and boastful as it sounds, I treat Cat like a princess. I’ve only raised my voice at her a handful of times, I’m forever reassuring her, I am extremely generous in every aspect of our relationship and yes, I’m talking about sex here. I streak ahead of the average male in the Best Boyfriend in the World contest.

And why, you wonder? I’ve been in love before, does that mean I showered every girl with the attention and love I liberally bathe Cat in? Of course not. Would you like me to list the dozens of perfectly promising relationships that I’ve ruined with my appalling behavior? I’ve been a dick in the past; I can admit that as freely as I admit my fro days possibly weren’t as fly as I had originally suspected. I’ve cheated, I’ve lied, I’ve been unsupportive. Quite frankly, the more I can hide from Cat about my many indiscretions and mistakes, the better. She would die if she knew I had called girls fat, or once had sex in the bathroom with some chick whose name I didn’t know as my girlfriend sat innocently at the table, picking at her food.

I know what you’re thinking: this doesn’t sound like me. Well, it isn’t me; at least, not anymore. By the time I got to Cat, I think I had realized that perhaps my spiraling love life was partly due to my own actions. How could I blame a girl for cheating on me when I spent my nights stuffing dollar bills into girls’ g-strings? It was just immaturity, and thank god I grew out of it, but I had to realize that relationships weren’t just about me looking good and some girl catering to my every whim. I had to make the effort with her, just as much as she did with me; so that’s what I do with Cat.

All this said, Cat being who she is must be partly responsible for my sudden change of character. She’s so different from anyone I’ve dated before; I’ll never forget her clearly telling me to “stop being an asshole and remember I put on my pants one leg at a time, just like every other guy” when I started listing how many ‘Sexiest Man’ lists I had topped. How could I not fall in love with that?

She hums lightly as she taps into the laptop sitting in her lap, polishing up job applications. Her sock-covered feet bob up and down, causing the small cows patterned on them to nod repeatedly, and the navy blue blanket cushions her as she sits up on the bed, her feet stretched out in front of her. Her insistence to get a job within days of arriving in New York has been thrown off by her journey home, but like the little firecracker that she is, she’s immediately getting back to work on it minutes after emptying her suitcase.

“Cat?” I question, idly running my hand up her leg, hoping to distract her. My eyes come level with her pajama covered thighs, and I immediately snuggle towards the sky blue cotton fabric on her leg.

“Mm?” she responds, not lifting her eyes from the laptop.

“Why are you doing that when you could be talking to me?”

She smirks. “Because talking to you doesn’t get me a job, that’s why.”

“Well, it could. I mean, you could convince me to hire you as…I don’t know…a bag carrier?”

She slowly turns to look at me, throwing me her perfectly tuned ‘shut the hell up’ face. “Oh, where do I sign up?”

We lapse into silence again as I sigh and continue assaulting her leg with my hand. Amber and Trace went to spend the day at The Statue of Liberty, but Cat and I refused their invitation to join them. Not only does Amber throw Cat worried looks as though she’s afraid Cat’s going to suddenly rip her eyes out every five seconds, I just can’t be bothered calling Tiny in to plod around behind me as Cat fills me in with as much stupid information about The Statue as she can.

“Cat?”

She rolls her eyes and stops typing. “Yes?”

“You know how you’re a girl?”

“Brilliant deduction,” she replies, frowning at the screen and tapping backspace a few times, deleting what she had just written.

“Isn’t it annoying wearing a bra all the time?”

She leans back into the cushions on the bed, groaning in frustration. “Justin, if you’re this bored, just find something to do.”

“I’ve found something to do!”

“Annoying me is not an activity, Justin,” she scorns, but I can spy the smile lingering on her face.

Quickly pulling the black box of technology from her lap, I snap it shut and hold it above my head, out of her reaching grasp.

“Give that back!” she cries, leaping forward in an attempt to retrieve her beloved laptop.

“Nope,” I reply smugly, moving off the bed and taking the laptop with me. “This,” I shake the laptop furiously, feeling it slip slightly between my fingers, “is just distracting you from what should really be on your mind…me.” I finish with my trademark “aren’t I fantastic?” smile.

A giggle finally escapes her mouth and she rolls her eyes, trying desperately to look annoyed. “Look…honeybunch…I have work to do, and I need my computer.”

I protrude my bottom lip dramatically, trying to pout. “But I’m bored.”

“Well then--”

The ring of the phone cuts of her suggestion. She pauses, sighs, and then sticks her tongue out as a final response.

She picks up the phone with a grin, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “Hello?”

I place her laptop onto the vanity, (if I dropped it Cat would have my intestines out in seconds) and fold my arms across my chest, waiting to hear who could be on the phone.

Suddenly, a look of slight shock washes over her face. Her mouth drops open in amazement, and her eyes widen. “Here,” she says breathlessly, holding the phone out to me. “It’s…it’s…it’s Ashton Kutcher!”

“Ashton? Cool,” I chirp happily, taking the phone from her, ignoring the fox-caught-in-headlights look she projects as she numbly stares at me. “Hello?”

“Hey man, it’s Ashton.”

“Dude, how you doin’?”

“I’m good, real good, man. God, I haven’t spoken to you since, what…Wilmer’s birthday party?

I cringe at the drunken memory. “And seeing as all I remember from that is one massive keg of beer and a few dancing bikinis, that doesn’t count.”

He laughs good-naturedly, and I can perfectly picture him adjusting a trucker cap set on his wavy brown locks. “Well, the point is, since you went into hiding we’ve not heard one goddamn thing about you. Where did you go, Middle Earth?”

I laugh. “Well, I’m back in the real world now.”

“Yeah, I was going to try and punk you by sending your luggage to Ethiopia or something.”

I shake my head, still smiling. “I appreciate that, thanks.”

“Anyway,” he briskly moves on, in his signature straight forward manner. “The deal is; I’m in New York and, rumor has it, so are you.”

“Yeah, I am. Makes things easier for work,” I shrug. “But what you doing all the way up here? I didn’t know you had property up here.”

He lets out a nonchalant scoff. “You know me; I’m everywhere.”

Chuckling in agreement, I sit on the bed, straightening the comforter before I do so. A frown is thrown in Cat’s directions as she immediately crouches down beside me, listening to my conversation with rapt attention. She peers at me inquisitively as I return her gaze with a raised eyebrow. Cat’s never this interested in anything I’ve ever say, what’s so great about Ashton Kutcher?

“Anyway, I’m in New York checking out this club that I’m thinkin’ of investing in. Suite 16, you heard of it?”

“Heard of it?” I snort. “I’ve been there plenty of times. Great place, if you know how to get in.”

“Exactly,” he replies. “Anyway, I’m gathering a whole bunch of people for a bit of a party there tonight. Demi’s filming in Cali, so, you know…” he chuckles. “I’m out to play.”

I laugh and nod. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“You’re welcome to come along if you’re not busy. I’m gathering a whole bunch of people and everyone’s been asking for you. They think you’ve like, fallen off the face of the earth or something.”

“Sometimes I think I have,” I reply, running a hand through my hair. “It’s amazing to realize the stuff you’ve been missing once you take a big step back from it all, you know?”

“Not well enough,” he answers bitterly. “I admire you man, it’s gotta take balls to just say fuck ‘em and go off on your own.”

“It’s not balls Ashton, it’s frustration,” I laugh.

He chuckles. “So, you wanna bring company? Who’s the hottie that answered the phone?”

I cast a look over at Cat, with pajama clad legs pulled up to her chest and her chin resting on her knees, her wide, captivated eyes still staring at me. She looks adorable, wrapped up in remotely unsexily modest, warm, cotton pajamas; like a coy little girl, only this coy little girl has a woman’s body wrapped underneath that material. I smile and tug a lock of brown hair affectionately, watching as she grins shyly at me and looks down.

“That’s my girlfriend.”

“Oh yeah, I heard you were tied down. Who is it? Anyone I know?”

“No, I found myself an unknown. A diamond in the rough,” I grin, as Cat giggles and swats me with a pillow.

“Great, bring her along. It should be a good night.”

“Okay, we’ll try and check in.”

“Cool man, I’ll see you tonight. Anytime from twelve onwards; you know the drill.”

I smirk to myself. Yes, I know the drill; once it strikes midnight, the celebrities come out to play, safe in the knowledge that most are reasonably trashed enough to ignore your presence. The last thing you want is to go at ten o’clock and then have people gawking at you for three hours, waiting for you to suddenly jump up and perform a spectacular cabaret. I’ll never forget one girl asking me, “Why aren’t you having a dance off?” when I was sitting in the corner of a club, surveying the crowd. They expect you to always be ‘on’.

“No worries. Later.”

“Later,” he repeats, and the click of the phone lets me know he’s gone; presumably off to call up other potential partiers.

Flopping the phone onto the bed, I stand up to stretch, feeling Cat’s stare on me. “What did he say?” she asks excitedly, in a tone normally reserved for when she’s talking about chocolate.

I shrug. “He invited us out tonight.”

“Us? Us? What do you mean by us?” she enquires, gripping onto my forearm as I make a move to walk to the bathroom.

“He invited me, and then he said I should bring you along,” I reply slowly, trying to shake off her tiger-like grip. “They’re all going to Suite 16...I guess you’re not interested, huh?”

“What’s Suite 16?”

I stare at her blankly for a moment. “Oh come on, you must’ve heard of Suite 16.”

She shrugs and shakes her head.

“What about Lotus?”

She bites her lips in thought. “Isn’t that a car?”

“Oh dear, Cat,” I shake my head disapprovingly. “I really need to get you out to more clubs.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“They’re clubs; Suite 16 and Lotus are clubs,” I reply quickly, before I have time to dwell on the fact Cat is such a recluse. “Ashton wants me to go to Suite tonight.”

“Are you going to go?”

I tilt my head in contemplation. “Nah, you just got back. I haven’t got to spend any time with you yet.” With that, I gently unlatch her hold on my arm and bend to kiss her head. “And I know you won’t want to go anyway, so--”

Just as I was making a second attempt towards the bathroom, Cat suddenly yelps, “Oh no, I do.”

“What?” I frown, turning back.

“I do,” she says quickly, a blush tinting her cheeks. “I mean…if that’s alright.”

I pause and fold my arms across my chest. “This hasn’t got anything to do with your little schoolgirl reaction to Ashton Kutcher, does it?”

Her blush deepens. “What do you mean?”

“It’s…it’s Ashton Kutcher!” I gasp, clutching my chest and impersonating her initial teenybopper response. It’s so unlike Cat to have anything other than a purely indifferent response to people, so seeing such an out of character and more the point ditzy one is quite something else.

“Shut up,” she responds, punching me on the arm.

A faint smile lingers on my lips. “So what, you have a…a crush on him?”

“No!” she hotly denies, her cheeks burning a cute crimson.

“You…you do,” I say in disbelief. “But I thought crushes were meaningless infatuations with overrated, conceited wannabes?” I quote, after what she said when Trace and I were discussing the hotness of a certain Ms Jackson.

“They are,” she replies primly, standing up and crossing the room to retrieve her laptop. “I don’t have a crush.”

“Oh really?”

“Justin, why would I like someone who got famous by repeatedly saying the words ‘dude’ and ‘sweet’?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” I smile and hook my finger on the back of her pajama bottoms, pulling her back. “You’re the one with the crush.”

“Shut up!” she repeats, slapping my hand away and storming back to the bed in a huff. “I just happen to think he’s attractive, that’s all,” she mumbles, opening her screen and making a very poor attempt at pretending she’s interested in her work.

“Ah, so you admit it,” I tease, tossing myself down on the bed beside her.

She’s silent, before turning to me with a smile. “You know what? I do. I can’t wait to pull him in the bathrooms for hot, unprotected, sweaty, raw, animalistic sex in the cubicle.”

My grin vanishes as fast as a kid running after the ice cream truck. “What?”

“Let’s hope the music covers my screams, huh?” she says, turning back to her computer and calmly jabbing at the keys again. “I’m sure Ashton can get to all those spots that other…less fortunate men can,” she finishes, casting me and the sacred area around my hips a pitiful glance.

My brain is foggy with shock as I stare at her wordlessly, my mouth hanging open in shock. “What the fuck?!” I snap suddenly, the fog evaporating instantly. “I will not watch as my girlfriend sleeps with some guy who thinks making me cry is funny!”

“He made you cry?” she frowns, before a look of realization washes over her face. “Oh yeah, I remember that. On his show. Now that was hilarious.”

“It was not!” I bark, jumping off the bed for the sole purpose of stomping my foot. “He is a dick, Cat, a complete dick. And for fuck’s sake, he’s not even that good looking.”

She tilts her head. “Oh, come on, Justin. Don’t be ridiculous. You and I both know that’s not true.”

“Fine, whatever…he’s just some fucking pretty boy with no balls!” I shout. “And how come you never asked me to have sex with you in bathroom? That’s not fair! I’ve known you longer; it’s my turn!”

Suddenly, a giggle that she’s clearly been holding in escalates into a laughing fit. She hunches over, her shoulders shaking rhythmically as she tries to hold a hand over her mouth. It is, of course, to no avail, as she continues to giggle to herself.

Feeling embarrassment wash over me, I roll my eyes. You know that table that turned for Cat and I? It just flipped right back over again.

“It’s not that funny,” I say wearily, folding my arms and waiting for her to calm down.

“Oh really?” she sniggers. “Honestly honey, how many times are you going to fall for that?”

“Sure, call me honey now,” I mutter, stamping towards the bathroom to take a shower. “So are we going tonight or not?” I yell through the beige walls, picking up a lavender colored towel which must be Cat’s influence; I don’t have chick colors like that in my house.

“I think it might be fun. After all, I haven’t been clubbing in about five years.”

“Okay, we’ll leave at half twelve or something!” I shout over the buzz of the shower as I turn it on.

“Great,” she murmurs distractedly, once again engrossed in her work.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking good, feeling good. That’s what it’s all about.

Looking good and feeling good. The fundamental keys to party success.

Right, no problem, piece of cake… If you can’t tell, I’m subconsciously rolling my eyes at myself.

I haven’t been to a party since Justin’s birthday, which was what…three months ago? Three and a half? To some, that may seem like too long to have been out of the disco lights but to me, it’s not enough. Why did I willingly chirp, “sure Justin, I’d love to go to some glorified club where a glass of tap water costs five dollars and then watch as a few aspiring strippers tear it up on the dance floor”?

Well…okay…I do know why, (hint: starts with an Ashton, ends with a Kutcher). Like any female with a functioning brain, I find Ashton Kutcher very attractive; I can even look past some terrible films on his part (Dude Where’s My Car…what the hell was that?) and of course, hearing his smooth, cocky tone pour through the telephone made me a react in a very strange way. I clung to Justin, desperate to hear what he was saying, and then made a halfhearted attempt to disguise my crush. Of course, I slipped in an opportunity to tease Justin about sleeping with Ashton; honestly, he just set himself up for it.

Amid all of this, I willingly offered to go to the club with Justin. I know I just got back yesterday and Justin and I won’t be able to speak over the thumping bass of the music, but it should be fun. I must be the only person in New York who is yet to have a taste of its nightlife which, in colloquial tongue, means I’m a loser. I’m sure a evening of drinking heavily and watching people gyrate animatedly will do me good.

Glancing towards the clock, the luminous green numbers of twelve and fifteen flash at me, informing me that I have about a quarter of an hour to finish the dramatic transformation from shy workaholic to tempting sex kitten. Ha.

