“The book says, heat for twenty minutes, until it turns a golden brown color,” Trace recites from the cookery book Cat threw at us a few weeks ago, telling us to, ‘pull our heads out of our asses and learn how to cook something other than toast’.
“I did exactly what it said!” I exclaim, waving a towel at the smoking chicken.
“Really?” says Trace, lowering the book and surveying the smoldering mess in front of us. “And at which point did it say, ‘Wait until the chicken reaches burning point until removal’?”
“Shut up, dude! You were supposed to be watching it too!” I defend, frowning at my diminutive pal.
He rolls his eyes. “Cat’s right, we are idiots.”
Shrugging, I can’t help but agree with him as I prod the chicken, a puff of steam escaping it as I do so. “Maybe we could scrape off the top…” I suggest hesitantly, eyeing the layer of charcoal covering the chicken.
“Or maybe we could call for pizza,” replies Trace, placing a hand on his hip and staring at the poor poultry.
“Smartest thing you’ve ever said, man,” I say, turning my back on the chicken, which is starting to make me feel guilty, and throwing the phone to him.
Suddenly, the thunderous slam of the door causes us both to look up in surprise. Heels clatter angrily across the marble floor of the hall, before the door of the kitchen is swung open to reveal Cat, dressed in her ordinary white blouse and navy blue skirt, and looking less than happy.
“Hey Cat,” I say cautiously, raising my eyebrows questioningly at Trace, who shrugs.
“Hi,” she mumbles, throwing her purse onto the table and stomping over to the refrigerator. She angrily pulls out some orange juice and slams a glass on the table, pouring it out and ignoring the sploshes that miss the glass and land on the table.
“Have a good day at work?” Trace asks hesitantly.
She gulps down her drink and narrows her eyes at him. “Perfectly awful, thank you.”
“What happened?” I ask, although I know to tread carefully. She’s been working late all this week and her tiredness has made her snappy, which provides entertainment for me, but also makes me worry about what I say might annoy her. Let me tell you, you don’t want to piss that woman off. She once spent five minutes telling Trace exactly what she would do to him if he ever stole the remote control again. Let’s just say it involved a hammer and some nails.
She sighs, and her anger slips away to be replaced by a torn, tired expression. “Nothing,” she mutters, before snatching up her purse and running upstairs, her head in her hands.
I raise an eyebrow at Trace. “Should you go up? Or will I?”
“I’ll do it,” he replies, placing the phone on the counter and heading out of the kitchen.
Nodding, I turn back to the chicken. How the hell am I supposed to get rid of this? Cut it up and sell it has coal?
By the time I’ve cleaned up the kitchen and disposed of the lump of rock, Trace has already returned to the kitchen, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“What did she say?” I ask, wiping my hands on a towel.
Trace shrugs. “I think her and Sean were just at each other’s throats. She’s really tired, so she’s extra emotional and thought he was getting at her or something, I don’t know,” he shrugs.
I slam the towel down on the counter, anger already boiling through my veins. “He was getting at her? How? What did he do? Did he say something to upset her? Was he making her feel bad?”
Trace frowns at me in confusion. “I don’t know, man. She just said they had a little argument and that she hated men.”
I wave my hand. Same old, same old. “But did Sean say anything specific?”
I’ll kill him. If that little cowboy said one thing that made her feel bad, I’ll march straight over to his house and tear him to shreds. How dare he, how dare he make her unhappy? I would never do that if I was her boyfriend. If I was her boyfriend, I’d make sure she felt like she could reach the stars, that she was perfect, that she was the most amazing woman in the world who could do just about anything. Sean could never do that. Wanna know why? Because he’s an asshole.
“I don’t think so,” Trace shrugs. “You know how woman are, J. You say one thing and they think you’re calling them fat.”
“But he shouldn’t be making her upset!”
“It’s nothing much man, she’s just a little sensitive right now,” Trace explains, giving me his, ‘Why are you making such a big deal of this?’ face. “It’s not like she’s about to commit suicide.”
“Is she crying?”
“Sniffling,” he says, in an offhandish way which makes me want to slap him.
“I’m going to go up and see her,” I announce, pushing myself away from the counter and heading for the door.
“No, Justin, don’t.”
“Why not?” I ask, turning round to Trace, who has started to pick at the grapes.
“I think she needs a little time to calm down. Just give it a few minutes, she probably wants to be alone right now,” he says through a mouthful of fruit.
