My fingers slowly ravel and unravel Natasha’s hair as she sits in between my legs, her back to my chest, watching TV. She unexpectedly came over last night and I welcomed her with open arms. Having fun with Natasha beat staring aimlessly at the TV, wondering what was happening between Sean and Cat.
When it comes to female friends, I’m naturally overprotective. Always have been, always will be. I’m particularly familiar with the workings of the male mind, being one myself, and I am fully aware of the extents to which a man will go to in order to get what, or who, he wants. I’ve been there, for goodness sake. I’ve been the prick who sleazes up on some poor, unsuspecting girl and then loses her phone number the next day. Christ, after Britney and I split up, that’s all I ever did to try and get over her. Trace and I have spent that last two years sleeping around with just about anything, and then bragging about it the next day because it’s the seventh model we’ve managed to sleep with or something. Man, we really were assholes.
But we’ve grown up and out of that phase. I spent plenty of nights trying to find the reason to my complete lack of respect towards women, and I know it’s just because I was tied down in a relationship for too long, when I was too young. Okay, it’s no excuse for being such a, to use one of Trace’s words, ‘himbo’, but I’m not like that anymore.
However, just because I have managed to successfully extract my brains from my boxers does not mean the rest of the male population has. Especially when they’re around Cat’s age. I guess I should be grateful she’s dating someone who is a little older than her, so I’m spared the college asshole who screams ‘Score!” at regular intervals and has a beer bottle growing onto his hand. I should be happy that Sean has an element of maturity to him, and probably because of his age, he’s over the ‘Love ’em and Leave ’em” thing.
I don’t understand what it is that gets me so worked up when it comes to Cat. I’ve never behaved this badly when it comes to any of my friends dating, and as I said, Sean really doesn’t seem like that kind of guy. Part of me felt jealous last night, as the other half screamed why? I don’t own Cat, I don’t find her that attractive, and it’s not like I had any plans to pursue a relationship to her. Not to mention the fact I already have a beautiful, intelligent, kind girlfriend, who I was having a great time with until he turned up.
The only conclusion I can come to is that it’s just because Cat and I are really good friends. I care about her a great deal, so I guess I’m extra, perhaps even overtly protective of her. And plus, I know she’s hasn’t had great relationships in the past, and the thought of some guy screwing around with her like that, again, makes my blood run cold. When I think back to that night on the balcony, I remember how heartbroken and dejected she seemed to feel. I never want to have to see her cry again.
It’s ridiculous really, but every time I see Cat with a guy, I get this churning feeling in my stomach as I watch her interact with whoever she’s with, be it Trace or Sean, or even the guy at the coffee shop who gave her a discount because he said nobody loved his hot chocolates like her. It seems every guy she is with, in my mind, is immediately someone who could hurt her. As soon as that thought is in my head, all I can do is hate them for no apparent reason. But I am sure I saw that coffee guy staring at her boobs, so the prick better watch his step.
“Justin!”
The sharp voice pulls me from my thoughts and I look in the direction of it’s owner. “What?”
“I just said your name three times and each time, you looked blanker than the last.”
“Oh, sorry Trace,” I say, sitting up a bit straighter. “What’s wrong?”
He shrugs and throws himself down on the couch away from Natasha and I. “Just wondering why you were looking like some zombie from Night of the Living Dead.” I roll my eyes at him and turn back the TV as he sips his orange juice. “Oh, did Cat get back okay last night?”
My head snaps to look at him. “What?”
“I went do bed kind of early, so I didn’t hear her get back.”
“Well neither did I!” I exclaim, with a little too much panic in my voice. “I was with Natasha!”
“Where was she?” asks Natasha from my lap.
“She was out with some guy from her work,” answers Trace.
“But where is she now!” I demand.
“Maybe she went back to his place,” shrugs Trace, and I want to kill him for even suggesting Cat would sleep with that piece of muscled crap. My blood runs cold as images of him taking her back to his sleazy bachelor pad with mirrors on the ceiling and having his nasty way with her fill my head. Bastard.