The glittery blue eye liner that Dawn had to teach me how to apply leaves a discreet streak of color underneath my eyelid, before swooping across the line above my mascara twirled lashes. Blinking a few times and quickly digging at any splinters left by the pencil, I do the same to the other eye and stand back, scrutinizing my shimmering blue eyes. They look…nice. Bigger than usual, and the light reflects off the sparkles in the blue, making my eyes seems almost electric, rather than the wishy washy blue that they usually are. Justin says he loves me eyes and normally I disagree, but I suppose with a bit of make up they look okay.

“Baby! You ready?” comes a shout from downstairs, where Justin lays coolly on the couch. He threw on a shirt and black pants, ran a hand through his hair, adjusted the little beaded necklaces he occasionally dons and that was it. No fuss, no drama, and he still looked like a million dollars.

As for me, well…an hour and a half of careful planning and precision still only make me amount to “um…not bad”. If I adopted Justin’s method I’d probably look like some orc extra from Lord of the Rings.

“Coming!” I reply, sweeping some lip gloss across my lips quickly, spritzing myself with some musky scent, and taking one final glare at my appearance. Fluffing my curled hair with one hand and pulling down the black halter neck with a slightly plunge in the neckline with the other, I let out a shaky breath. The jittery feeling in my stomach tells confirms my suspicions; tonight could be fantastic…or it could be a total and utter car crash.

Let’s hope for the latter.

Trotting down the steps, I carefully formulate the movements of my feet, should I unexpectedly fall head first down the carpeted stairs and land in a tangled heap at the bottom. As hilarious as that may sound, it’s a feasible possibility.

“Wow, you look great,” says Trace, feeling quite free to look my body up and down. “That top makes your boobs look real good.”

“You sound like my sister,” I mutter, rolling my eyes and walking down the rest of the steps. “But I’m going to ignore that typically male comment and say thank you.”

“You look fantastic,” beams Justin, holding out his hand to help me down the rest of the steps.

“Really?” I blush, tilting my head to the side coyly.

“Yep,” he replies, brushing his lips against mine. “And you taste like strawberry.”

“And I refuse to stand hear listening to you two and see who can out compliment the other, so let’s just go, okay?” Trace says, opening the door.

I smile and go first, swishing my hips with relish, much to Justin’s pleasure. He squeezes my waist and winks at me when he returns to my side. I feel like quite the celebrity as Tiny and another bodyguard who looks like Tiny’s equally huge twin, Mike, open the door for the gleaming silver SUV. My jeans slide across the black leather seats smoothly, and I comfortable sit at the window as Justin and Trace hop in beside me. The car quickly rumbles into action and we glide through the streets of New York, weaving through the traffic.

No sooner had Justin and Trace gotten into a discussion on who was the best looking Friends girl, the car pulled up at polished wooden door with a silver 16 above it. On either side of the sidewalk, held off by flimsy red velvet rope, sat a huddle of photographers, their large black cameras poised for action.

I frown. “What are they doing here?”

Justin peers out of the window and groans. “Oh…great…”

“They probably saw Ashton so they know something’s going on tonight,” supplies Trace.

“A day after they left my house, too,” Justin mutters bitterly. There had been a few odd articles of Justin swimming around the past few weeks, but nothing had been printed about me or any other ‘personal assistants’. The cameramen must have gotten bored, as they rarely stand outside Justin’s apartment anymore.

“Let’s go,” orders Mike’s gruff voice. He and Tiny step out first, followed by Trace, Justin, and finally, myself.

Within seconds, I can hear the whirr of cameras and the blinding of flashes. In the spasm of flickering lights, Justin drops my hand and rushes ahead of me inside the building, covered by Tiny. Mike places a firm hand on my back and pushes me towards the door as Trace rolls his eyes and walks in at his own leisurely pace. Cries of “Justin! Over here!” followed by “Are you a friend? How do you know him?” fill the night air, but with the closing of the pale wooden door, their shouts are blocked off and my attention is immediately attracted to my new surroundings.

The club carries the same vibe as Electric Lady Studios; funky, retro, and very cool. Deep reds and lilac curtains hang in the darkened building, with amber lighting shooting in every direction. Bodies appear to be everywhere; spread across the bar, dancing in the crowd, sitting awkwardly on the circular couches. Justin’s hand returns to mine and he pulls me after him, heading upstairs past a heavily manned door into a calmer, less crowded room with people sipping drinks or swaying to the music gently.

“That was fast,” I pant, clutching my chest.

“Sorry,” Justin grimaces, leaning in to speak in my ear. “I wanted to get up to VIP before anyone downstairs could see me.”

“Oh,” I reply lamely. This is hardly a situation I’ve been in often. How am I suppose to react?

“And I didn’t mean to brush you off outside; I just didn’t want the press to get a picture of us holding hands. You know, pandemonium would ensue,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“No problem,” I shrug, trying not to be drowned out by the excited jazz music.

“Hey! Hey, Timberlake!” a voice cries over the music, and the scattered bodies part to leave a pathway for the man approaching us.

His simple black top and washed out jeans held up with a chunky brown belt hang off his lean figure, and a suspiciously stylish messy crop of brown wavy hair sits atop his head. The scruffy beginnings of a beard tickle his handsome face, and naturally pink lips grin at us, showcasing perfectly straight, white teeth.

Hello, Mr. Kutcher.

“Hey Justin!” he says excitedly, grasping Justin in for a handshake and a slap on the back. “How the hell you been?”

“Fabulous,” Justin replies, smiling at him. “Ashton, I want you to meet my girlfriend, Cat. Cat, this is Ashton.”

My hand bravely holds out to shake his, despite the energized hyperventilating of my insides. “Hi,” I gush, unable to stop the spread of a girlish grin.

“Nice to meet you,” he says happily. “Good to see you too, Trace.”

Trace nods in his direction and, to my great amazement, already has a drink sitting comfortably between his fingers.

“So, what do you think of it?” Justin asks, motioning to our surroundings.

Ashton shrugs non commitedly. “I dunno. Seems a little too ‘Page Six’ for my liking.”

Justin nods in agreement. “It probably makes a bomb of money, though.”

“True,” replies Ashton. “So, Cat. That’s an unusual name.”

“Short for Catherine,” I quickly answer.

He waits for me to say something else but when I continue to stare at him with dreamy eyes, he smiles. “Great.”

“Yeah,” I beam, looking at his chocolate colored eyes.

Justin squeezes my hand to attract my attention. When I turn to him, his hurt look does little to hide his jealousy.

“Where’s Demi?” he asks pointedly, sending me piercing glance.

“She’s in Cali man,” says Ashton. “Remember?”

“You guys doing okay?”

“Oh yeah, we’re great,” he smiles. “Best girlfriend in the world; second to yours, of course,” Ashton flirtatiously winks at me, causing a whole new round of coy giggles to erupt from me.

“Well, we’d better go get some drinks,” Justin says, placing a possessive arm over my waist. “We’ll catch you later.”

“Okay. Have fun!” he shouts, waving at us. “Bye!”

“Bye,” I whimper, watching the crowd swallow him up as I stand on my tiptoes, craning my neck to get one final look at him. That man is a God.

“Hey, Googly Eyes,” says Justin, squeezing my waist. “I understand you just met your crush, but do you think you can drag yourself away from your little fantasies long enough to dance with me?”

I laugh. “Sure, let’s go.”

He takes my hand and leads me through the moving crowd, who have suddenly come to life after hearing some 50 Cent song bang through the speakers. We find a space in the cluttered balcony amidst the throng of bodies. Justin immediately clamps a hand over my hips and twirls me around unexpectedly, my heel-encased feet skidding across the floor.

Before I can pivot off into the oblivion on the crowd, he grabs me again, pulling me back to him. He laughs at my surprised expression when I instinctively hold onto his strong biceps for support as I regain my balance. How embarrassing would it have been to cut through the crowd like some wound up toy on ecstasy? Thank God he caught me.

“Justin, I’m not the best dancer. Why don’t you dance, and I’ll clap?” I suggest.

He grins and shakes his head. “Come on little lady, let’s boogy.”

“But I can’t,” I complain. As the words leave my mouth, Justin once again spins me around and his lean torso greets my bare back.

“Everyone can grind, Cat,” he informs me, slowly moving his hips against mine.

“Oh no, not grinding…” I groan. “Trust me Timberlake, I don’t grind. It just ain’t pretty.”

“So?” he snorts. “We’re here to have fun and cut up a rug.”

“I can’t cut up the rug,” I protest, trying to turn around to face him. “I don’t even have scissors.”

He laughs and shakes his head, running his hands over my hips and the tops of my jean-clad thighs. “Just do it, young lady.”

Another objection prepares itself to spring off my mouth, before the stares of three contemptuous girls catch my eye. The look a few years older than me, with perfectly straight hair of varying shades of blonde and red tumble over their bare shoulders. Their sparkly tops that catch the lights flashing in the club cover…well, not much. Let’s just say the same effect could have been achieved with a few bottle caps.

Long legs climb out of their short skirts, adorned with stilettos no smaller than four inches. Green waves of jealous pour out of them, clearly in my direction, as I stand helplessly with Justin. Smirking to myself, I turn around and wrap my arms around Justin’s neck.

“Kiss me,” I order.

He gives me an odd look. “Excuse me?” he shouts over the music.

“Now. Kiss me,” I repeat, my gaze dropping to his glistening lips.

He frowns. “When did you have something to drink?”

I giggle. “Look over there,” I mumble, leaning in and resting my head in the crook of his neck, under the pretence of kissing him, whilst discreetly nodding towards the girls.

“Ooh, envy envy,” Justin laughs, massaging my hips with his hands.

“Exactly. I want to show them you’re mine.”

He leans back in surprise. “Cat, are you in there?”

I roll my eyes. “Just do it Justin, okay? And as ostentatiously as possible, please.”

He pauses, before shrugging. “Okay, but don’t complain when I don’t stop.”

I laugh as his lips greet mine, hungrily seeking my tongue out.

Cat--one. Slutty Clubbers--nil.

----------------------------------------------------

Fear’s talons rip their way through my body. I’m so scared, it actually…it actually hurts. It’s as though someone has brutally ripped through my insides and jumbled them all up.

I stare blankly into the mirror, seeing my made up face drain of any color. The blue eye liner smudges as a tear slips from my eyes, closely followed by another one. No…no. Why is this happening? To me? I’m a good person, I’m healthy, I’m young…the laws of nature don’t let things like this happen. This is supposed to happen to someone older than me, someone who has lived their life. Not me.

The night had been going so well. Justin and I had put on a magnificently dramatic show for disapproving onlookers, I had had a few apple martinis, Justin had chugged a few beers. Even my pathetic attempt at dancing didn’t dampen the evening.

But this…this isn’t just ruining tonight. This is the rest of my life. Or what’s left of it.

Hastily wiping away the tears that have fallen, I try to calm my erratic breathing. Please God, I silently pray, please let me be okay. I couldn’t bear it if I had…no, I can’t even say it.

The curls that I had agonized over earlier in the evening fall limply over my tear streaked face. I shed my halter neck a hateful look; if I hadn’t had to adjust the stupid silky creation, I would’ve never noticed anything.

Shaking my head, I hastily push on the heavy bathroom doors marked with 16. I gulp for air as my eyes scan the room for Justin. I need to talk to someone, I need to have someone calm me down. Justin might make things worse, but at least I’ll be sharing my burden with somebody.

Justin, Trace, and about three guys I only recognize as the men Justin’s been getting gradually more drunk with over the course of the evening, or morning, I should say, sit in a line on a semi circular red couch. Five shot glasses and three empty bottles of Jack Daniels lay on the table as they dissolve into fits of giggles over something that no one else finds funny.

Rushing over to them, I almost trip on the heels on my shoes that were designed to make my legs look longer. I snort, why does it even matter? Who cares about longer fucking legs?

“Justin, I need to talk to you,” I say, tugging at the elbow of his light blue shirt.

“I know, right?!” he responds to one of his friends, slapping his thigh in amusement. “It’s just so fucking hilarious!” His incessant laughter begins again, and I roll my eyes.

“Justin!” I say sharply, trying to be heard over the loud music.

“Yeah, baby?” he answers, turning to me dizzily.

I groan. He’s completely trashed. “I need to talk to you.”

“Go for it, baby cakes,” he grins, draping an arm over my shoulders.

“It’s serious Justin, something’s really wrong,” I try to explain, pushing his arm off me and feeling tears once again build up in my watery eyes.

“Okay,” he says, setting his glass down and trying to look sincere.

“Justin…” I begin shakily, looking into his smiling eyes. He grins at me, as though waiting for some fantastically funny joke. I’m sorry sweetheart, I’m all out of jokes.

I stop myself before continuing; he’s in no state to hear this. He probably couldn’t even spell his name right now, let alone take on something as excruciating as this. It’s just a waste of time, not to mention his dramatics are no doubt increased when he’s had seven shots and a few beers poured down his throats.

“What is it, daaaarlin’?” he says happily, shifting on his seat as he beams at me.

I bite my lip, willing the tears to stay at bay. “Nothing Justin, nothing.”

1. What Brought Us Here?2. It's Just Emotions3. Beautiful4. A Little Retail Therapy5. Birthday Surprises6. Handcuffs and Hangovers7. Trouble in Paradise8. It's Just The Beginning9. Battle of the Boyfriends10. Two of a Kind11. From Peanuts to Paparazzi12. New York, New York13. A Bad Day14. Feeling Good15. A Sudden Exit16. Back Home17. No Idea18. After The Storm19. Plunging Into Darkness20. Apart21. Truthful To Some, Not To Others22. Keep On Walking23. Searching For The Truth24. Broken25. Almost, But Not Quite26. Still Not There27. Wrong or Right?28. The Messy End29. Feeling the Gap30. No Procrastination31. The Fun of Flirtation32. The Morning After The Night BeforeI sat patiently in the cluttered office room, staring at the various achievement plaques on the wall and gently strumming my hands on my knees. So this doctor went to Harvard Medicine, huh? Impressive. I had a cousin who went to Harvard to do Law; maybe they know each other?

The door suddenly opened and a beautiful black women with smooth chocolate colored skin and jet black hair scraped back into a bun entered the room, flashing me brilliantly white teeth as she sat down.

“Hello, Ms Saunders.”

“Hi,” I said, smiling at her and adjusting my skirt.

“And how are we feeling today?” she asked, shuffling a few white papers in her hand and sifting through them.

Why do doctors say we? Are they referring to my imaginary friend that is apparently sitting in the seat next to me? “W--I mean, I’m fine, thank you.”

“No pain, no nausea?” she enquired halfheartedly, clipping the pieces of paper together and rolling over to the filing cabinet to store them away.

“Not at all.”

“Good, that’s very good,” she said, looking up at me once again to smile. “And how are you emotionally? Do you find yourself irritable, or particularly sensitive?”

“I’m always irritable and sensitive,” I grinned, watching as she smiled politely, clearly not finding my joke as amusing as I did. “No, I’m alright.”

“Excellent.” She clasped her hands together and leaned forward on the desk. “It can be a stressful situation, and I’m happy to see you are coping well with it.”

I frowned at her as politely as I could. “Excuse me?”

“Some women can find themselves reacting very badly and even have to resort to medication. A large number, in fact, take post operation counseling, which is available--”

“What?” I interrupted. “Why would I need counseling? Nothing’s wrong with me.”

She paused, softening her brow and looking at me sadly. “Well, we hope not. Be sure to come back to us in three months so we can run a mammogram…”

“What do you mean, you hope not?” I demand loudly.