Nodding, I sit myself down on the chair, ignoring every impulse to race upstairs and haul Cat in for a hug. I hate the thought of her upset. It’s only times like that I see how young and vulnerable she is. By the way she acts, Trace and I always assume she’s just one of us, and has seen all the things we have. But when I think about it, she’s twenty one, just barely an adult, and she’s probably not experienced half the things we have.
Of course, she’ll never let us know that. She’s so…tough. Or at least, that’s what she wants all of us to think. But I know her. I know that underneath all that sarcasm and wit, there’s just a little girl from Ohio who’s gotten burned in the past and is trying to make her way through the world.
Christ, I’m doing it again. Talking in a way that would make Cat slap me over the back of the head with a Jackie Collins book and tell me it’s time I started taking testosterone pills.
“What could we do to cheer her up?” I ask, bouncing up from the chair and scanning the kitchen, as though the answer lies in the worktops.
He shrugs and tosses a grape in the air, trying to catch it with his mouth, but missing. “Dunno,” he shrugs. “Get her some chocolate?”
I shake my head and scratch my chin. “No, that’s too impersonal.”
Suddenly, my eyes land on the cookery book.
I turn to Trace and raise an eyebrow. “O Short One?”
“Yep?” he replies, bending down to pick up his fifth missed grape.
“I think we should tackle the ultimate…” I begin, staring at the taunting novel in front of us.
“What?” he asks, following my gaze and looking at the book. “Make her Chicken Alfredo?”
Rolling my eyes, I march over to the book and begin to spin through the pages. “No, something nice. Something…chocolatey.”
“She’d like that,” he says, coming up behind me and reading over my shoulder. “Do we have ingredients though? I don’t even think we have eggs.”
“We do for this,” I announce proudly, opening the book at a page I know will obtain maximum results in cheering Cat up. “All we need is flour…and shit.”
“Isn’t that a little ambitious?” he says, raising an eyebrow as he looks over the recipe. “Come on, man. We can’t even make sandwiches.”
“Don’t worry,” I reply soothingly. “I’ve seen my mom did it hundred of times before.”
Reaching down, I search through the cupboard until I find a pink apron…not cool, I’ll admit, but there is no other option. I tie it around my waist and adjust it, before picking up the look Trace is giving me.
“What?”
“You’re wearing pink,” he says bluntly, his eyes narrowing with horror.
I glance down. “I know.”
“And you’re making baked goods.”
I look over at the book. “I know.”
He slowly steps away from me. “Mind if I don’t join in on your little gay day?”
My eyes stop mid-roll. He does have a point. “It’s for Cat, okay?”
H raises an eyebrow at me.
“Fine, I’ll get rid of the apron.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Life is shit. Men are shit. Work is shit.
My life is shit. My man is shit. And my work…let’s not even go there.
I realize it’s not normal to sit in the same position for thirty minutes, particularly when that position is a very uncomfortable one: sitting against the very hard wall with my knees brought up to my chin as I wallow in self pity.
The worst thing is Sean didn’t even really do anything wrong, I just blew up at him for no reason and stomped away from the office like some little spoilt brat at camp. It wasn’t completely his fault. We were both tired and not in the best of moods to work together. But really, was it necessary for him to be such an asshole?
Or, equally, was it necessary for me to be such a bitch?
Crap. I hate feeling guilty. Perhaps I should call Sean, make it up to him somehow. I doubt he even wants to talk to me after the slew of insults I threw at him before I stormed out of the office. I didn’t mean to be such a verbal bomb, but it all just came rushing out in one long line of, ‘You asshole, don’t talk to me, who do you think you are’ etc etc.
I hate how people say without suffering there would be no happiness. How can that be? Sadness doesn’t make the happier times better, it just makes the bad times worse. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could just press a button and all of life’s difficulties and traumas were just wiped away? It would be so great. I could forget about Sean, work, Justin, the weight I am still yet to lose, two articles that are yet to be written, that my mom is angry at me for not calling, I’m convinced one thigh is bigger than the other…
Isn’t it scary how quickly I can make a list of things wrong in my life? And…wait a second, was I just talking about a button? God, I’m so tired, I’ve become delirious.
A gentle knock on my door makes me look up and lengthen my legs, a cramp already starting to spread.
Justin’s head pokes round my door and takes in what must be quite a pathetic sight: me, slouching against the wall. I don’t even want to think about what my stomach looks like.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“I just came in to check you were okay,” he says, coming in and delicately shutting the door behind him. “And to give you a little comfort food.” He holds out a plate of chocolate chip cookies, cut into shapes to spell, ‘Cat’. Justin can’t cook to save his life, so I don’t even want to think about how difficult that was for him.