“I’m going to kill him,” I growl, ready to toss Natasha off me so I can head to the phone and dial 911 to file a missing persons account.
“Or maybe she’s standing behind you, listening to this drama with a smirk on her face,” says a voice from the doorway.
We turn to see Cat leaning against the doorframe, dressed in her pajamas, lazily sipping some hot chocolate and grinning at us.
“Are you okay?” I ask, rushing towards her and placing my hands on her arms, after pushing Natasha onto the couch.
She looks slightly alarmed. “I’m fine, why?”
I suddenly realize there are three people in the room, and they are all giving me very strange looks. I release her arms and step back slightly, shrugging. “Oh, nothing. I was just worried something had happened.” I swallow all the questions burning on my tongue and hurry back to the couch to scoop Natasha back into my arms, as though I’m trying to prove something, but I don’t know what.
She looks at me for a second, before shaking her head and sitting down next to Trace. “Hey Natasha, how are you?”
“Good, thanks,” replies the beauty who has nuzzled against my chest again. “But if what these boys say went down with you and this guy last night is true, you’re better,” she says, grinning.
“No Sean with you, Cutie?” Trace asks lazily, as though he thought the answer would be yes.
“No,” she says shyly, looking down into her lap and tracing a pattern on her thigh.
Hallelujah, praise the Lord.
“You’re up kinda late though, are you sure he didn’t spend last night wearing you out?” teases Trace, grinning at her out of the corner of his eye.
I am not laughing.
Why am I hearing what can only be described as “jokey banter”? Why are Trace and Natasha not only expecting to see Sean with Cat, but acting as though the idea of them sleeping together on the first date is an acceptable and not at all disrespectful turn of events? If she had a good time, great, fine, I’m not bothered. If he seduced her with his smarmy southern charm and took advantage of her however, I will not be held accountable for my actions. Ugh, the very thought of him tangled in her red, cotton sheets, lying amongst her ridiculous number of pillows and lazily gazing at the old movie posters on her walls is making my stomach turn.
Cat’s face flushes a deep red. “Of course not, it was just a long evening and I was really tired,” she mumbles, bashfully.
“Oh, so he was boring then?” I say loudly.
She looks up at me and raises an eyebrow. “Boring?”
“Well, yeah. You said it was a long evening; I take it you didn’t have a very good time.”
She looks slightly bewildered and shakes her head. “No, not at all. I just got back kind of late.”
“Why? Did he keep you out? Why didn’t you call?” I begin, ready to fire another ten questions at her once she’s answered my first few.
She shrugs. “I forgot, sorry. But no, it was great.” She begins to smile. “It went really well.”
“And he treated you right? You know, he was polite and respectful and courteous?” I continue, realizing I’m literally hammering demands down her throat, but I won’t rest until I’m sure he didn’t overstep any boundaries.
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Justin, he was the perfect gentleman. What’s the problem?”
“Nothing, just being a good friend,” I reply quickly, pasting on a smile.
A feeling of relief washes over me as I watch her drift off into her own thoughts, her smile still adorning her face. If she had a good time and he hopefully didn’t try anything on, then that’s all that matters. Hey, for all I know, Sean could actually be a great guy. And it’s not like those two are embarking on some life long relationship together, waiting to be bound by marriage. They were just two people who merely basked in each others company for a few hours, and then went home, a good six inches between them and ended the night with no physical contact at all. Perfect.
“So come on, tell us all about it,” says Natasha.
Cat looks up at her and grins. Those two don’t even know each other that well, but all women seem to have common ground when it comes to men. Put two female strangers in a room and I guarantee, if they both have man troubles, they’ll be best friends in seconds.
“I sense a chick chat coming up, don’t you Trace?” I say to my diminutive pal.
