“Is this bacon cooked?” asks Trace, cautiously prodding the bacon simmering in the frying pan.
I shrug and scoop a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. To be honest, the state of Trace’s breakfast is the last thing on my mind. All I care about is Cat, who, as far as I know, is still in her bedroom, which she retreated to yesterday. Trace invited her down for dinner but she said she felt sick and only crept downstairs to get the phone from Trace, because Sean the Shithead had called. I hate technology. It is an evil thing.
I look up from my cereal. “I’m not sure. Probably.”
“You can’t die from eating undercooked bacon, can you?”
That was the last time I saw her, but that doesn’t mean I’ve not been thinking about her. Fuck, the girl’s been the only thing on my mind for about twenty hours now. Mentally going over our conversation, sentence by sentence, trying to decode the stupid little cryptic answer she gave me.
“I think this is okay. I mean, it’s a pinky color, so that’s good, right?”
“I don’t think you should ask me that.”
What does that mean? I’ve been tossing it around in my head for ages, as though it were Shakespeare’s infamous ‘To be or Not to be’.
Does it mean she was just sick of our conversation and my constant pestering of her? Does it mean she’s was offended when I called her repressed and immature?
I won’t listen the little shred of hope inside of me that’s whispering, ‘It’s because she likes you’.
I won’t listen to it, I just won’t. What’s the point in getting my feelings stomped all over when she laughs in my face and asks me why on earth I would think that? It’s wouldn’t be fair to me or my broken little heart to have do deal with that.
Last night, as I lay in bed counting the cracks in my ceiling, I tried to pinpoint exactly when my feelings got so strong, so quickly. When I couldn’t stop thinking about her, when I couldn’t help but stare at her whenever I thought she wasn’t looking back, when I started to go crazy with jealousy every time I saw Sean’s grubby little hand on her waist. I was always protective of her, but there was genuinely a time when I just thought she was a great friend. How naïve I was.
I thought I was so clever, didn’t I? I just swooped on in there, made friends with her, thought she was nothing because she has a fair amount of meat on her bones and a lack of blonde bleach in her hair. But no, things didn’t stay like that. I don’t even know whether I would have ever invited her over to watch some goddamn Friends if I had known I would end up feeling like this.
It’s agony. True, heart-wrenching agony. The kind that I thought only existed in songs or books or movies. Every time I see her, a sharp pang of longing pierces through my body, so strong I feel as though I can’t breathe. And I’ll watch her, joking with Trace, or working on her laptop, her cute little glasses slipping onto the edge of her nose as she rolls her eyes and pushes them back, and I think, Why didn’t I see this before?
Oh God, why do I even bother dwelling on the why’s? Even if she wasn’t with Sean, whose to say she would want to be with me anyway? I’ll always be Justin, the cocky, rich roommate who gazes at her like some goddamn puppy and has casual relationships here and there.
And to me, she’ll always be Cat. Everything I want, and everything I can’t have.
--------------------------------------------
I’ve always had an excuse for everything. Anything you threw at me, I could always come up with something to say back.
“Catherine! Why haven’t you done the homework?”
“Sorry ma’am, but I had to go and visit my grandmother at the weekend and didn’t have the time to do it.”
“Catherine! What are you eating? I thought you were on a diet?”
“I’ve just spent the last half hour in the gym.”
“Catherine! What is this I’m hearing about you arguing with other girls in the playground?”
“They started it, not me mom.”
See? Anything was excusable. Nothing could throw me off. I was the Queen of Cool, the Mistress of Getting Away With Things, the Ruler of Reasons. Until yesterday.
“Would you ever have a relationship with me?”
I was torn. Torn between what was right and what was wrong. Torn between whether I should bend down on my knees and declare my undying love for him, or to shrug nonchalantly and call him too camp for my tastes.
It would be right to be honest, and just tell Justin the feelings that have been not-so-gently simmering these past five months. To tell him I feel as though I’m being torn in two, between him and Sean. I know Justin holds no feelings for me whatsoever, and that I’m wasting my time with him when I could be furthering my relationship with Sean…
But, as is often the case, the wrong won. I couldn’t tell him that. Why would I subject myself to his stunned gaze when I admitted I loved him? Or feel the bitter stab of rejection as he stuttered out he just didn’t feel that way about me, and then the realization that I just wasn’t good enough for him? I took the wrong road, and mumbled out some incomprehensible answer and rushed from the loft, like the coward I am.