“Justin,” my face softens and melts into a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He beams proudly. “I made them all by myself.”
“Did Trace help?” I ask, taking the plate from him and examining the cookies.
“Nope,” he says, sliding down the wall to sit next to me. “He said I was just encouraging all those gay rumors, so he went out to rent a video for you.”
“Ah,” I coo, chuckling slightly. “You’re the sweetest. Thank you.” Feeling bold, I reach over and cup his cheek, gently bringing it to my lips.
He blushes slightly. “No problem.” He’s quiet for a second, before picking up the C of the Cat and holding it out to me. “Here, try a bit.”
I gingerly lean forward and snap a bit off with my teeth, well aware that it might all crumble and I’d just look like an idiot in front of Justin Timberlake, who is feeding me. Whoa, that’s a weird thing to be able to say. Justin Timberlake is feeding me.
“They’re really good!” I exclaim, chewing the ever-so-slightly doughy cookie. “I always thought you were a helpless cook.”
“Oh I am,” he says simply. “But I tried extra hard for you.” He sends me a knee-quivering grin before he turns sheepish. “But the first batch were a little burnt.”
“I wondered what that smell was,” I reply, laughing.
He laughs, before shuffling closer to me. “So, how you holdin’ up, sweetums?”
“Just fine, peaches,” I retort, raising an eyebrow at him. “Nah, I’m okay,” I say seriously, pulling down my skirt. “I’ve just had a bad week.”
“I know,” he says sympathetically. “What happened today?”
I shrug. “Not much. I’m just overreacting, really, it’s silly.”
“If it’s bothering you, then it’s not silly. What happened?”
Sighing, I flick my hair over my shoulder and look at the ceiling. “Just Sean. Ugh, he was being such an asshole!”
“Did you break up with him?” he asks, so quickly that it makes me frown with confusion.
“No,” I reply slowly. “We were just on each other’s nerves.”
“Oh…” he nods, before accepting the cookie I give to him. “So what happened?” he asks between chews.
I stop chewing for a second to contemplate my words. “You know how Sean can be a little arrogant and ‘I know everything’ at times?”
“Yes,” he replies immediately, with not a hint of indecisiveness.
I grin. “Of course you do. How could I forget the restaurant?”
He blushes. “And then…” he urges me to continue.
“Oh, so we were just working late on this feature, like we have been all week because it’s going to print in two days and it’s both of our asses on the line if it’s not perfect…” Justin nods. “And it just felt like every suggestion I made was shot down by him and he was just being…ugh!” I exclaim, running a hand through my hair agitatedly.
“Did he say anything nasty to you?”
I laugh. “You sound like some principal getting to the bottom of bullying case.” He shrugs and grins. “And no, it wasn’t that he was actually being horrible, I just found him a little…overbearing.”
Justin nods and sighs. He runs a hand over his head and looks at the floor for a second, as though he‘s choosing his words very carefully. “Look Cat,” he says after a moment, “I know I haven’t always been the biggest Sean fan, but the guy does care about you. I know he wouldn’t do anything to upset you.”
“Do you really think so?” I ask, somewhat shocked by the gentle tone he uses. He sounds sort of…upset. As though it’s no something he wants to say, but he’s saying it anyway.
He nods, his eyes still glued to the floor as he fingers trace circles on the rug. “You guys make a great couple,” he murmurs quietly, as though it’s paining him to say it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies quietly, suddenly looking up at me, his blue eyes boring into my own. “I guess I’m envious of you guys.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Envious? Are you kidding?”
“No,” he says simply. “I think you guys are going to be together for a long time.”
Why does he look so upset? You would think he’d just had his puppy run over by the forlorn expression on his face.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” I say, shifting my weight slightly. “He’ll probably dump me in a week, thinking I’m some crazy psycho who overreacts at the tiniest things. Which I am,” I hastily add, a dark cloud of a mood settling over me once again.
“He won’t dump you,” Justin quickly reciprocates. “Seriously, Cat. You should see the way he looks at you,” he says softly.
“Really?” I ask, turning my head to him with my lower lip jutted out.
He laughs and nods. “He’s hooked, baby.”
I shrug. “I still think he’s going to dump me,” I say, my voice covered with depression.
“Cheer up Cat!” Justin suddenly exclaims, pushing my shoulder slightly. “Don’t worry about something that’s not even happened yet!”
I shrug. I think worrying is all I ever do.
“How can people read women’s magazines?” he asks suddenly, suavely changing the subject and picking up a discarded copy of Cosmo, which was lying on the floor next to us.