“Ms Saunders…” she says gently, casting a sympathetic look down my body. “There are chances of the cancer returning. You are aware of this, yes?”

I quickly inhaled in shock, feeling my lungs swell with apprehension. Cancer? The deadly disease that wipes out millions? I followed her gaze down my body, and gasped when my eyes landed on a deep red stain, splurged over the white cotton of my shirt. I pressed a hand to my chest, only to find a flat, empty space where the curves of my breast should have been. Blood seeped from my top onto my shaking hands as I hastily wiped away the dark red stain, streaking its terrifying color over my clothes.

“What the hell have you done to me?!” I screamed, standing up so quickly the chair fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Ms Saunders, you knew this was going to happen. It was our last option,” the doctor tried to futilely explain to me as I sobbed into my blood-tainted hands.

“How could this happen?” I cried, looking down at my disfigured form. “To me! Why?”

“The lump was cancerous! We had to perform a mastectomy otherwise the cancer would have spread!”

“No, no, no,” I mumbled, stumbling backwards helplessly. “This can’t be true. I can’t be sick. What about my life? What about the kids I wanted to have?”

“Just be thankful you’re alive at all.”

“This isn’t living,” I stuttered, staring down at my blood drenched front. “This is worse than being dead.”

--------------------------------------

My eyelids snap open with a start, as though I’ve suddenly been slapped away from Dream Land and landed back in reality with a thump. My eyes swiveled to the right, blinked, and then swiveled to the left. The blurry image of the room slowly comes into focus as I rub my eyes furiously, surprised to find my face damp from tears.

My heart continues to pound incessantly against my chest, as though its begging to break right through my rib cage and out into the stuffy air of our bedroom. Sighing and glancing over to see the other side of the bed empty, I reluctantly push on my glasses, my nightmare kindly repeating in my head. That was without a doubt the most vivid, disturbing dream I’ve ever had the misfortune of experiencing, including the horrific nightmare I had after seeing Jurassic Park when I was eleven.

The formless white T-shirt pools around my body as I slowly trudge down the stairs. Stopping at the bottom, I close my eyes and press my hand to the side of my left breast, almost erupting into tears when I can still feel the small lump, the size of an M&M, in the crook of my armpit.

I try to calm myself by taking a few deep breaths and rubbing my forehead. My heart rate slows slightly, but nothing can rid me of the fluttery feeling inside of my stomach, as though my internal organs decided to have a house party without notifying me.

“Cat?” calls a voice from inside the kitchen, as the drawling sound of morning radio creeps out of the room underneath the door.

Giving myself a vigorous shake, I push open the door to see Justin and Trace bent over the stove, frowning at the dials.

“Morning,” they greet in unison.

“Hi,” I reply quietly, pulling a stool from under the island to sit down.

“How you feelin’ today?” asks Trace, putting his head into the oven.

“Unless you want to end up like Hansel and Gretal’s beloved stepmother, I suggest you remove your head immediately.”

He pulls his head out and grins. “Got a hangover, I take it?”

I sigh and rub my eyes. “I suppose I do have one, yes. I’m surprised you two aren’t dead with all that crap you drank last night.”

“We’ve wisely inhaled about fifty Advil each,” Justin smirks. “You want one?”

“Sure, why not,” I mutter, holding my head in my hands dejectedly.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Justin asks, patting my back and sliding the bottle of Advil towards me.

“Nothing,” I mumble, tugging at the stupid child-safe lid of the plastic bottle that has somehow managed to outsmart me. I hastily twist it one way, before screwing it around the other way in annoyance.

“You want a hand with that?” Justin offers, raising his eyebrow at my twisting hands.

“I’m perfectly capable on my own, thank you,” I retort with a bite.

Justin recoils. “Okay, don’t have to get bitchy.”

“I’m not being bitchy, you’re just trying to tell me what to do,” I snap, trying to unscrew the bottle cap at the same time as staring at Justin menacingly. “And I don’t appreciate that.”

He holds up his hands in defense and backs away. “I see someone woke up on the wrong side of bed today.”

“Just back off!” I shout, shoving my stool back to stand up. “Stop trying to piss me off.”

“Oh yeah, because I’m clearly doing everything in my power to provoke you!” he says sarcastically.

“Yes, you clearly are,” I reply, shaking my head angrily at him. When one final pull won’t budge the lid, I let out a small scream and throw it on the island’s smooth wooden counter. It skims across it and falls on the floor, clattering noisily in the still room.

The last thing I see before I stomp out of the room and upstairs in a flood of tears, are the confused expressions on Justin and Trace’s blank faces.

----------------------------------------------

“That was the worst PMS attack I think I’ve ever seen,” Trace says quietly, breaking our stunned silence.

“Do you think that’s what it was?” I think aloud as I frown at the door, as though I’m expecting it to give me an explanation as to Cat’s sudden insanity.

“Must’ve been. Not to mention the fact she’s hungover,” Trace nods, bending down once again to inspect the somewhat confusing dials on the oven. You would think that two grown men would have the capacity to deal with a simply cooking aid…apparently not.

“But I’m sure she’s not due for another week and a half,” I frown, tilting my head to the side in thought.

“How the hell do you know?”

I snort. “Trust me; with Cat’s mood swings, you wanna be as prepared as you can; Those bitches are vicious. If I can at least keep a track on when they are, I know when to expect to have my head bitten off.” I shudder in memory. “Remember when she started crying because we ran out of mayonnaise?”

Trace stands up straight and places a hand on his hip, rolling his eyes. “Hey, you weren’t there the time she started shouting at this guy that was standing too close to her in the subway.” He shakes his head regretfully. “She told him she wasn’t in the mood for some homeless pervert to press themselves against her and threatened to call the police if he didn’t move at least three feet away from her.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that,” I reply proudly. “You know there are freaks in the subway; I’m glad she can stand up to them.”

“Standing up to them is one thing, telling them that she would rip out their tonsils if they didn’t get away from her is another.”

“But I was sure it wasn’t for a little while,” I continue, returning to my original point.

Trace shrugs. “Then just put it down to a hangover. You’re no Mary Sunshine when it comes to the morning after either.”

I nod sheepishly. “Yeah, she’s probably just in a bad mood. I‘ll just leave her alone and not bother her.”

Trace turns one of the knobs on the oven and jumps back when it roars to life with an orange glow. “Hey, I think I worked out how to turn the oven on.”

------------------------------------------------------

I wasn’t expecting an appointment so quickly. In fact, I’m surprised I mustered up the courage to book an appointment at all. Granted, my hand was shaking as I dialed the numbers into the telephone, and I did almost burst into tears at the calm voice of the bored receptionist, but that’s irrelevant. At least I managed to call.

I was tempted to leave it. Just ignore it, assume it was a cyst, and move on with my mind-numbingly boring ways. Isn’t that always the way with niggling health worries? If you think you’ve got a cavity in your teeth, who actually rushes to the dentist to get it sorted straight away? It’s much better to let it simmer for a few days before begrudgingly agreeing to see some guy that makes you say, “Aah”.

But I can’t ignore it; I’m not even going to try. I’ve known the lump was there for about ten hours, and already it’s causing me problems. I lost my temper with Justin and Trace over…well, nothing, and I can’t even look at myself in the mirror without feeling a wave of nausea wash over me. I remember reading a book on breast cancer when I was in the ninth grade called, “Don’t Ignore It, It Won’t Go Away”, and the book made it painstakingly clear that if she had gone to the doctor’s before, her case would have been much improved. In fact, she died in the end, leaving behind a son and two daughters. Well, no one can say I didn’t read hard-hitting books at fifteen, or however old I was.

I know breast scares aren’t rare. Sophie had one when Cameron was just born, and it just turned out to be a blocked gland. She was so casual and unbothered by it, as though she knew it was benign from the get go. Why can’t I be like that? Why did five different scenarios which, by the way, all ended horrifically, pop up into my head the moment I felt something? I know I tend to pour over tiny little things that don’t mean anything, like the time I thought I had poisoned my blood stream by getting shampoo in my eye, but this is serious. This is no funny little anecdote that I’ll laugh over in a few weeks. There’s no mistaking that something is very wrong, and I have to find out what it is.

And tomorrow at eleven forty five precisely, in the NewYork-Presbyterian Medical Center, that’s just what I’ll do. I wish I could ask Justin to come with me; just as a hand to hold onto and a comforting voice in my ear. Although Justin does love to indulge in his little melodramatics, I have seen him just mentally give himself a slap and get on with things. Once, we broke down in the middle of the highway; I was in hysterics, but Justin just very coolly called a mechanic and we were rolling an hour later. But when he sees me having lunch with a co-worker, he thinks I’m sleeping with them? Ridiculous.

They say between couples, there should be no secrets, and Justin and I fully abide by that rule. I even described to him in extreme detail losing my virginity (which went along the lines of awkward, painful, and over, all in three minutes), and he has told me every single moment of his rise to fame. That’s a good thing about Justin and myself; we’re both great talkers, especially when it’s one on one. In crowds, I’m definitely more introverted; just a little shy and reserved, and in some aspects, Justin is too. He can be in the limelight, but equally, he can just sit in a corner and have a quiet conversation. Either way, we both have a lot to say, and we say it to each other.

So keeping a secret like this is against the rules. Keeping a secret that could potentially ruin our lives is very much against the rules. But I just…I just don’t want to involve him yet. Involving him would just be another person’s feeling to take in consideration when, quite frankly, I’ve got my own to worry about. Even if he does react well to this, I know I’ll be able to tell he’s worried about me. On the rare occasions that Justin is afraid of something, it’s written all over his face. In his eyes, in his movements, in the amount of times he licks his lips. Everything just ties together to make it crystal clear he’s terrified inside.

I’m not going to do that to him. I’m not going to put him through a battle that isn’t his own. I’ll go to the doctor, find out what I have to do, and just do it. No complications, no problems, no interference, no help.

No Justin.

--------------------------------------------------------


To the right of me, a baby wails persistently. Its mother impatiently waves a pacifier in front of it as she reads a tattered copy of People, too engrossed in her magazine to pay attention to her crying child. To my left, a businessman dressed in a stark blue suit shouts loudly into his cell phone in a tone not entirely necessary, saying, “No, Sandra, tell the client that that is our final offer!”.

In every direction around me, people seem to be coughing, sniffing, limping, bleeding…no one seems healthy. The doctors and nurses who pace the hallways meticulously seem worn out and tired, with dark grooves etched under their eyes and pale, sickly looking skin. It’s as though everyone has been slapped with a dose of depression; nothing is happy or bright. Even the seats are a strange murky blue color, one so drab just looking at it makes me want to crumble in defeat.

Of all the places I wish to never be in in my lifetime, a medical center on the corner of 68th Street is right up there with eternal Hell and the Red Light District. I would give anything to be sitting at home, vegging out in front of the TV or walking through the Park with Justin wearing one of his ridiculous disguises so that people don’t recognize him. Anything, anywhere…but here.

The circular blue clock hanging on the dull white wall strikes twelve, and I groan in aggravation. Well, things would be running late, wouldn’t they? Just to make my day a little better. I want it over with; the sooner I’m in with a doctor, no matter how harsh their words may be, at least I’ll know what I have to do, rather than suffering in this limbo of doubt.

“Saunders, Catherine, please go to surgery five. Saunders, Catherine, surgery five.”

I roll my eyes at the intercom that does not sound dissimilar to a supermarket announcement, and sling my purse over my shoulder, heading to surgery five. A seemingly endless hallway leads me to Surgery five, which a shiny plaque informs me is Dr K. Hardy, and I knock timidly on the hard wood.

“Come in,” says the voice on the other side of the door.

I open the door slowly and send the stranger a meek smile. “Hello.”

“Hello, I’m Dr Hardy,” she greets, standing up to shake my hand. She looks older than most of the young medicine students I’ve seen walking around the corridors; her wiry gray hair is pulled back into a loose bun, and little wrinkles around her eyes tell me she must be at least fifty or so. But there’s a comforting air around her; she looks like a calming grandmother.

I try to maintain my smile as I inhale the clean smell of antiseptic. “Catherine Saunders, nice to meet you.”

She sends me a tight smile and sits behind her desk, adjusting her knee length white coat. “Well, Ms Saunders, what can I do for you?”

“Umm…” For reasons unknown, my throat goes inexplicably tight, and play with the hem of my skirt nervously. “I have some concerns.”

She folds her hand expectantly on the desk, nodding. “And they are?”

“Um…” I stumble again, feeling a panicky feeling rising from my chest up my throat. “It’s just…well, the other night, I….” Paralyzed with fear, I stare at her blankly, trying to knock away memories of feeling the exact same fear when I had to tell my principle at school that it had been me who had set off the fire alarm.

She blinks at me, apparently not unnerved by my choked silence. “Please relax Ms Saunders, I’m here to help.”

I nod and look down at my fiddling hands, a thousand needles pricking my eyes as I try to hold back my tears. “I found a lump,” I mumble, a blush rising to my cheeks. I know she’s a doctor and she must hear this all the time, but she’s still a stranger. Not to mention how bizarre those words sound coming from my own mouth.

“Alright,” she replies calmly, pulling back the paper on her clipboard until she finds the satisfactory page. “And where did you find this lump?”

“Here,” I mumble, pointing to the side of my left breast.

“Is it painful?”

“No.” She checks off something on the page

“And when did you find the lump?”

“Just two nights ago,” I reply quickly, as though I were at some pop quiz. “I just noticed it when I was adjusting my top.”

“Well, you did the right thing by coming to us immediately,” she smiles supportively. “Early detection is the best prevention.” I nod slowly, glancing down at my twisting hands. “And how old are you?” she asks, looking back in her papers, presumably at my insurance to see my birth date.

“Twenty two.”

“Breast cancer in people at your young age is extremely rare,” she says distractedly as some form of consolation as she writes. “80% of patients found with it are post-menopausal, and you evidently don’t fit into that category.”

“Mm,” I halfheartedly agree.

“Is there any history of breast cancer in your family?”

“Not that I know of…” I reply slowly. “I think a great aunt may have had it, but no immediate family.”

Dr Hardy nods and crosses another thing on her sheet. “And you’ve never had problems with breast health in the past?”

“No.”

“Are you breasts painful during menstruation?”

“Er…” I shrug. “They are a little tender, but nothing extreme.”

She continues to write as a thick stillness fills the room. Left with nothing to do, I idly drum my fingers on my crossed legs, hoping for something to take my mind off things. I wonder whether Justin is suspicious of my strange behavior for the past few days? Probably not; it’s not exactly out of character for me to become moody and withdrawn. Maybe he’ll ask me about it? Again, probably not; he and Trace are wise enough to just leave me be when I get too huffy.

“Would you mind stepping behind the screen and undressing so I can do an examination, please?” she asks, writing at lightening speed on the paper and pointing to a small green screen in the corner of the room that was my “changing room”.

I nod and step behind the partition, slowly peeling off my top and unhooking my bra, hanging them on the back of the hard seat in the corner. A few deep, cleansing breaths that are aimed to calm me down slow my racing heart slightly. A feeling of shame quickly washes over me as I come out from behind the screen and let the doctor examine me, her cold hands jolting my skin. I’m no exhibitionist; even getting measured for a bra makes me want to clamp my hands over my chest and run away, but here I clearly have no choice.