“Yeah,” he pauses to send disgusted looks in the directions of Natasha and Cat. “Wanna go shoot some hoops?”
“Sure.” I haul myself off the couch, and leave the two gossiping girls in the living room.
-----------------
I don’t like her, really I don’t.
At least, I’m trying my best not to.
Natasha’s invite for a girly conversation sounds all too appealing, thanks to the fact I’ve spent the last few weeks living with two emotionless men whose idea of an intimate talk is discussing how last Saturday’s game went. It’s true, I have enjoyed several heart wrenching chats with both of them, both resulting in tears, but I’m in dire need of a fun, no strings attached gossip with another female. I don’t usually allow myself to partake in such annoyingly clichéd activities, but nothing is more fun that talking about stuff that is really of no importance with another woman.
But it’s Natasha. The woman I’m trying my best to at least dislike, and possibly hate if I can. I’m amazed I’ve managed to avoid her as much as I have, since her and Justin seem unable to go a whole 48 hours without some form of physical contact with each other. They’re the kind of couple who are full of small kisses, lingering touches here and there, fleeting glances. Justin is full of these ‘funny’ jokes about how couples like them ‘must make you sick, Cat’. Of course they do. Canoodle as much as you want, but can’t you just do it behind closed doors?
When I shove my bitterness to the side, I realize it’s only Natasha and I in the room and the treacherous bastards that are Justin and Trace have left me alone with her. Well, isn’t this cozy.
“Um…have you had breakfast?” I ask, desperate for an icebreaker.
She shrugs. “Justin tried to make an omelet, which was quite amusing, so no, I haven’t eaten.”
I laugh, despite trying not to, and head into the kitchen. At least if I have food, my constant companion and ally for the past twenty one years, I should feel more comfortable. I put in a few slices of toast without even considering what slim people like Natasha usually eat for breakfast, which I’m sure it’s a nutritious, low calorie bowl of oatmeal seeds or some other natural, organic produce. There’s no way she gets a figure like that from generously covering her toast with copious amounts of butter, as I do every morning.
“So, tell me about this guy,” says Natasha, taking a sip of her coffee and looking like she’s from a Gap advert, with her white shirt which is unbuttoned just enough to get someone interested but not too much, and a black pair of pants resting snugly on her hips. In my baggy pajamas, I feel like quite the slob.
I slide into a chair and prop my head up with my hand. “Well, his name is Sean, we work together, he’s twenty five, he’s got black hair and incredibly green eyes and…that’s about it, really,” I trail off and shrug, which I know I only do when I’m nervous.
She nods. “Sounds good. Do you mind if I smoke?” she asks, taking out a pack of cigarettes from her purse.
Ha, a flaw. She smokes. Wonderful, I feel slightly better now, isn’t that terrible?
“No, go ahead.”
She mumbles her thanks and lights a cigarette. “Justin hates this,” she motions to her hand which is holding the white stick in between her slender fingers. “He calls them death sticks.”
I mumble incomprehensibly, not able to come up with an argument and hating her for having such a warm, welcoming demeanor. She’s the girl at camp who made friends with everyone, including the fat, geeky kid who sat in the corner sucking their thumb.
“Where did he take you?” she asks, tapping the ash off of her cigarette and looking hopelessly sophisticated as she does so. Like some model from Milan, taking a break from her glamorous shoot to have some coffee with the ending, ‘ccino’.
“Oh, this small, Italian restaurant not that far from here.” I finally answer, after pushing my thoughts to the side long enough to answer her. “And then we went for a walk.”
She nods and raises an eyebrow. “A walk, huh?”
I blush instinctively. “But nothing happened. We just kissed.”
Her eyes widen. “Well, that’s something! Tell me all about it, was it good?”
I grin. “Oh yeah. It was like being kissed by a little piece of heaven.”
“Sounds like someone’s not gonna hold out for long,” she teases, before taking a drag of her cigarette.
I laugh. “We’ll see.”