I chuckle, kicking my heels off to relieve my feet to subside the pain spreading from my toes. “I don’t know. I don’t usually buy them, but they offer relationship advice, which I’m beginning to think I need more than I thought,” I mumble, rolling my eyes and sniffing slightly as I snuggle up to him to read over his shoulder.
“Seriously, you can’t turn the page without seeing something about tampons, men, or sex,” he says, astounded, as he flicks through the pages, his eyes widening at an entire section devoted to birth control.
Laughing, I link my arm through his. “I know. It’s kinda sad.”
“Where’s the Sports Page?” he asks innocently.
A burst of laughter escapes my lips, and I instantly feel better. “They don’t have a sports page, dear,” I begin kindly, resting my head on his shoulder. “Unless you count the sexual adventures page.”
“Ooh, where’s that?” he says, grinning like a child on Christmas as he continues to look through the contents.
Laughing again, I rest my head against the wall and stretch my legs out in front of me. “How do you always manage to cheer me up, Justin Timberlake?” I mumble, more to myself than anything as I look down at my feet.
He closes the magazine and turns to me. “Because I’m your friend, and it’s my job to.”
“And you do it so well,” I reply, turning my head to smile at him.
He’s so beautiful, without even trying to be. His soft, downy hair, which he just got cut but is already beginning to curl. His blue eyes, making him seem like the picture of innocence even though I know he’s not. His body, hidden underneath his clothes, holds definition that can make grown women quiver. Oh, who am I kidding. It makes everyone, including staunch feminists such as myself, quiver.
His soft lips form a small smile. “Well, you deserve the best, Cat.”
Shaking my head, my gaze drops to my lap. “I don’t,” I whisper.
“Yes you do,” he says quietly, his hand snaking it’s way onto my thigh as a form of reassurance.
My eyes land on it, feeling the warmth from his fingers seeping through the cotton of my work skirt. One simple touch from him makes my whole body come alive, and suddenly the only thing I can feel is his hand. I glance up at him, his sapphire blue eyes holding friendly concern, making me just want to throw myself in his arms and beg him to love me like I love him.
But I can’t.
“Thanks for being here,” I whisper as his gaze pierces through me. “I know you’re going through your own stuff right now, with Natasha and everything, and I know I haven’t been half the friend I should have--”
“Don’t be silly,” he interrupts, frowning. “You couldn’t be a bad friend if you tried.”
Chuckling, I look into my lap, my eyes occasionally flying to the right to make sure his hand hasn’t moved. “Who would have thought that one little encounter at the grocery store would lead to all this?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, smiling slightly.
“You know this January, at New Year? I thought I was all set for another crap, mediocre year in my crap, mediocre life. But I’ve just had the best time,” I says sincerely, cursing myself for the emotions rushing through me, threatening to come out as happy tears. “We’re into what, June now? And I can’t imagine my life without you or Trace, helping me through my crazy emotions.”
He laughs. “And all it took was a little help from Condom Boy.”
Snorting, I nod. “I thank God for him every day,” I admit, as Justin giggles. “You know if we get married, that’s the story we’d tell our kids.”
Shit. Did I just openly admit I day dreamed me and Justin’s future, with thousand of Timberlakes running around as we tell them the hilarious story of how we got together? Crap, I really should learn to keep my fantasies to myself.
To my surprise, he seems unfazed. “Yeah, and how we danced to Grease in the kitchen.”
“And had depressing talks on the balcony.”
“And cheered each other up with half cooked cookies when we were upset,” he says, pointing towards the now empty plate.
I laugh and pat his chest, (and no, of course it’s not a chance to cop a feel at his abs). “They weren’t that bad. At least you tried.”
“Did they cheer you up?”
I nod ferociously. “Very much so.”
“Good,” he murmurs, tossing an arm around my shoulder and pulling my towards him. “We’ve had a great friendship to far, haven’t we Cat?”
I rest my head against his shoulder. “We sure have.”
“Friends forever, huh?”
Friends. Forever. Tears beginning to sting my eyes and I hastily shut them, willing them to go away and just leave me alone. How did I manage to not cry for months before he came along, but within weeks of meeting him I turned into a human water dispenser. One stupid little word shouldn’t effect me, but it does. It really does.
I’m just so tired. Tired of feeling torn between Justin and Sean, tired of worrying one of them is going to find out, tired of realizing it’s only a matter of time before I’m forced to choose. Friendship with Justin? Or relationship with Sean? I don’t know is the only answer I can come up with.
I’m beginning to hate the concept of friends.
Story Tags: Be the first to add a tag to this story