I fix my gaze intently on a spot on the wall that had a tiny fleck of red paint on it, and wait for her to finish her check up. I tried to imagine what Justin and Trace were doing right this second; probably in the studio messing around in that stupid way only boys can. Amber sadly went to work with another artist, so her and Trace broke off what was apparently a merely physical relationship and Justin will soon start work with his buddies Pharrell and Chad. He’s so ghetto fabulous around them; he drops into saying this like, “aight” and “that jam’s tight”, as I just sit, trying to figure out what they’re saying.

After my outburst yesterday, I shrugged off their questions as to what was wrong with me, and they relented fairly quickly. They obviously think I’m just in one of my moods, and I don’t particularly care to suggest otherwise. Justin was going to have lunch with Pharrell and Chad to finalize something, and as Trace is friends with them as well, he went too. Justin seemed a little disappointed when I told him that I was going shopping instead of to lunch, but he didn’t press the subject.

With my thoughts rapidly whirling around my head, I was too distracted to pay much attention to Dr Hardy’s ministrations, which was really the whole point of daydreaming. She nodded at me and gave me a reassuring smile, before returning to her desk and jotting down another stream of notes.

I awkwardly returned to the divider and put my clothes back on, before sitting back down on the unwelcoming black chair in front of her desk, anxiously tapping my foot. She finishes writing and places her pen down on the polished wooden desk, returning her gaze to mine.

“Okay, Ms Saunders…”

My head snaps back to the doctor’s face. “Yes?”

“Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to tell you whether the lump is benign or not without having tested the tissue or seeing a mammogram,” she explains calmly, folding her hands again. “So, I am giving you a referral for the nearest breast clinic and, from there, you will be able to see a specialist.”

“Okay,” I nod, trying to sound brave and confident.

“I would advise you not worry however; it could be a number of perfectly harmless things. A cyst, hyperplasia, sclerosing adenosis…” she smiles at me. “Nine out of ten breast lumps are found to be risk-free, and with those statistics, as well as your age on your side, I wouldn’t agonize over it.”

“But what if it is cancer?” I blurt out quickly, my voice rising. “What will I do then?”

“Then we will take the necessary precautions,” she says. “I know the horror stories there are about breast cancer, but it is one of the most researched cancers. There are so many available treatments nowadays, success rates are always on the incline.”

“And what will I have to do at this clinic?” I ask miserably, swallowing hard.

“It depends; they may take a mammogram, which is an x-ray of your breasts to see whether there contain cancerous cells. However, because you are under thirty five, your breast tissue may be too dense, so another alternative is an ultrasound scan.”

“But--but that’s for pregnant woman,” I stutter, squeezing my hands together.

She nods. “It’s the same procedure, yes. Again however, I have my doubts, as they may wish to go directly to the lump and perform a fine needle aspiration cytology.”

“What?” I choke out, my brain wearily soaking up the new information hurled at me with every word.

“This is where cells from the lump are drawn off using a syringe and a fine needle, and the extracted tissue is sent off for laboratory examination. Similarly, a core biopsy achieves the same effects, only it is a larger needle and the patient is given local anesthetic to numb the area. Either test will determine what actions must be taken next.”

“How long does it take for the results to get back to me?” I ask weakly, slumping in my chair.

“A week or so.”

“A week!” I exclaim weakly. “How can I possibly wait that long? It’ll just give me more time to imagine the worst.”

“That is why we recommend having a friend or relative with you when you receive the news; support from loved ones is essential, I’m sure you know.”

I guiltily look at my feet. “Yes, I know.”

“Do you have any other questions?”

I tiredly pinch the skin in between my eyes and shake my head. “No, no I don’t think so.”

“You may have to wait for an appointment in the clinic,” she explains, sliding a piece of paper over the desk to me. “I will send a referral, and they’ll get back to you.”

“How long do I have to wait?” I ask, picking up the piece of paper and checking over the details.

“Anywhere from one week to ten.”

“What?!” I protest once again, my eyes snapping back to hers and staring at her incredulously. “Ten weeks?”

“As I’ve said Ms Saunders, breast health is not uncommon. You are in the same position as thousands of women.”

From the tone of her voice, I realize I’m supposed find this a relief, however it only further depresses me that there are other women and men stuck in this horrible position.

“I’ve made your referral fairly urgent,” she continues, beginning to shuffle and organize the papers on her desk. “So I would hope you won’t have to wait more than two weeks.”

“Thank you,” I murmur quietly, folding the piece of paper and sliding it into my purse.

“If you have any more concerns, please feel free to contact me.”

“I will,” I sigh, standing up.

She holds out her hand for me to shake. “I would advise you try your hardest to just forget about it for the moment, and continue with your everyday life. There are many patient hotlines which--”

“No, no, that’s alright. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? Because this isn’t a nice thing to go through by yourself.”

“I’ll be fine,” I repeat more firmly, eyeing her with a cold stare. “Thank you for your help.”

“Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

It isn’t until I’m out of the stuffy clinic and into the open, albeit somewhat smoggy and polluted city air that I can freely breathe again. She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t really know, except for perhaps the long waiting around periods I’ll have. I just want to have everything done, dusted and forgotten. Apparently, things aren’t that easy.

I miserably walk along the streets, feeling the angry shoulders of hundreds of people brush past me, eager to get to their destination. My slow pace is nothing compared to the fervent speed of everyone else in this damn city. Why does everything have to be so fast? Why can’t people just slow down and reflect on what is going on in their lives, instead of rushing off to do yet another thing that will distract them?

As I munch on a one dollar hot dog that I don’t even like the taste of, I meander through the streets, thinking about Justin. Who else would I be thinking of? Should I tell him, should I not…would he assure me things would be okay, whilst really thinking the worst, or would he genuinely be positive about it? Needless to say he’s a little more of an optimist than I am, but perhaps optimism isn’t what I need right now. I need cold, hard realism. Someone who’s going to tell me honestly; well, yes, you may have cancer. Justin would never say that; he just couldn’t do it. Accepting the cold, harsh truth isn’t exactly his forte, and he’d far more likely say “everything’s going to be okay, you’ll be fine”.

I can’t tell him. I just can’t. It’s as though admitting to him that something may be wrong is like admitting it to myself, and I don’t think I’m ready to do that.

I thought I was pregnant the other day. Just for a split second, because I had my dates mixed up…but nothing can express how much that one second of pure elation made me feel. I surprised myself; I don’t want children at the moment, right? I’d just get an abortion and try to forget about it, wouldn’t I? But no, I didn’t want to. For just a moment, raw ecstasy took over me and thrust me into sheer euphoria, and I couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful than having a child.

Of course, then I realized that I wasn’t and laughed at myself a bit, but refused to let go of that feeling. I love Justin, I want to marry him and have ‘a gazillions of babies’, as my niece Cameron might say. I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

But how much life do I have left?

----------------------------------------------------

“Wouldn’t it be really weird if Saturday Night Live was filmed on a Sunday?”

“Dude, what the hell you sayin’?” answers Pharrell inattentively as he sits at the mix board, humming along to something Amber and I did.

“I was just thinking, you know, if they filmed it on a Sunday and the whole thing was a sham. Wouldn’t that be weird?”

“Incredibly,” says Chad, running a hand through his silky black hair as he leans back in his chair. “’Rell, what you thinking ’bout track three? I’m interested in a back hook of some drums.”

“Might overrun the guitar,” replies Pharrell, flicking a button and adjusting the yellow and white baseball cap on his head.

After lunch, we ended up sneaking into the studio to let Pharrell and Chad take a look at what we’ve already done to see whether they can add their little touches here and there. I have no idea where Cat is; she said she was going shopping, but we all know Cat only goes shopping when there’s something specific she or someone else needs, so God knows where she really is. I didn’t even bother pressing her about it;. I’m sick of running after her when something’s wrong, trying to find out what it is so I can fix it.

These past few days she’s been detached and just bitchy, and I can’t be assed with it. I haven’t a clue what is wrong with her, but whatever it is she should sort it out, because it’s annoying me. Why should I always be the one asking her what’s wrong? Why can’t she just come to me and talk to me without being asked? There are supposed to be two people in a relationship, not just one sucker who does all the work.

Perhaps I sound horrible, but am I really? She knows she can come to me whenever she wants, but why she’s chosen not to just confuses the hell out of me, not to mention pissing me off. This is not some PMS thing, this is just Cat being a bitch.

“Okay, well don’t you be thinkin’ I’m gonna get up at the ass crack of dawn for no reason. You guys better be here just as early!”

“We will be,” I assure Pharrell, who I didn’t even know had been speaking. “Catch ya in the morning, boy scout.”

After saying goodbye to Chad and Pharrell, Tiny and Mike kindly assist us home, past the few lingering photographers who for some unknown reason still actually give a shit. Back at the apartment, Trace proposes watching an Indiana Jones film and I begrudgingly agree; you can’t resist some Harrison Ford every now and then.

Footsteps gently coming down the stairs catches my ear, and when I turn into the hallway Cat comes into my view. She looks as though she's sick with the flu or something; her hair is all bunched up in a ponytail, her glasses are on, she’s wearing her pajamas.

“Hi,” I greet, not exactly coldly, but with little enough warmth to suggest I’m angry with her.

“Hey,” she says, finishing the flight of stairs and heading straight for the kitchen without even giving me a kiss and barely privileging me with a direct look in the eyes.

Nice. “How was your day?”

She pauses in her actions of pouring herself a glass of milk. “I’ve had better.”

“What did you do?”

She shrugs. “This and that.”

I roll my eyes at her vagueness. “My meeting went fine, thanks for asking.”

“Oh, sorry,” she replies, shaking her head at herself and putting the milk back in the refrigerator. “How are Chad and Pharrell?”

“They’re good; we’ll start messing around tomorrow.”

“Good, that’s good,” she murmurs abstractedly, taking her milk and brushing past me to go back upstairs.

“Wait!” I stop her on the stairs. She half turns, still depriving me of eye contact. “Do you want to watch Indiana Jones with me and Trace?” As if she can resist that.

She shakes her head. “No thanks. I think I’m going to head to bed.”

I flick back my shirt and look at my watch incredulously. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

“I don’t feel very well,” she explains, proceeding with her walk.

What the hell is wrong with her? “Fine. If you wanna act like this, then that’s just fine,” I retort, crossing the hallway to the living room and slamming the door shut before she can stutter a response.

I’m sick of running after her. If she has a problem, I’m not going to suck it out of her.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

A few nights of sleepless slumber had taken their toll on me, and I genuinely did just want to go to sleep when I got back to the apartment. It was also a perfect excuse to avoid any confrontation with Justin and Trace, who would wonder why someone who had been out shopping for four hours in New York city had failed to buy a thing. Justin slipped in a few comments that suggested he was less than happy with me, but neither of us were in the mood to talk it out.

Waking from my sleep at eleven thirty and finding that Justin still hasn‘t come to bed does little to console me. He usually likes to go the studio early and a full night’s sleep is essential in functioning in such a small space, so he should be up by now. I don’t blame him for ignoring me; it’s exactly what I’m doing to him, just on a grander scale.

No one has to tell me; I’m being unfair to Justin. God knows what he assumes is wrong with me, but I think in cases like this I can be selfish. I just need some time alone, to think, worry, I don’t know. Just be by myself.

Suddenly, the door opens, and a beam of light flashes in the dark bedroom, before it vanishes with the click of Justin closing the door. His feet quietly pad across the carpet, and the shuffling of him taking off his clothes ensues. After the bang of the closet door as he puts his neatly folded clothes away, the bed beside me shifts as his weight goes onto it. Immediately, his warm body shuffles near mine. There’s still an uncomfortable distance which I know is there on my own account, but it’s not too wide, and a few minutes later, he sneaks a hand around my waist.

“Cat? Are you still awake?” he asks, breaking the monotonous silence.

I consider not replying, before whispering, “Yeah.”

“Are you feeling better?” he responds, also in a whisper.

I close my eyes, calming myself down before I melt into tears at the click of a finger. “Um…not really, no.”

“Is there anything I can do?” He moves closer to me, pressing his lean torso into my back. “I feel bad about being a mean earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I whisper, placing my hand on top of his own.

“Are you sure?” he persists, leaning over my neck and placing a few chaste butterfly kisses along my shoulders.

“I’m sure,” I gasp, feeling his hand glide across my stomach and threaten to go lower. The absolute last thing I want to do is have sex; not only is my libido somewhat diminished by my anxiety, but what if Justin noticed that lump? It would be too awful for words.

“Justin, I’m sorry. I just really don’t feel that great,” I whisper, halting his nurturing kisses.

He lets out a deep sigh and pulls away, reinstating the dreadful distance between our bodies. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I begin, starting to turn over.

“No, forget it. Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles, pulling the blanket around himself and turning his back on me. “Goodnight.”

Tears prick my eyes at his turned back, shunning me out, just like I’m doing to him. Letting out a dejected sigh, I mirror his actions and crawl the edge of my side of the bed, already feeling the cold draft when his body isn’t there to wrap warmth around me. I’m shutting him out, and in return, he’s doing the same to me.

I’m sorry Justin, I truly am. I just can’t bring myself to open up to you, even though you’re probably the only person who could comfort me. I wish I could just tell you all about the hell that has been the last two days, and whatever the future holds; I could use some support during what is sure to be a whirlwind of waiting, anger, hurt, and hopefully relief. But for some reason, I can’t drag you into this. You’re too good for this.

But of course, my silent words fall on deaf ears, and we stay clung to their side of the bed, a giant wedge of secrets in between, in silence. For the first time in months and months…

Apart.

In my opinion, men are open books that women can choose whether or not they wish to read. We’re nowhere near as complicated and multifaceted as they are; we need food, water, sports, and a little human contact--so basically, sex. Is that difficult? Of course not. Women need all kinds of crap aside from these basics, like friends, chocolate, gossipy chats, compliments, and tampons. I honestly have a lot of respect for any woman that manages to pull through life without having a mental breakdown; all the stuff they have to worry about is just phenomenal.

These little requirements bounce off each other nicely; women can serve men’s minimal needs, and we men can use our spare time to try and help women through their intricate, problematic lives. It’s the way the world works--tit for tat. A woman can give a man a nice cold beer as he watches a basketball game, and he’ll be happy. In return, he can buy her a wide selection of calorific chocolates when she’s going through the whole weird cycle and still tell her she looks like Michelle Pfeiffer. Straightforward, yes?

No. Not at all. Never. If things always worked out like that, Jerry Springer would have nothing to work with.

Cat and I seem to have grasped this mutual respect that should exist between men and women. She cooks for me and lets me watch mindless sports, and I change light bulbs for her and calm her down when she says she has a problem. Of course, this all seems very 1950s and stereotypically sexist, but we accept that her sensitivity and my attraction to Friday night games are small allowances in an otherwise liberal and modern relationship (I mean, how many couples in the 50s had a woman that insisted on being financially independent, and a man that actually cried at the end of Moulin Rouge?). We provide each other with the basic necessities with no hesitation; perhaps that’s the reason why our relationship has been as strong as it has.

So in a balanced and democratic relationship such as ours, if somebody in the partnership starts to slack off in their customarily generous and kind ways, it does not go unnoticed. When Cat decides to close up like a clam and deny me of any kind of contact, be that physical or emotional, I begin to speculate. There’s an expressive girl past those bastard walls protecting her, and once she trusts you, she’ll talk a mile a minute about her problems and opinions; she holds nothing back, and that’s wonderful.

Something is wrong with Cat, but I’m not going to dramatize things (for once), and say that I’m scared for the demise of our relationship, because that’s just stupid. I’ve learnt that, in relationships, things go wrong: simple as that. Love is meaning you can overcome to obstacles, not dodge them. The longer I'm with Cat, the more I accept that I have to get used to things hitting us along the way and putting a momentary rift between us; it's part of maturing to accept that your relationship isn't perfect. Love isn't perfect; lust is sure a blast, but love is hard work.