The tender skin underneath my eyes is raw and red, no thanks to the fact I angrily brushed away my tears before they could roll pathetically down my cheeks. I wouldn’t let myself cry, I just wouldn’t. He probably didn’t even mean anything by it, it was probably just a stupid, offhand question that happened to come to mind when I was there, but I was still reduced to hot, hurt tears yesterday, as though it was the most awful thing he could have asked me.
I know I’m a drama queen. I know I make the biggest things out of nothing. I know Justin probably doesn’t even remember anything about yesterday, except that his roommate is a psycho bitch who insists you clean the loft and then runs away half way through the job. Jesus, thinks are so fucked up.
My hand cautiously lands on the doorknob leading to the kitchen. Stop being a bitch Cat, and just open it. It’s only Justin and Trace, you’re best friends.
But what am I going to say?
The sickening smell of fried food wafts over me as I open the door to the kitchen. Wrinkling my nose in disgust, I turn my head the left slightly, only to see Justin staring straight at me.
“Hey,” he says quietly, putting his spoon back into his bowl.
“H-hi,” I stutter, closing the door and leaning onto the handle for support.
“Mornin’ darling,” says Trace happily, putting his plate down on the table. “How’s it swinging with you this fine Sunday morning?”
“That bacon’s not cooked,” I reply automatically, my eyes landing on the pink meat on his plate that for Christ’s Sake might still be alive. “And I’m good, thanks.”
Trace throws his hands in the air and groans. “See? I told you!”
Justin shrugs, and stares into his bowl, his shoulders slumped, apparently indifferent to this revelation. Turning to me, Trace rolls his eyes.
“I asked Mr Moody over there whether it was cooked and he said yes, so I took it out.” He crouches down the table and stares at the bacon. “Don’t worry, my lovelies, you’re lives were not in vain. I can give you to the doggies.”
Laughing, I slowly move away from the door and cautiously pull out a seat for myself. “It serves you right for asking Justin a cooking question.”
“At least I answer questions properly,” he snaps darkly, his blue eyes boring into mine, making his feelings and who they’re directed to crystal clear.
He’s angry with me. But why?
“Technically Justin, that’s not true,” interrupts Trace cheerfully, oblivious to the steady gaze between Justin and I. “Remember when that English guy asked whether you had slept with anyone since Britney and you said….”
He suddenly trails off, apparently sensing the awkwardness between Justin and I. People say you can always tell how a person is feeling through their eyes.
That can’t be true. Justin almost looks…hurt. As though what I said upset him or something. But how did I do that? Why would he be upset? I was the one that made a fool out of myself and gave some crap answer to a question he probably thought was textbook, but is actually the axis to my entire world. I should be in hysterics and cursing the world, but he should be just hunky dory.
Trace glances between us, although neither of us return his look in the intense eye battle we’re in. I refuse to break the eye contact, for fear of bursting into tears when I do.
“What’s going on?” Trace asks slowly.
Neither of us reply.
“Guys, what’s happened?” he repeats.
Finally, I tear my eyes from Justin’s. “Nothing, Trace.” I manage to force my lips into a smile. “We just had a little misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“Did we?” says Justin.
God, his voice sounds so sexy. All low, and dark, is that the voice he uses to seduce people? Because it sure as hell works…
No, Cat. Stop it. “Yeah,” I reply bright. Too brightly, for me especially. “Justin was just being…Justin, and asking me all these weird questions, and I sort of stomped off in a huff.”
Tears are threatening to form in my eyes, but I won’t let them. I have to pretend I’m fine, otherwise Trace and Justin will know I’m lying through my teeth. Trying my hardest to act as though my life is full of buttercups and fairies, I push all thoughts out of my mind.
Turning my head back to Justin, I smile weakly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so PMSey.”
“Was that all it was? The questions annoyed you?”
I nod vehemently. “Yeah, what else would it be?” I ask boldly.
He stares at me for a moment. His eyes cloud over for a second, before they brighten suddenly.
“Nothing,” he says, his dark mood wiped away instantly, and replaced with his happier self.