“So, what’s he like? You know, personality-wise.”
“Very, very clever. As in, almost uncomfortably intellectual. But at least he knows when to drop all that and just be silly,” I say, fiddling with the stalk of an apple. “He can be very funny. And flirty, which I wasn’t expecting,” I add, grinning.
She reciprocates my smile and heads to get the toast. “Anything else?”
I shrug and bite into my apple. “Kinda old fashioned. You know, he pays for the dinner, he picks me up, he opens all the doors. But I like that.”
She nods and puts down the plate of triangular pieces of toast in between us on the table. “You know what they say, gentleman on the streets -”
“Freak in the sheets,” I finish, smirking.
“Absolutely.” She winks at me and I instantly realize I’m accepting her as a friend.
“How about you and Justin?” I ask out of politeness, but in fact have no desire to be involved in their picturesque relationship.
She nods. “We’re good. Very good, in fact. He definitely backs up the gentleman in the streets, freak in the sheets theory.” She adds, grinning and showing me perfectly straight teeth.
The temptation to cover my ears and sing la la la begins to grow as Natasha takes a small bite out of her toast. “Oh really,” I say, with minimal expression. Please, don’t start talking about how Justin is in bed. As if I need a reminder that she’s a participant in all the moans I hear from their room.
She nods again. “Oh yeah. I always thought all that stuff about him was just hyped up media crap, but trust me when I say that boy knows what he’s doing.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. This is definitely, definitely something I shouldn’t be listening to. “Well, he would,” I mumble, my brain desperately searching for things to say. “He’s been doing it since he was what, fifteen?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know, the sad thing is, I think it was fourteen.” She laughs. “No wonder he thinks he’s so hot, he’s had almost a decade of people agreeing with him.”
I “Mmm” in response.
“It’s strange, though. He has all this different sides in bed. Sometimes, he’s all for the romance, with candles and soft music and flowers,” she explains as I nod and wonder how many steps it would take to leave the room. “But then all of a sudden he’ll do a complete 360 and we’ll be at it right here on the kitchen table!”
Oh dear God, save me. I immediately jump away from the table, almost knocking my chair over as graphic and sweaty images of those two engaged in a particular activity suddenly plague my mind. I hate the idea of being in the same place somebody has had sex in, it just seems icky, but when that somebody is Justin, and his partner in crime is sitting right in front of me, it makes my ears ring with, ‘ew’.
She laughs and pats the table. “Don’t worry, not on this kitchen table.”
I offer her a weak smile and cautiously slide back into my seat. I have to change the subject; revelations of Justin’s sexual habits not only forms some sort of friendship between us, it also makes me want to shove her cigarette down her impossibly slim throat.
“I wonder what it’s like.”
She turns to me with a surprised expression. “What, sex?”
I roll my eyes. “No, I mean for Justin. Waking up in the morning and knowing there’s hundreds of people out there who want you.” Me included, of course.
She laughs and nods, stubbing her cigarette out. “I know.”
Actually Natasha, you don’t know. You’re so disgustingly beautiful I feel like a train collision in comparison. I bet she has men falling over their feet to get to her, whereas I’m lucky to get one date. Bitch.
“Anyway, I’d better go get dressed,” I say, slowly rising from the table.
“Okay,” she chirps, “I‘m gonna go and check on those boys,” she says, reaching out and giving me a slight hug, which I awkwardly try and return.
“See ya,” I mumble, before rushing to my room and slamming the door behind me.
If I was somebody else, reviewing the situation I was in, I would definitely classify myself as screwed. I like Natasha, who is my prime enemy at the moment. I walk over to my bedside table and pick up the already wilting rose Sean gave me last night. I lazily pick off the dark red petals one by one, and the “he loves me, he loves me not” mantra soon turned into, “I like her, I like her not, I like her, I like her not.”
Aw shit, I can see where this is going.
The last petal falls on, “I like her”.
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