But Cat’s worth fighting for; that’s why I’m in no doubt that what we have is nothing short of true love, because I’m willing to do anything to keep this going. And I have the utmost confidence that whatever is wrong is something utterly…fixable, if there’s such a word. It would be easier to “fix”, as such, if I actually knew what the problem was, but that’s a mistake on both our parts.

For a week, there’s been an undeniable distance between us; she won’t talk to me, and I’ve been too immersed in recording and working out and being stubborn to push her. Without Cat talking to me and roping me into political discussions and philosophical ponderings, I have a lot more time to think and concentrate on work. There’s no doubt that she distracts me when I’m trying to record or get back into the business mindset. It’s not her fault in the slightest--she does nothing to entice me, but I find myself fascinated by her regardless. In the past, there was nothing that could pull me from my work; there was never anything better than pouring my emotions into music. Until Cat, of course. I'll toss off those headphones without a second thought when she comes into the room, because making music pales in comparison to her. She’s almost too much better, if that makes sense.

So naturally, as a result of this...‘silent argument’ between us and the lack of time spent together, my album has been progressing just beautifully. I even reluctantly agreed to start heading back to the gym to tone up a bit. It hit me suddenly, when I was watching Usher accept some award for Best Solo Male, that in a few months the whole treadmill of being a “pop star” will start again, and I’ll have to don the Justin Timberlake persona that I haven’t used in a long, long time. This includes killer music, a great body, a sparkling personality…everything. Preparation has to begin months before I even go back, and it’s essential if I don’t want my career to fall flat on its face. But these preparations take a huge bite out of my spare time, so unfortunately my moments with Cat have been and will be limited.

I don’t exactly know what she’s been doing with herself this past week. She drifts off into her own thoughts, doesn’t really integrate with myself or Trace, and has just generally been detached. She doesn’t come to the studio with me, so I assume she just hangs around New York and the apartment all day; and I’m not even going to attempt asking her to come to the gym…the phrase ‘wishful thinking’ pretty much sums up the chances of her saying yes.

I was tempted to drag whatever it is out of her, but as I’ve said before…why should I? She’ll come to me when she’s good and ready, and it’s not my job to run after her, begging to be allowed a window into her confusing mind. I’ve tried to do that for months, and it’s just not going to happen.

In the “real world”, the fact of the matter is; shit happens. The longer something goes well for, the bigger you can expect the problem that will eventually arise to be. It’s almost a relief when Cat and I occasionally have thunderous altercations, because it just proves that we’re real enough to be able to disagree, and that there’s something there that makes us want to always come back to each other. If we had a smooth and carefree relationship, something would inevitably come and knock us off our feet, and who knows whether we would want to pick it up again?

I'm positive that whatever is going on is...it's just a minor glitch, right? Ultimately, it will just make us stronger; I'm positive of that. I'll admit that it's not fun to watch a problem bubbling away between us, but I have to accept that relationships are hard work--there's no such thing as effortless love. But it is definitely, definitely not fun.

Not only is Cat emotionally shut off, she is also depriving me of bodily connection. Her kisses are quick and emotionless; she tends to lay in bed, huddled in the corner, rather than snuggling with me like we usually do, and as for sex…it’s just not happening. At all. For a whole week. This may seem like an irrelevant tidbit of too much information for some, but for a couple in their twenties to have a dwindling sex life…it’s not good. Cat may be a little prudish and shy, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like having as much sex as I do. The girl can be a rampant little tiger when she wants to be, but that probably is too much information…

I could potentially explode over the situation. My girlfriend isn’t talking to me, she doesn’t seem remotely interested in anything going on around her, least of all me, and she has abruptly brought an end to a perfectly healthy sexual relationship. Things don’t exactly look good for me, do they?

But no, I refuse to be “Psycho Justin”; I will instead remain an island of cool, just taking each thing as it comes. This is a new Justin, a 'I am positive and confident my girlfriend is not cheating on me' Justin, a 'I will not fall prey to the title of Drama Queen that Cat gives me after every argument' Justin. A more laid back Justin. A better Justin.

Okay, Cat doesn’t want me to touch her; what am I going to do? Not panic, of course. Stomp out ideas that she's sleeping with someone else (because I admit I thought something was going on between her and they seventy year old doorman, but Trace hit me on the back of the head with a book, so that eliminated that thought fairly quickly), and try my hardest to be as blasé and unaffected by the news. I will slowly lure her back towards me with my irresistible charm and sexuality, and everything will fall into back place, and Cat will start smiling again. No prob.

“Cat?”

“Yeah?” a weak reply from the living room whispers.

I briskly stride into the room, seeing Cat’s slumped form sitting on the window sill, swinging her leg back and forth. “Oh, there you are.”

She turns her head to me and offers a weak smile. “Hi.”

“Hey,” I grin, walking over to her and holding my arms out. She awkwardly accepts my hug for a moment, before gently pushing me away and shuffling further towards the open window.

“How come you’re not in the studio today?”

I shrug and roll my eyes. “Didn’t wanna go. It’s far too hot to be cooped up in a studio today,” I remark, squinting my eyes and peering out of the window at the dazzling sun. The streets are filled with a humid smog, promising rain later on that day. But for the moment, the sun couldn’t be brighter, and people couldn’t be more desperate for a tan.

“It is hot,” she agrees quietly, returning her gaze back down to the sea of surrounding buildings, each of their peaks scraping at the clear canvas of blue.

“Why don’t we go onto the roof?” I suggest, tugging on her arm slightly. “I don’t know what’s up with the AC, but it’s like slowly burning in hell in here.”

She turns to me and frowns in doubt; the most emotion she’s shown all week. “I don’t think that’s very safe.”

“Oh, come on,” I urge, pulling at her elbow a little more urgently. “Me and Trace once hosted a whole party up there, and only like…one person fell to their death.”

Her head snaps around and she stares at me, wide eyed with disbelief. “What?”

“I’m just kidding,” I smile, poking her in the ribcage. At my touch, she visibly tenses, but calmly shakes her head.

“No thanks.”

“It’ll be fun; we can work on our tans,” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively, as if to say ‘now there’s an offer you can’t refuse’.

She sighs and looks at me, as if contemplating whether she should just give up and say yes or tell me to fuck off, before succumbing and slowly nodding. “Okay,” she says, and immediately pastes on a fake smile as she puts on her sunglasses.

I help her down from the ledge and place a kiss on her cheek, before wrapping my arm around her waist and leading her upstairs. The fire escape leads to the summit of the building, and Cat’s grip on my hand tightens as she peers cautiously over the edge.

“Jesus Christ, I hate heights,” she murmurs, stepping away from the perimeter of the roof and shaking her head.

“I won’t let you fall,” I smile, pulling her towards me and wrapping protective arms around her.

She sends me a small smile, before stretching out in one of the recliners laid haphazardly on the roof. Trace and I really did used to have parties up here, until we realized letting drunken people cavort on the top of a twenty story apartment building probably wasn’t the best idea. So, we just converted it to a general lounging about area with a few chairs thrown in, and occasionally we’ll bring up a stereo or something. It’s sort of like having a backyard, only twenty floors up.

“So,” I begin, sitting myself down and immediately shuffling my recliner next to hers, “How you been lately, baby?”

She sends me a dubious look, doubting my sudden chirpiness. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“I’m sorry I’ve not been around much this week,” I murmur distractedly, leaning back into my seat casually, trying my hardest to project an offhand manner.

“That’s okay,” she replies, scratching at the abrasive surface of her chair. “I’ve been a little preoccupied too.”

“With what?” I ask quickly, my head snapping around to face her.

She raises her eyebrow at the sudden transformation from laidback cool dude to obsessive interrogator. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

That means it must be something girly, right? What do women always worry about… “Your weight?” I suggest.

She slowly turns to look at me, and I don’t doubt that, behind those dark shades, is a very unimpressed look. “No, not my weight.”

I thought it was a fair guess. “So what is it? You’ve been a little…weird all week.”

She sighs deeply and extends her arms, stretching her muscles. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I’m your boyfriend, it’s my job to worry,” I reply, sliding a hand onto her lap and resisting the urge to tug up her skirt cheekily. I’m guessing she’s not in the mood to be flirtatious at the moment.

“The only person who you should have to worry about is yourself, and the same goes for me,” she says clearly, reaching down to pat my hand, before gently putting it back on my own territory.

A somewhat awkward silence settles between us as I try to mask my hurt. “Why won’t you talk to me?” I ask quietly, feeling a sting at her refusing my touch.

She remains mute, slowly pulling off her shades and carefully folding them in her lap. “I…I can’t run to you every time I have a problem, Justin.”

“Why not?” I ask stubbornly; I know Cat’s big on all that feminist stuff, but it’s not as though I don’t go to her if there’s something wrong with me. When I thought I saw Trace smoking again, who did I go to for advice? Cat, who consequently told me to slap any cigarette out of his mouth. Who did I go to when I thought one of my songs sounded like a captivated werewolf? Cat, who reassured me it was a great song, I should just stop wailing in the background. It’s just how we work; we help each other.

No, it’s how humans work. We’re not supposed to be able to get through life entirely by ourselves; why would we have friends, family, loved ones, if we couldn’t count on them for support?

“Because I have to learn how to do things on my own.”

“Learn to do what on your own?”

She shrugs. “Support myself. Be alone. Not having to worry about two sets of feelings; yours and my own.”

“I didn’t realize I was a burden,” I huff.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she sighs tiredly, rubbing her eyes and throwing her sunglasses down into her lap; it suddenly strikes me how exhausted she looks, the dark bags etched underneath her bloodshot eyes and her somewhat diminished appearance are clear as day in the bright sunshine.

“Have you been eating right?” I interrupt, before she can continue. Her usually ever so cutely chubby face looks slightly gaunt and pale; it’s the slightly unhealthy, worn out look I get when I’ve been under a lot of stress and ignore the essentials, like food and sleep. It’s not the normal Cat, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes. It even looks as though she’s lost a little weight.

She pauses and frowns. “Well, I suppose I haven’t been all that hungry these last few days, but I’ve been okay…”

“Have you got an eating disorder?” I whisper in a shocked tone.

She lets out a short burst of laughter. “I wish.” She chuckles darkly too herself as she looks down at the ruffles in her gypsy skirt. “No, I’m fine.”

“Will you just stop bullshitting me? I know something’s wrong, and I’ve gone long enough pretending to ignore it. It’s not fair to keep me in the dark like this, Cat. Whatever this is, it’s causing a separation between us, and I deserve to know what it--”

In a split second, before I can even finish my aggravated speech, Cat quickly jumps from her seat and swings a leg on either side of me, straddling my lap. Her mouth hungrily seeks out mine, greedily biting at my lips as she kisses me heatedly. Before I can budge her off my crotch, the male inside of me places hands on her hips to steady her, and begins to kiss her back.

Somewhere in my mind, my brain was slapping me and calling me a weak man who fell too easily a victim to female touch; however the other, stronger side, was saying, ‘hell yeah, we haven’t seen anything like this in a while!’. In fact, we’ve never seen anything like this from Cat ever; she’s no dominatrix in the bedroom, so her sudden feistiness is a like an alluring poison. I know I shouldn’t be doing it, but it’s just too damn tempting to dismiss.

Her long hair tickles my shoulders as she swishes it to one side, still eagerly kissing me with a ferocity I didn’t know she possessed. It’s not even a ferocity that screams ‘I want you’, it’s more the feeling of…she’s angry, and it’s coming through in her so called ‘affection’. When Cat wants to take charge, she’ll do so, but there’s always something gentle in her touch; always something that maintains that this is no hot one night stand, but rather two lovers needing each other…and okay, a little bit of nastiness thrown in.

But this…this is rough, and demanding, and so un-Cat. “Sweetie,” I muffle, trying to pry her away from me. “Cat!” I say strongly, wrapping my fingers around her arms and roughly jerking her away from me. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What?” she says innocently, her lips red from our violent kiss.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like kissing me is just going to make me forget that you’re keeping something from me.”

She sighs and slumps in my lap, bowing her head. She shakes her head, as though telling herself off, and rubs her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“I won’t deny that I haven’t noticed you won’t let me touch you lately, but getting some isn’t always my number one concern.”

She smiles slightly. “It usually works.”

I laugh. “I’m just waiting for you to talk to me, and then don’t worry, I’ll be taking full advantage of that.”

She giggles and wraps her arms around my neck, kissing the top of my forehead as I envelop her waist. “I’ve missed you,” she admits quietly.

“What do you mean?” I chuckle, pulling back slightly. “I’ve been here all along.”

She shrugs. “I know; I mean, I’ve just been so bogged down, it’s as though I can’t remember what being with you is like.”

“Never realized how essential sex with me is, huh?” I grin, winking at her.

She taps the side of my head lightly, trying to appear disapproving. “Shut up.”

“So come on, what’s been wrong?” I ask gently, squeezing her waist reassuringly. With the sudden injection of fun into the atmosphere, it suddenly doesn’t seem like such a pressing issue anymore; Cat’s acting as she usually does, nothing really serious could be wrong.

Her smile falters. “I…um…” She groans and looks off to her right, snatching her eyes contact away from me. After a break, she starts slowly, “Justin, things are…they’re complicated.”

“Okay.”

“The problem is…fuck, it’s hot out here,” she moans, pressing a hand to her forehead and letting out a breath of annoyed air.

“Take off your top,” I propose carelessly, more fixated with what she’s trying to tell me than the weather as I throw a fleeting glance at her shirt.

“But I’ve not got anything on underneath it,” she says, her expression suggesting my idea is too preposterous to make sense.

“And?” I shrug casually.

“What…you mean to-topless?”

I roll my eyes. “I think I’ve seen your breasts before, Cat. Why are you wearing such a thick top anyway?” I ask, plucking at the dark shirt religiously covering too much skin.

“What do you mean?” she snaps, pulling away from me and pulling her shirt closer to her body defensively. “I can wear what I want.”

“I know,” I reply, surprised at the sudden self-protective walls she put up. “I’m just saying, why don’t you throw on a cami or something? Something a little cooler.”

“Because I don’t want to, okay?” she retorts viciously, staring angrily at me, as though I had just cruelly insulted her. “And I am not going topless!”

“Okay, it was just a suggestion!” I say defensively, putting my hands up in apology. “Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she shouts, clambering off my lap and standing on the hot surface of the roof, her eyes little slits as she stares at me angrily.

“Cat, what the hell?” I chuckle slightly, her sudden fury seeming momentarily amusing. “Are you joking with me?”

“No, I’m not fucking joking with you!” she barks, wiping the smile off of my face pretty sharpish. “Jesus Justin, you’re so fucking insensitive!”

“What? Insensitive how?! I just said you could take off your top!”

She shakes her head at me, glaring at me disapprovingly. “And you have the audacity to ask me why I don’t talk to you.”

“Back the fuck off Cat, this isn’t fair!” I shout, feeling the resentment boil up inside of me as I get off the lounger so that I can argue my case in a less vulnerable position. “You just freak out on me for no fucking reason! It’s like your crazy or something!”

“I’m not crazy,” she responds tartly. “You’re being an asshole!”

“And how the hell is that?!” I ask, stepping closer and casting a shadow over her.

“Oh, so you’re trying to intimidate me now?” she scoffs as my tall frame towers over her short one threateningly. “You know what, Justin? This is just pointless.”