“Great, so we’re okay?”
He nods and smiles. “We’re always okay, Cat.”
I knew it. I knew he didn’t really care. I knew he didn’t have any masked feelings for me, no matter how much I tried to wish he did. I knew that stupid question meant more to me than it ever will to him.
“Great,” I reply, slapping my hand on the table and standing up. “Well boys, I’m gonna head upstairs and get changed. Trace, don’t you dare eat that bacon.” Grinning happily at them, I leave the kitchen, my smile trembling with each step I take.
It’s only when I get to the privacy of my room, to I allow the tears to fall, one after the other.
-------------------------------
Shuffling on the hard bench before the piano, my fingers hover over the ivory keys, tempted to touch one of them, but being scared years of not playing will show and I’ll ruin the beauty of the silent instrument.
I’ve seen Justin play the piano. It’s almost hypnotizing, the way his fingers dance over the keys and his mellifluous voice pours out of his perfect mouth. It’s beautiful.
There’s none of that crap with me. I played the piano for years when I was younger, and did acquire some sort of talent for it, but as soon as someone watched me I was a disaster. Slipping fingers, missing notes…I really didn’t do the instrument justice. Justin’s great when it comes to nauseating, eye-roll inducing pieces of crap like, “playing transports me to another place and I only feel complete when my fingertips were touching those keys.” I, however, did it because I thought I had to and never really took it seriously in the first place.
Of course, when I moved to Tennessee, there was no way I could afford a piano or find the space for it, and by the time I could I had lost interest in playing anyway. If I dared to touch the thing sitting in front of me, it’ll be the first time I’ve played in four years.
Clearing my throat anxiously, I tentatively press my thumb against one of the white keys, the clear sound startling me slightly. Slowly, I spread both hands across the piano and lightly press the keys, playing something vaguely reminiscent of a few chords.
“Cat!”
My head snaps up, the voice sharply pulling me from my thoughts. I immediately snatch my fingers away from the piano.
“Yeah?” I say, in a nonchalant way as the heat rises to my cheeks.
“What are you doing?” Justin asks, curiously gazing between me and the piano.
“Nothing.”
“Do you play?” he asks in a disbelieved voice, sliding onto the bench beside me, heat radiating from his body onto mine.
I shrug and softly place a hand over the keys. “I used to.”
“Which means you still do,” he says, grinning and nudging me slightly. “You can’t just stop playing the piano.”
“Yes you can,” I retort defiantly, self-consciously rubbing my eyes, as though I’m expecting to find the tear stains from a few hours ago still scarring my cheeks.
He rolls his eyes at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug. “It never came up.”
“You’re full of surprises, Cat,” he laughs, his eyes twinkling at me. “One day it’s German, the next it’s secret musical talents.”
Chuckling, I stare at the keys. “I’m not sure about the talent part, but okay.”
“Anyway, I came in here to check things with us are cool,” he says, his voice adopting a serious edge.
“I said they were, didn’t I?” I snap, before immediately regretting my harsh tone. “Sorry, I’m just really tired.”
He nods. “Cat, I know it seems like I ask you this all the time, but…are you okay? It just seems like nowadays, I dunno…” he trails off, and I see the apprehension flash in his eyes before he continues. “You just seem really sensitive, you know?” I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully, as though he’s frightened he’ll trigger me at any moment. It’s making me want to kiss him for being so caring. “Every time I look at you I get the feeling you’re really unhappy or something, and that makes me unhappy.”
Feeling my eyes already glaze over with tears at his compassion, I glance down and shake my head. “I’m sorry, Justin. Things have just been so over the place at the moment. Work, Sean…all those kind of things are just taking a lot out of me.”
A comforting hand runs over my back. “Are you sure that’s it?”
“Yeah,” I assure him, forcing a smile. “Once things are calmed down, I’ll be fine. I am fine, I just need a little time to adjust to all the new things in my life.”
He nods and continues his soothing gestures. “As long as you’re sure. Whatever it is Cat, you can tell me.”
I turn to him, smiling brightly. “Nothing’s wrong, silly. I’m okay.” Oh God, Justin, I’m not okay. I don’t know how much longer I can bear being torn between you and what is good for me, otherwise known as Sean.