She begins to walk away, a slight wind picking at her brown hair and sending it fluttering; it makes her look beautiful. “No,” I refuse, grabbing her arm and spinning her around to face me again. “You’re not walking away from this!”

“You’re hurting me!” she says, trying to pull her arm from my stern grip.

I sigh and let her go, trying to calm my flaring emotions. “I’m sorry, but all this hot and cold you’re blowing all over me is just making me…a little angry,” I reply in a level voice, breathing deeply.

“Hot and cold?”

“Yeah, hot and fucking cold,” I bite. “You don’t talk to me all week, you don’t let me touch you all week, and you shut off any form of communication all fucking week,” I count off spitefully on my fingers, before throwing my hands back in surrender. “So fine, I give you your space and don’t force you to tell me whatever the hell it is that is bothering you, but after a while, you’re all over me!” I sigh heatedly at her, coming down off the high of my argument. “So…decide whether you’re pissed off or not, Cat.”

She shakes her head at me, her gaze full of hatred. “Fine, Justin. I’m very, very pissed off.”

And with that, she spins on her heel and walks as quickly as she can without falling to the steps of the fire escape, before rushing down them. A second later, the bang of the window being shut echoes in my ears, and I stare blankly at the spot where she had just stood.

What on earth just happened? In the blink of an eye, we had gone from awkward, to sexy, to funny, to furious. Wasn’t she supposed to be telling me what was upsetting her? I must’ve said something…but what did I say? Tracing back our conversation, I can’t think of one offensive thing that would have detracted her telling me. And why in hell did I give her that stupid ultimatum of being pissed off or not? It’s Cat, of course she’s going to be pissed.

This could be a bigger problem than I originally suspected.

-----------------------------------------

“Fuckin’ hate him, such a bastard…” I mutter to myself as I storm through the apartment, almost falling down the stairs in my rush to get to the bottom of them. “Inconsiderate species men, all of them.”

On my way to the kitchen to retrieve a soothing glass of water, the front door opens to reveal a struggling Trace, carrying too many bags for his poor little hands. I unenthusiastically help him carry the brown paper bags to the kitchen, before unceremoniously dumping them on the island and turning to leave.

“Thanks Cat,” he breathes heavily as I pause in the doorway, “I had to climb all the stairs because there’s something wrong with the elevator, and it’s just got me puffed.”

“No problem,” I murmur in response, preparing to stomp upstairs.

“Hey,” he continues, breathlessly, steadying himself with one hand on the island and one on his hips. “What’s up?”

“Nothing; I’m fine,” I reply, lowering my gaze to the floor.

He frowns. “You sure? You look a little pissed.” His face suddenly falls. “Oh no…Justin didn’t accuse you of sleeping with the doorman, did he?” He shakes his head. “I told him that was a stupid idea!”

A smile creeps onto my face. “No, but we did have an argument.”

“Oh?” he says, straightening and beginning to unload the groceries from the bags. “About what?”

“Um…” I trail off, almost unsure. “Well, we went onto the roof to talk because…well…I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but things have been pretty strained between us lately.”

“I’d noticed,” he smirks, putting a jar of mayonnaise into the refrigerator.

I blush, but continue. “Well, anyway, things were going pretty well.”

“Had you told him why you had suddenly slipped into depression yet? Or did that come after?” he asks from the depths of the refrigerator.

“Excuse me?”

He sighs, leaning on the refrigerator door and looking at me sympathetically. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. You’ve been acting so weird these past few days…it’s as though you’re a different person. We’ve been kinda worried about you.”

“You never said anything,” I shrug.

“That’s because we’re giving you space, but honestly Cutie, what’s going on?”

“Trace, nothing is going wrong,” I insist, biting my conscience, which almost let me down earlier on with Justin. “Everyone’s just been busy this week; we haven’t had the time to see each other, that’s all.”

He rolls his eyes and slams the refrigerator door shut. “Look, even I know something’s going on, and you know I’m not one to dramatize a situation.” He shakes his head and scrunches up one of the bags. “You’ve been walking around like you watched someone brutally rip up your favorite childhood toy and then feed its remains to a bloodhound.”

I laugh to myself but surprisingly, the second the laughter rises in my throat, the sobs follow suit. It’s odd how laughter and tears can be such opposite emotions, and yet I seem to be doing both at the same time. Trace’s joke is the first thing that has made me laugh all week, and just by him telling it I can see he has no idea what a crisis I’m in. If he did, I’m sure jokes would be the last thing on his mind.

“Cat, what’s wrong?” he asks with a note of surprise in his voice, as he drops the crackers he was holding and rushes to my side to wrap an arm around my shoulders.

“Justin must be so angry with me right now,” I mumble, burying my head into the crevice of my hands.

“Don’t worry about him. You guys will be fine, it was just an argument, everyone has them…”

“Oh God Trace, I’m so scared,” I whisper, my voice shaking slightly.

“Of what? What happened between you and Justin?"

“No, not that,” I shake my head, as though I’m shaking my negative answer to the suggestion of another thing to worry about. For the first time, me and Justin’s relationship comes second place; my health has to come first.

“Has this got something to do with what’s been bothering you all week?”

I nod and sniff, wiping my eyes. “Yes.”

“Have you spoken to Justin about it?”

“No. I just…I just don’t want to see how he’s going to react.”

“Do you want to talk to me about it?” he asks gently, and even though he sounds like he’s speaking to a five year old, it somehow comforts me.

“Trace, I think I have breast cancer,” I say as quickly as I can, as though the words are too venomous to keep in my mouth.

He gasps and stands back from me in disbelief, frowning at me, waiting for me to take back my words. “What?”

“I found a lump at the club a little over a week ago,” I say helplessly, feeling another tear stain my cheek. “I’ve been to the doctor, but I have to wait for another appointment with this…specialist guy, and I don’t know when it’s going to happen. I could have to wait another month until I get one,” I continue quickly, each bit of information I kept so firmly locked up tumbling out of my mouth in one continuous stream of worries. “There’s nothing I can do until then but wait.”

Trace stares at me blankly as I clamp a hand over my mouth. I didn’t mean to tell him any of that; that was strictly classified information that I was supposed to keep to myself. But it just felt like the second I opened my mouth, every poisonous little secret I’ve been keeping just fell from my mouth before I could stop it.

“Please don’t tell Justin,” I beg, gazing at him with pleading eyes.

“You haven’t told him?” he gasps in a cracked voice. “You could fucking die, and you don’t think this is something he needs to know?!”

“Trace!” I stand back in shock, tears stabbing my eyes. “Please don’t say that.”

He runs a hand through his hair and looks around him confusedly. “I’m sorry Cat, I just…I just don’t know how to take this.”

“I might not,” I offer weakly. “I mean, it’s unlikely for someone my age and all.”

“I know, I know,” he replies, leaning heavily on the island for support. “Shit, I’m sorry Cat. I--I was just expecting something less…heavy. I thought you were pissed about finding a job, or at worst you were pregnant.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “That would be kids’ stuff compared to this.” I shrug. “I didn’t want to get you and Justin involved, that’s why I didn’t tell you guys.”

“And why you’ve not been talking to us all week,” he completes quietly.

“Yeah,” I whisper, tugging at my shirt.

“But,” he frowns, “what did you and Justin argue about if you didn’t tell him?”

I cock my head in thought. “He said something about breasts and it just made me angry. I can’t even remember what it was,” I chuckle. “I just felt as though he was somehow trying to make me feel guilty, and that he was being inconsiderate.”

“How could he do that if he doesn’t even know?”

I bend my head and shrug. “I don’t know.” I hate it when you realize you’ve done something completely wrong.

He rubs his temple with the palms of his hands. “I don’t understand why you’re not telling him. He has a right to know.”

“I can do this on my own,” I snap.

“But why should you do it on your own when Justin would be more than happy to help you through this? Accepting support doesn’t make you any less of a person, Cat.”

“But he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment anyway, with his album and whatnot.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t bullshit. You know that stuff doesn’t mean shit compared to you.”

“I don’t want him fussing over me, okay? This isn’t about him; it’s about me.”

“Of course it is, but he’s your boyfriend. Keeping him in the dark like this is just gonna blow up in your face in a big way, Cat, and you know it.”

“Look Trace, I’m not telling him, and neither are you,” I say sternly, wiping any remnants of tears from my face. “This is my secret to tell, not yours.”

He shakes his head in surrender. “Fine Cat, I’m not going to tell him; but I hope you realize the magnitude of what your asking me. Justin’s my best friend, and I have to keep this colossal, gigantic thing from him, which he really ought to know. How to you think that’s going to make me feel?”

“Well sorry for being so selfish,” I retort with a bite. “It’s not as though I relish in keeping things from someone I love.”

“Then why are you?!” he says exasperatedly.

“Because it’s too hard, okay?” I shout suddenly, my voice strained. “It’s too hard to admit that there might be something wrong with me. It’s too hard to accept I might die and never live the fantastic life I’ve dreamt up. It’s too hard to think about giving up things like marriage and kids with someone who actually loves me, because I’m too sick to deal with them. It’s just too fucking hard, okay?”

The room falls into silence. Trace stares at me, his emotion hidden from me as I try to hide my rapidly falling tears. There’s certainly no mistaking how I feel as I melt into the clutches of sobbing, trying desperately to stifle my cries as Trace remains stationary. Slowly, he walks over to me and wraps me in a hug, letting me sob into his shoulder and leave watery tear marks over his baggy basketball shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he says, comfortingly rubbing my back. “I wasn’t thinking.”

He sighs and holds me tighter as we hear the footsteps of Justin above us, angrily stomping around and heading into the shower. He’s probably furious with me, wondering why on earth he picked the girl with the most psychotic tendencies. I sympathize with him in a way.

“You’re gonna be okay, Cat. I’m sure. You’re gonna go for this appointment, get whatever tests you need done, and then we’ll just wait for the results, okay?”

“And what if they’re positive? What if I die, Trace?” I cry, muffling my words into his neck.

“Then we’ll do whatever we can to fight it, and you’ll beat it.” He rubs my back a few times, before pushing me out to face him. “But let’s not worry about that unless we have to, okay?”

“Okay,” I nod miserably.

“You just keep your head tall, okay Cat? And you tell Justin when you’re ready.”

“Are you going to say anything to him?”

He shrugs. “I might suggest he should back off and that you’re going through some women’s problems. That should get him off your case for a while.”

I laugh and wipe underneath my eyes. “Thanks Trace. I really need someone on my side at the moment.”

“Just remember you can make it two people on your side anytime you want.”

I roll my eyes. “If he doesn’t dump me for not sleeping, touching or talking to him.”

“What?”

I shrug. “I just can’t bear him touching me; it’s as though I’m afraid he’ll find out.”

“You do realize this is probably making him more suspicious, yes?”

I bow my head. “I know.”

Trace sighs, rubbing my back reassuringly. “You’ll be okay Cat, I promise.”

I don’t reply, instead forcing my sunglasses over my eyes and heading towards the door. “I’m going to go for a walk; just to clear my head, you know.”

“Sure,” he nods. “I’ll tell Justin where you went.”

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” I say to him, opening the door. “Try and cheer Justin up for me, would you? He doesn’t deserve to feel like crap just because his girlfriend is crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, you’re just under a lot of stress.”

As I’m heading out of the door, I pause in the doorframe and look back to him. “Trace…if I did tell Justin, how do you think he would react?”

Trace shrugs, exhaling loudly. “He’d probably march you over to the most prestigious, expensive clinic there is and demand that they make you all better.” He laughs. “You know Justin; he’d stomp his foot until he got his way.”

I roll my eyes affectionately and nod. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t have to come to that.”

Trace looks at my sympathetically. “Yeah, let’s hope so.”

--------------------------------------------

I can see her, even if she can’t see me.

She tosses her house keys onto the table in the hall and pulls off her sunglasses, running a hand through her wavy hair. She stands still for a moment, with her head bent into her hands, and takes a few steady breaths, as though she’s preparing herself for something. Giving herself a shake, she lifts her head up and starts to walk towards the kitchen, her gaze fixed to the floor. Unbeknownst to her, I sit quite comfortably on the island, swinging my legs leisurely.

“You’re back,” I say simply, causing her to jump and look up.

She holds a hand to her chest in surprise. “Justin! I didn’t know you were in here.”

“You didn’t look.”

Her eyes nervously flit around guiltily. “Um…yeah.”

“So,” I begin, hopping off the wooden counter. “How was your walk?”

“Fine,” she mumbles, her fingers interlocking as she anxiously twiddles her thumbs. “I just needed to clear my head.”

“Where did you go?”

She looks at me warily, as though she’s searching for some kind of trap in my words. “Just around, you know…went to Central Park, had a coffee; stuff like that.”

“You were out kind of late,” I reply, lifting a toned arm to check my watch. “It’s seven already.”

“Is it?” she asks, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Didn’t Trace tell you where I went?”

“Yeah, he did.”

She nods slowly. “Well…there’s no problem then, is there?”

When my mouth stays in a firm line and I deny her of a response, she timidly starts to ravel her hair around her index finger and suddenly finds her shoes fascinating.

“I’m--”

“Sorry about earlier?” I finish for her, with an element of impatience.

She glances up at me, eyeing me cautiously. “Uh…yeah.”

“I thought you would be.”

The chunky brown belt she hung over her hips suddenly finds itself being toyed with. “Well, I am. I think it was the heat, you know…just made me a little crazy.”

“A little?”

She bites her lip. “A lot.”

“You’re right,” I reply firmly, crossing my arms. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong, and you completely lashed out for absolutely no reason.”

“I know, I know…and you have every right to be mad.”

“I know I do, that’s why I am,” I reply in a no nonsense tone.

She slowly shuffles her feet and places her hands behind her back, like a schoolchild being told off for not doing their homework. “I am sorry, I think--”

“What, Cat? You think you’ve almost run out of bullshit excuses for me? Yeah, I couldn’t agree more.”

She looks up at me, her eyes hurt. “I’ve not been bullshitting you,” she says timidly.

“Oh?” I respond disbelievingly. “So why haven’t you been talking to me all week? Why have you suddenly become frigid? Why do you fly off the handle at me at the smallest, most insignificant thing?”

Once again, her top row of teeth attack her pink bottom lip. “It’s…it’s nothing, really…”

“Bullshit!” I shout, cutting her off. “There is something going on, and I don’t know why you suddenly want secrets between us!”

“I don’t want secrets,” she replies weakly.

“Neither do I.”

She twists the cloth of her shirt around her middle finger and looks out of the corner of her eyes at the row of cabinets, avoiding eye contact. “Stop fidgetting!” I demand, clasping a hand over hers. “Just talk to me.”

She shrugs. “I have nothing to say.”

“Yes you do; don’t lie to me.”

“Justin, I don’t know what I can say that will--”

“Baby, all I want is the truth,” I interrupt softly, approaching her cautiously. “You know I’ll be able to help you with whatever this is.”

“Nothing’s wrong…”

“Jesus Christ Cat!” I shout suddenly, slamming my hand on the polished wood of the counter. “Do I look stupid?”

She jumps back at the sudden show of aggressiveness. “Don’t be angry,” she says quietly, twisting her hands again.

I lean against the island, breathing heavily. “I’m not angry, I’m just…upset.”

“Justin…” A hand smoothes over my back gently, rubbing me in between my shoulder blades. “We’re fighting about nothing. I swear, I’m fine. I don’t know why I’ve been so temperamental these past few days.”

At my snort of disbelief, she hurriedly continues. “I think…maybe it’s because I’ve just been feeling so useless lately.”

“What?” I frown, turning to her slowly.

“Well, I don’t have a job, and up until now I’ve always had something to worry about, be it my dad or you and Trace, or whatever…” she takes a deep breath. “With nothing to do, I just feel…like a big waste of space.”

“How can you feel like a waste of space?” I ask gently, nudging towards her slightly. “You know me and Trace depend on you far more than we should.”

She laughs slightly. “I guess just seeing you recording and seeing Trace on the phone to all these magazine guys and stuff…it just makes me realize that I’m not doing anything with myself.”

“Cat, you do lots of stuff. You talk to me and Trace, calming us down when we’re crazy; you religiously check back with your family to make sure that things are okay over there; you keep the house in good shape…and I know cleaning isn’t your priority and you’re not a housewife, so I appreciate it,” I finish, after glimpsing an appalled feminist expression. “You’re taking a break Cat, because you deserve one. You said yourself you’ve been working every weekend since you were nineteen; you need to just slouch around, doing nothing.”

She shrugs noncommittally, not looking me in the eye.

“Is that it? Is that why you’ve been acting like this all week?” It makes perfect sense; I know how frustrating it is watching someone carry on with their life smoothly when yours has reached a crashing standstill. Did Cat think it was easy watching her spin out article after article as I made bread houses with my toast?

She nods quickly; a little too quickly. “Yeah…yeah, that’s it.”

I frown slightly, part of my not believing her. “Because you know if it was anything else, you can always come to me…”

“Yup, I know,” she replies firmly, raveling a strand of hair around her finger.

I gently unlatch it, smiling at her. “You could have just told me.”

“I know, but I just…” she looks up, her eyes crashing on mine. “Sometimes I feel like all I am is a worry to you.”

“I’ve told you before,” I smirk, cupping her face with my hands. “I like worrying about you. You’re like my very own little doll that I get to take care of.”

She giggles, timidly wrapping her arms around my waist. “I thought you were the bitch in this relationship?”

“Nah, I just let you believe that. Really, I wear the pants here.” I gently kiss the tip of her nose and smile at her, as she rests her head on my shoulder. “You seem really tired,” I murmur, stroking her back.

“I am,” she replies softly.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” I ask gently, not masking the suggestiveness in my voice.

She pulls back, her face faltering nervously. “Um…what?”

“You know,” I smile, interlocking our fingers and rubbing my nose against hers, “upstairs. To the bed we share, to do the nasty things we ought to.”

She lets out a hesitant smile. “Well, I don’t know about that…”

“Oh come on, baby,” I whine, dropping my hands to her hips and skimming my fingers just underneath her shirt. “I want you nooow.”

She pulls back slightly, her gaze shifting nervously. “It’s far too early to go to bed.”

I groan and step away from her, hearing Trace’s footsteps pound the stairs as he runs down them. “Okay, but tonight; you owe me,” I grin cheekily, stealing a quick kiss.

“Sure,” she replies weakly.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask, wrapping my long fingers around her delicate wrist before she can run away. “You don’t seem to like the idea as much as I do,” I laugh.

She quickly stands on her tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek and gives me a reassuring smile. “Of course I am. I was just, um, you know…trying to be a tease.”

“Oh,” I laugh, releasing her wrist and placing a kiss on the top of her hand. “Nice try honey, but you know you can never resist me for too long.”

She rolls her eyes and slips her hand away from mine, mumbling something about a shower, before rushing upstairs hastily. Raising an eyebrow at her schizophrenic nature, I shrug and start picking at grapes as Trace enters the kitchen, asking whether me and Cat have made up.

I’m so glad Cat decided to tell me the truth; not that it was that big of a deal anyway. I was stupid not to have realized it before. Cat’s too independent to be sitting at the side all the time, of course it was going to bother her. I’ll just have to get her mind fixed on a project or something, because honestly, I don’t think she should go back to work for a while. She needs a break.

Her behavior is still a little off, especially with how she reacted when I started suggesting we go upstairs. But I suppose I’m just forgetting that she’s a little shy and timid like that; she can’t seriously not want to sleep with me. I mean come on, I’ve been working out tons lately, I look great.

Who wants to bet God will smite me for being such a smartass by turning Cat into a lesbian?

Nevertheless, I’m so happy me and Cat are back on track. All it took was a little communication, and perhaps a little persuading tonight, and we’ll be on fire. We love each other and, better yet, we’re honest with each other. All of her secrets are mine, and all mine hers. No matter what, we can come to each other with whatever is wrong, and we’ll help each other through it; I love that about us.

Honestly, what was I worrying myself about?

Deprivation of something perhaps not utterly crucial, but pretty important nonetheless, can cause a person to crave that thing with a somewhat sick passion. Take dieting for example; personally, I don’t see what the big hoo ha about chocolate is, but for some women it’s the most important thing in the world. When they try to wean themselves off of it to shed a few pounds, the second you wave the tiniest cube of the stuff in front of them they respond like a pack of ravenous wolves seeking out their unfortunate prey. It’s as though something is psychologically telling them they must have it. And for goodness sake, it’s not that amazing.

So perhaps sex is my chocolate. It’s not that I’m a compulsive neurotic who has to be having sex day and night, but if it there to be had and I’m not grasping the opportunity with both hands, then that bothers me. Why? I have no clue. Maybe I’ve associated sex with how successful my relationship is; if there’s suddenly a drought in that aspect, I think something is horrifically wrong. Not that I think that sex is the magical solution to every problem, but…well…it is.

Trying my hardest to be as gentle as possible, I inch my hand along Cat’s waist as she lays in bed beside me, shuffling every now and then to get comfortable. My fingers skim slowly over her skin, just barely touching her, and it’s only when she gasps as they reach the top of her panties that I know she can feel them.

“Justin…” she starts in a cautious tone, placing her hand on top of mine to stop it continuing its pioneering trek underneath her babydoll.

“What?” I whisper into her ear as I press my torso against her back, ready to start an assault of kisses on her neck. Look, I’m a guy, okay? It’s in my genes to be sex crazed.

She shivers slightly, and the hand restraining mine softens slightly. “You’re very eager,” she says weakly, and I smirk.

“What can I say? I’m a sexually frustrated twenty four year old male.”

She scoffs and turns on her side to face me, subtly removing my hand from her hips. “Your age and gender do little to mask the fact you’re clearly an addict.”

“A week is a long time.”

“No it’s not.”

I pause and bite my lip in concentration, before replying triumphantly, “One hundred and forty four hours of solitude is a long time, babes.”

She smirks and slides out of the bed, picking up the black satin robe hanging on the back of the vanity table chair and slipping it on. “A hundred and sixty eight hours, actually.”

“Shut up, nerd,” I roll my eyes, sitting up in the mass of blankets and pillows that embrace my bed. “And where are you going?”

“Just the bathroom,” she says over her shoulder. “Why don’t you sit here and, I don’t know…”

“Think sexy thoughts?”

She closes her eyes in annoyance for a moment, before looking at me with amused condescension. “Sure, why not.” I grin at her and watch the white bathroom door click shut gently, shielding her from my view.

Thank the Lord above some of that icy exterior coating her from me this past week is gradually being melted away, leaving kind, cuddly Cat in its wake. She’s sort of like a hot drink when you’ve spent the whole day in subzero temperatures; she’s warm, soft, and, if wants to, spreads comfort from your head down to your toes. But when she’s in a bad mood, the nice hot chocolate side of her turns to ice cold bitter coffee, and all I do is wait for her to go lukewarm again. If that makes any sense at all.

I’m sure tonight is all we need to make things better.

--------------------------------------------

I’m sure tonight is the final straw in the journey of my psyche from relatively sane to utterly mad.

What the hell am I going to do? There’s no possible way to deal with this without it resulting in Justin thinking I’m an insanely emotional woman who spontaneously triggered a touching phobia within herself. Or, in other words, a psycho.

It’s not that I necessarily don’t want to have sex; in fact, it could alleviate some of the worries that have been weighing on my mind lately. But that’s cheap, and severely undermines the importance of our relationship. Having sex to momentarily escape the real world is surely the intention of a one night stand, or that whole ‘friends with benefits’ concept that Trace calls “a great idea”.

Casual sex is meaningless and fun, and a pleasant vacation from the real world. It’s not as though you can talk to a one night stand about what’s been bothering you, because chances are they’ll take a run for the hills wondering why they managed to pick up the only unstable, depressive person at the bar. There are no feelings towards you brief companion ; you might not even know them, so there’s no reason to feel guilty if you’re just using them for a bit of pleasure. But there’s no way you can treat someone you love like that, otherwise who’s to say you love them at all?

Oh, but you can lie to them and mislead them into thinking everything’s peachy keen when it’s really on the brink of disaster? Nice morals Cat; now I have hypocritical to add to my ever growing list of flaws.

I wish I could just speak to him. Sit him down, tell him gently that I’m gradually driving myself insane with worry, and see what his response is. Or, better yet, I wish I wasn’t in this situation at all. I wish it was two weeks ago, when my main concern was ensuring Trace never beat me at Scrabble again and idly pondering whether I should go to the gym. It seems years ago that my days were so carefree, but in reality time has just been moving very slowly for me.

A cough from the other side of the door breaks my train of thought, and I sit down on the edge of the toilet seat, anxiously biting my lip. Justin’s no idiot, and the longer I put this off, the worse it will be. Why don’t I just go in there, force my mind to temporarily detach from the functions of my body, and get it over with? That might be faintly plausible, if I weren’t so terrified he’ll pause in his many ministrations and say, “Baby, what’s that?”. I just need to keep his hands away from my breasts. But what explanation can be behind that?

“Unfortunately, because of hormonal reasons Justin, my breasts are a no-go zone tonight. Is that cool? Great. I’m so glad we’re on the same page.”

Somehow, I don’t think that particularly ingenious excuse is quite going to cut it.

“Hey, let’s have sex without you touching me. What’s that you say? That’s like trying to run when you have no legs? Yeah, I can sort of see your point there.”

Hmm…I don’t think that one’s all too good either.

“Is everything okay in there?” a voice calls from the other side of the bathroom door, followed by the shuffling noises on the bed. He’s getting restless.

“Just a second!” I reply, my eyes quickly darting around, expecting to see the answers to all my problems lying before me. Well really, what advice can I extract from a tube of toothpaste?

I stand up and begin to twist the silky material of the bow on my robe around my finger, racking my brains for some sort of conclusion to my jumpy thoughts. Sex would be the simple solution…if I inflicted a no touching rule. No sex would not only piss Justin off, but heighten his already aroused suspicion. This leaves me up that familiar creek without that darn paddle yet again.

Suddenly, my finger stops in its pointless actions and slowly disentangles itself from the knotted bunch of satin it had created. Untying my robe, I pull the long belt from around my waist and stare at it thoughtfully as it lays flaccid in my hands. Is this a potential “eureka” moment? Or am I just about to make a complete idiot of myself?

There’s only one way to find out.

----------------------------------------------------

What is she doing? Powdering her nose at eleven thirty at night? I saw her brush her teeth, so I know it’s not that…

“Hey,” comes a quiet voice from the doorway of the bathroom. Her figure obstructs the beam of light, causing a curvaceous shadow to fall over the bed. The shadow allows the robe to slip from its shoulders and fall to the floor in a nice little pile of silk.

“Hi,” I say cheerfully, watching as she hangs the black robe on the hook at the back of the door. “I thought you’d fallen in.”

She smiles weakly, approaching the bed slowly as one hand tucks hair behind her ear and the other plays with what looks like about a yard’s length of black material. “I was…brushing my teeth.”

No she wasn’t.

“Anyway,” she carries on, her eyes shifting to her fidgety hands. “I have an idea.”

I raise an eyebrow and sit up in the bed, my bare back against the headboard. “An idea?”

“Yeah, like…like a game,” she says quickly, her eyes flying up to mine briefly to gauge my reaction before returning to the floor.

Confusion strikes me momentarily before a slow, cocky smirk creeps onto my face. “A game?” I repeat huskily, my eyes traveling down her body on their own accord. “You mean…a sexual game?”

She hesitantly nods. “Um yeah, yeah you could say that.”

“Well come on, lemme hear it,” I reply eagerly, a broad grin etched across my excited features. It’s certainly not every day Cat Saunders willingly suggests having a little nastiness thrown in between the sheets.

“You can’t laugh,” she warns, looking at me fearfully.

“Of course not.”

“Wait, I have to check we still have them,” she suddenly mutters, frowning in concentration as she heads to the a drawer and starts sifting through its contents. Whatever it is, she doesn’t want people to see it, as it lives in what I like to call the “Goody Drawer”. The Goody Drawer, so called after the special snack drawer my mom had when I was younger that was always full of candy and chocolate, contains any kind of potentially erotic thing she owns. If I buy her a sexy set of underwear or Trace gets her something overtly naughty to embarrass her, she puts it in that drawer to hide from public view and only brings something out if she’s particularly happy with me or perhaps drunk and in the mood to have some fun; these occasions are rare to say the least, but joyous nevertheless. See why I call it the Goody Drawer?

I crane my neck, trying to get a peak over her shoulder to see what she’s pulling out. That pearl thong I bought her which she didn’t stop blushing over for three days? The whip that Cat found and innocently asked whether it had anything to do with horse riding? It’s those edible panties I insisted on buying when we were shopping for that bachelor party, isn’t it?

“Here we go,” she says, pulling something that looks oddly fluffy from the drawer and turning her back on me to fiddle with it.

“What is it?” I ask excitedly, crawling over the bed and kneeling at the edge impatiently, like some little boy on Christmas Day hoping to see the limited edition Power Ranger figurine. Well, that’s what I wanted for Christmas anyway.

She spins around abruptly, her hair flicking her face as she keeps her hands behind her back. “Sit down,” she nods towards the bed, telling me to restrain my enthusiastic position.

I obediently slump back into the pillows, steadying myself against the headboard again and waiting patiently.

“And close your eyes.”

Biting my lip to prevent the telling grin exposing my rows of white teeth, I close my eyes, my last view being Cat standing at the edge of the bed in her little black slip, watching me. Immediately, all my other senses substitute for the lack of sight, and the light crunching of the sheets as Cat climbs onto the bed and slowly crawls towards me seems deafening. After what feels like an age, the comforter covering my legs is pulled back slightly, and the texture of skin against skin jolts my system as she nestles on my lap. Before I can reach out to rip off the stupid babydoll that forms a silky partition between my body and, the thing I want most, her body, her fingers wrap around my wrists.

“No moving,” she orders, letting go of my wrists after a moment and letting them fall to the side. “And no touching me.”

“What?” I protest, my eyes snapping open. “That’s not fair. Where’s the fun in it if I don’t get to touch you?”

She raises an eyebrow mysteriously, her blue eyes holding a spicily tempting mixture of cute playfulness with captivating allure . “You’ll see,” she replies quietly, her voice no more than a soft whisper.

The ready objections waiting on my tongue suddenly fizzle out uselessly as she stares at me intently, a piece of brown hair cast over her face. She looks so…sexy. Her hair is tousled, her eyes are bright, her body is covered in a film of black silk, her tongue keeps on running over her bottom lip, in anticipation or just because she feels like it I don’t know. The air around her seems different; more mature and adult, like an experienced temptress that could handle anything you threw at her, because she’s already done it before. Suddenly, those nice little black creations that she and millions of other women wear to bed every night don’t seem so standard and of the norm, but rather contribute to an overall portrayal of sexy confidence.

Like I said, tonight is going to be…awesome.

She reaches behind her and picks up the black material I saw her toying with early, and runs it through her fingers. “This is to ensure no cheating,” she smiles, bending forward to tie the sash, which I recognize as the belt to her robe, around my eyes. The light fails to put up a fight against the dark material as my vision is shrouded by the belt. Or perhaps I should call it a blindfold.

“As I was saying, the rules are; no looking,” she gently runs a hand over my blindfolded eyes, “And no touching.”
Just as I was about to question how she was going to do that, her fingers close around my wrists gently, as though she’s frightened she’ll snap them if she presses too hard. A moment later, something else closes around my wrists, and it takes a moment for my skin to recognize the ticklish texture as a fluffy, fur-like material.

“Baby, have you…handcuffed me?” a confused but nonetheless delighted question escapes my lips.

Her lips softly meet mine. “Can’t have you cheating now, can we?”

“But what are you going to do?” I ask, fighting the urge to punch my fist in the air and scream, ‘Now this is what I’m talkin’ about!’. This is obscenely out of character for Cat…but who am I to argue?

A throaty chuckle meets my ears and a fingernail grazes over my chest, before dragging itself down my torso, resting at the band of my boxers. “Whatever I want.”

I try to separate my wrists, only to find them tightly bound and constricted. “Cat, what has gotten into you?” I say in delight, my grin stretching across my face unashamedly.

“You don’t want to know.”

And before I can argue, hot breath followed by kisses trailing down my chest forces me to shut my mouth completely, only opening to gasp as Cat’s lips start doing things I can’t remember her being so good at.

I may not know where this is coming from, but I sure hope it stays.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Sex is an emotional thing. Of course it is; it’s possible the closest act (both physically and psychologically) one can share with another person. Whether it’s your husband of five years or a cute guy you picked up at a bar, there’s always a churning feeling in your stomach afterwards that dictates your feelings on the situation. Sentiments range from guilty to happiness to sadness to regret to just about anything.

But oddly enough, I’ve never felt like a whore before.

Justin may as well have gone to some seedy brothel and picked up the first cheap girl he laid his eye on; whatever they did together would hold as much meaning as what happened last night. We were like two drunk Spring Break-ers thrown together for one crazy night of wild sex, not a couple that have been dating for near on ten months. There was no difference between us and a prostitute acting out her client’s wildest fantasies for a few dollars.

Of course, Justin thought it was great. Well he would; his typically prudish girlfriend suddenly offers some light bondage and generosity on a platter? Who would refuse? By the time he had actually removed the handcuffs and torn off the makeshift blindfold, he was too feverish to seal the deal with his night of fun to pay much attention to any other part of my body except the part that, he thought, would bring us both pleasure.

It was horrible, just horrible. Not that he was doing anything wrong; he’s Justin Timberlake, wrong isn’t in his vocabulary, but for me it was like a constant reminder of what a horrible person I am. Have I really gone to such great lengths to keep my secret from Justin and keep his suspicions to a minimum that I’m really willing to degrade myself and my principles? Every thrust, every kiss, every touch…it was as though they were all weighing down on my body, suffocating me until I couldn’t breathe. I almost screamed for him to get off of me I just couldn’t bear it so much.

But I can’t tell him now. He’d just ask why I hadn’t told him sooner, and why I had lied to him for so long. It’s as though every word out of my mouth digs a little deeper into the grave of trouble I seem to have placed myself in. I’m almost afraid to immerse myself in idle chitchat with him. What makes it even worse is that he’s utterly oblivious to any of the trouble going on around him, and thinks last night was a fun but beautiful blessing, when it was really me flogging myself to stop him asking questions. God, I can’t even look in the mirror without hating the deceitful, lying, shameful reflection.

Flicking the brush stick over my cheeks in a desperate attempt to inject some color into my pale, drawn face, I try not to look up as the bathroom door opens to reveal a semi clad Justin, fresh from his shower. Before I can dart for the door and run downstairs under the pretense of a sudden craving of toast, wet arms wrap around my torso and a nice big kiss is planted on my cheek.

“There’s my sexy girl,” Justin whispers in my ear, resting his head on my shoulder and catching my eye in the reflection of the mirror as I sit at the vanity table. “How are we this morning?”

I smile weakly. “I’m okay. You?”

“I…am…fan…tastic,” he replies, punctuating each word to a kiss at any available spot on my neck and shoulders. “You wanna know why?”

“Let me guess; they’re doing reruns of Sesame Street on the Disney Channel.”

“No,” he smirks, bringing his kisses up to my chin. “Because I have the best, most sexiest girlfriend in the entire world!”

“Actually, it’s grammatically incorrect to say most sexiest,” I reply automatically, setting the brush back on the table. “It’s either most sexy or sexiest; not both.”

“Cat,” he rolls his eyes dramatically, reaching down to hold up the deliciously small towel from falling from his hips. “You are such a nerd.”

“So you said last night,” I smile, picking up some more foundation and dabbing at it, knowing I’m running the terrible risk of looking extremely Oompa Loompa-esque if I apply more color to my face.

“I don’t think I said much at all last night,” he grins, once again looking at me in the mirror. “Apart from screaming your name and a few profanities.”

A deep blush, deeper than the Mac tint I had just added to my cheeks, leaves my face looking as rosy as Santa’s as I look down coyly. “Well, you know…”

He rests his elbow on the table, looking at me in admiration. “Seriously baby, last night was like having a little piece of heaven right here on earth, wasn’t it?”

I force a smile; I ought to win an Oscar for all these fucking happy emotions I’ve been pouring out lately. “Ye-yeah.”

“And you know what’s even better?”

“What?”

“Tonight, I get to do the same for you!” he proclaims cheerfully, placing one final kiss on my cheek before happily dancing towards the bathroom to shave, singing an animated version of I’m So Excited.

Resisting the urge to throw my head in my hands and liquefy into a pool of tears, I confidently stand up and trudge down the stairs, trying to concentrate on what I could have for breakfast. As my bare feet hit the bottom stair and are imprisoned by the soft carpet, a firm grip tightens around my elbow.

“Where’s Justin?” asks Trace urgently, his eyes widened as though he was an escaped mental patient.

“Upstairs shaving,” I reply, frowning as I shake my arm of his grasp. “Why?”

“Because this came for you today,” he brandishes an envelope in front of me, “and he can’t see it.”

“What is it? Your monthly subscription of Playboy?” I mutter dryly, following him into the living room and rubbing the red mark on my arm.

“It’s from St. Vincent’s Comprehensive Cancer Center.”

The bitchy words still waiting to pelt themselves at Trace dry on my lips immediately. His facial expression is one of sympathy as he hands me the long manila envelope and pats my arm reassuringly, as though he’s ashamed he has to be the one giving me the letter. As if in a daze, my eyes slowly drift down to the oblong paper in my hands, staring at the small stamp of St. Vincent’s, along with my name and address printed on it. Slowly, my fingers creep under the seal and gently pull it open, my heart pounding erratically in my chest.

My eyes scan the page, ignoring the obligatory “Ms C Saunders” and trying to find a date and time for my appointment. “But that’s today!” I cry, my heart flipping vivaciously in my chest.

“I know,” Trace says softly. “It probably came a few days ago; you know none of us every check the mail box.”

“Justin could have found this!” I exclaim, holding the envelope in my clenched fist and shaking it aggressively at Trace, as though it was his fault.

“I know,” he says defensively, his eyes holding an element of alarm at my reaction. “But would that really have been a bad thing?”

I groan softly, lowering the paper. “Not now, Trace.”

“When is it?” he asks, his eyes looking to the somewhat crumpled sheet in my hands.

“In about three and a half hours,” I mutter.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. You stay here and keep Justin busy.”

He looks hesitant. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come? It might make it easier if--”

“I don’t need your help,” I snap, immediately regretting the harshness of my words as Trace’s chocolate brown eyes fail to hide his hurt.

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I need to figure out where the hell this place is,” I proceed quickly, trying to ignore the guilt settling in the pit of my stomach as I peer at the address. “Do you know where this is?”

“Not a clue. You should ask Justin; he knows New York a lot better than I do.”

His not so innocent suggestion echoes in my ears as my insides churn painfully, trying to ignore the prickly feeling in my eyes. “Don’t try to be fucking smart with me, Trace,” I say sharply, giving him a piercing glare.

“I’m not being fucking smart, Cat. I’m just telling you what the right thing to do is, because you clearly don’t have a clue.”

“I’m sorry, is this your problem or mine?” I retort sarcastically.

“If you’re sick, then it’s everyone’s problem!”

“Ugh,” I groan, shaking my head in despair and turning away from him to fold the letter and replace it in the envelope. “You know what? I don’t know why I even told you.”

“You told me because you knew you had to tell someone,” he responds, clutching my arm to turn me back around. “It was an act of desperation because you, whether you care to admit it or not, are in a bad place right now.”

“As if I didn’t remember,” I reply, rolling my eyes condescendingly. “You’re supposed to be sympathizing with me Trace, not reminding me of my current state of poor health.”

“I think what you’re doing is wrong!”

“And I think you should drop the holier than thou bullshit!”

“Guys, what the hell is going on in here?”

Our heads spin around abruptly to see a confused Justin in the doorway, frowning at us as our increasingly loud shouts linger in the air uncomfortably.

“Why were you two shouting?” he asks naively, his eyes dancing between my body and Trace’s. “I could hear you all the way upstairs.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, stuffing the letter away hastily.

Trace doesn’t respond, instead fixing his eyes in a hard glare towards me and crossing his tattooed arms across his chest.

“So?” pushes Justin in the silence. “What happened? What’s that?” He nods towards the white envelope in my hand as I quickly turn it over to hide the stamp of St Vincent’s.

Another awkward lull makes itself known as Trace stares at me pointedly, making it abundantly clear he has no wish to help me out in this situation.

“I…well, the thing is…” I flounder helplessly, any excuses fleeing my mind instantly.

“Yes?” Justin urges impatiently.

“Trace read my mail.”

Justin’s face falls into a puzzled frown as he looks at us obliviously. “Oh,” he says, clearly failing to see the relevance and offence in this, as there is none to see. “Um…why?”

“I don’t know,” I reply stupidly. “He just did.”

Justin nods slowly, doing little to hide the fact he doesn’t quite know how to respond in these circumstances. “Did you?”

I bow my head ashamedly, but nothing can throw off the feeling of Trace’s disappointed brown eyes on me, boring through my skin. Asking someone to lie to their best friend of their whole life is one of the cruelest things a person could do, and here I am doing it.

“Yeah, yeah I did,” he mutters, his voice almost regretful as he answers.

“Trace, Cat’s mail is her personal property. You have no right to go snooping through it,” he says maturely, sounding like a teacher calming two squabbling five year olds. “What’s so special about it anyway?”

“It’s…it’s a letter from my sister,” I answer feebly, unable to shake off Trace’s hardening glare.

“Dude,” Justin says in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d act like that. Grow up a little, man.”

I bite my lip as guilt tides over me, each wave stronger than the last. A hurt looks flashes over Trace’s face at Justin taking my side over his, and I half expect him to tell Justin his girlfriend is a heartless liar, as perhaps, he should.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he casts me one last pitiful stare, before shaking his head. “This is fucking bullshit.”

With that, he roughly pushes past me and Justin, only pausing to pick up his blue leather jacket before storming out of the front door, letting it slam behind him.

“What on earth is wrong with him?” Justin laughs slightly, staring at the shut front door. “I mean, why would he want to read that letter in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” I murmur weakly, unfiltered shame streaming through my body.

“So, what do you want for breakfast? I got Chad and Pharrell at one, but until them, I’m all yours, baby!”

“I’m not very hungry.”

My dark voice slices straight through his happy mood. “Oh…well, okay.”

“I think I’m going to go after Trace,” I say suddenly, gripping the envelope tighter and shoving it in my pocket. It’s scary how quickly the lies can roll off my tongue nowadays; of course I’m not going to go look for Trace. This is New York City, where the hell would I start?

Twenty five to one. That’s the time printed onto the paper, coldly informing me when my presence is expected at the clinic. Part of me doesn’t want to go; perhaps I’m secretly wishing that if I ignore the appointment, it’s a way of ignoring my whole predicament. I don’t want to hear what they have to say to me, be it good or bad. I just want to crawl into a corner and curl up into a ball, paying no heed to the forever spinning world in which I live.

But then I get angry at myself. Hundreds of thousands of people deal with cancer every day; they don’t get the chance to overlook it, so why should I? What makes me so special? I’m almost envious of their bravery; I wish I could have their strength, instead of just buckling in the face of something wrong like I always do. For all I know, I might not have cancer at all, and all this lying and worrying and stress has just been for nothing. Either way, I’ve managed to screw things up royally; I’ve lied to Justin, made him think things are even better than usual when really they’re falling apart, put a rift between him and Trace…what else could I do to make things worse?

Forcing myself to stop my tumbling thoughts before I burst into tears, I mentally shake myself. Deal with things one at a time; go to the clinic, see how things are on that front, and then resolve the intricate web of problems I seem to have built in my home life. But how did I do that? Why am I hurting everyone, when really, I was just trying to make things easier for them?

“Why? Trace’s just being moody; ignore him.”

But that’s just it. He’s done nothing wrong, and yet he’s bearing the brunt of my many mistakes. “No, I’m going to go look for him. I won’t be back for hours; you should just go to the studio.”

“I suppose,” he says slowly, slightly stung by my cold, offhand manner.

“Don’t worry about me; I’m just concerned Trace is out there angry and will go and do something stupid, like get crazy drunk in the middle of the day,” I say, rolling my eyes convincingly.

“Well…”

“Have a good day, okay?” I quickly carry on, trying my hardest to keep my face a blank canvas, hiding any of the simmering emotions inside of me.

“Okay, bye baby,” he moves forward to kiss my briefly, and I pull away before it can become anything more than a quick peck.

“Bye.”

Shoving my hand in the pocket of my jeans to feel the texture of the envelope cramped in it, my stomach knots itself up as I hurriedly leave the apartment, no doubt leaving a very confused Justin in my wake. If something is wrong, how am I going to explain it to him? Or would that be yet another impossible secret I would try to keep?

Maybe I should have just told him. At least it would be one less worry off of my mind. In fact, I can barely remember my reasoning behind not telling him…God, what have I done? Should I turn back now, run up the stairs and just let every secret I’ve held for these past few weeks just pour from my mouth? Should I let Justin hold me as I cry into his shoulder, releasing my fears and anxiety in my tears as he rubs my back and says everything’s going to be okay?

Or should I keep on walking with my head down and my eyes fixed to the sidewalk, emotionally cut off and barren, like everyone else in this city? Should I just tell myself to pull it together and stop acting like a whimpering mess? For goodness sake; here I am worrying about my boyfriend and my friend when my health is on the line here.

My feet pound the concrete relentlessly as I head in the direction of the subway, trying to figure out a route in my head. I hope whatever they do to me at the clinic won’t hurt; I’m pretty afraid of needles, and if I remember correctly I’m going to have a particularly big and lethal one stuck into my breast in a few hours.

I wish Justin would be there to hold my hand and tell me when to look away when they inserted the needle. I wish I could have his thumb rubbing in small circles over the back of my hand as we waited patiently for the doctor to tell us it was either a cyst or that he would have to do some analysis on it. I wish I could have him place a gentle kiss on my cheek and whisper reassuringly in my ear whenever he saw me getting scared.

But wishes simply don’t come true, and I kept on walking.