He frowns slightly, as though he knows I’m not telling the truth, before wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in for a hug. “Me and Trace…we make you happy, right?” he mumbles into my hair. “I mean, I know we’re not as kind, or thoughtful, or supportive as we should be, but--”
I pull away form him. “Justin, don’t be ridiculous. You and Trace are the best friends I could ask for, despite the fact you both think Carmen Electra is a walking goddess,” I add, hoping to lighten the mood of the conversation before I burst into tears.
Chuckling, he shrugs cockily. “She is.”
Shaking my head, I turn back to the piano, a smile playing on my lips.
“So, what are you going to play, Mozart?”
“Nothing, idiot,” I reply cheekily, earning myself a pinch in the side. “Nah, I don’t remember any of my old songs. Why don’t you play me something?”
“Because that’s boring. Here, try do this,” his fingers splay across the keyboard and press down on the keys, playing a chord.
I copy his movement, my hands shaking slightly under his gaze, before pressing down. The clear, strong sounds, just an octave higher but otherwise identical to the one Justin just played, almost surprises me.
“Good!”
I grin helplessly. “Thanks.”
“Now do this.”
Again, I repeat what he played.
“Great Cat, you’re doing really well.”
My grin broadens as I continue to copy what he played. It isn’t exactly rocket science, all I’m doing is imitating his fingers. But the warm smiles he keeps on throwing at me are enough for me to feel like the most talented person in the world.
“You know what you just played?” he says, beaming happily.
“What?” I ask curiously.
“The opening notes to Senorita.”
My face remains blank. “Um…great.”
He rolls his eyes. “Senorita, you know…my song?” He throws his head back and closes his eyes, launching into a dramatic version of some song I vaguely recognize from the radio. “Senorita! I feel for yooooou! You deal with thangs, that you don’t have to…”
Laughing, I pinch him in the side. “Alright, alright. I can’t believe I just played your song, I am exhilarated, bla bla... ” I say in a bored tone, jokingly rolling my eyes at him.
“You should be,” he grins. “Wanna learn the whole thing?”
I shrug. “Sure. As long as you don’t mind if I laugh at some of the lyrics.”
“Whatever, closet fan,” he says, poking me in the side.
“You wish, Justin,” I retort, rolling my eyes at him.
And we’re off. Everything that’s happened in the last twenty four hours is forgotten as we just relax into each other’s company. It’s moments like this I savor. The ones where we just act like two people hanging out, flirting with each other, touching each other, not feeling awkward or embarrassed to do so. Sometimes I wish I could just forget everything I feel for him and just settle for being his friend, because I know I could do a lot worse.
“Cat, it’s not hard. Just go up like this,” he demonstrates once again, his long fingers gliding over the keys.
“Okay, this time, I got it.”
Sounds good, sounds good…shit! Wrong note.
“Come on, you can do this!” he encourages. “It’s just like the start, only quicker.”
“I know,” I exclaim angrily. “This is so frustrating!”
“Just try it once more,” he says softly. “Hey, would it help if I sang?” he nudges me playfully in the side.
“Justin, that would help as much as cutting my fingers off would.”
He laughs and, oddly, puts his arm around my waist. I sit up straighter at the sudden contact, and suddenly my fingers shake uneasily as I attempt to play the notes again. Suddenly, the only thing I can concentrate on is his fingers gently resting on my waist, his knee occasionally brushing against mine, his face so close to mine as he stares at the piano…him. All I can think about is him.
“What’s wrong, Cat?” he says quietly, clearly noticing my inability to function as my fingers play a slew of wrong notes. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
My mouth threatens to drop open in surprise, before I quickly replace it with a smile. “Of course not. Now, is this the bridge or the--”
“Cat,” he cuts me off. “Why don’t you like me touching you?”
A silence falls between us. The same silence that halted our jokey banter yesterday, up in the loft. It’s not comfortable, it’s thick with…I don’t even know what it is. It’s a mixture of awkwardness with unspoken desire. Well, for my part anyway.
I want to break it. I want to swing around and roll my eyes at him, to tell him off for even suggesting that he spread electricity through my body with one simple touch. But I can’t, because that’s exactly what he does.
I’m so sick of lying. Lying to myself, trying to convince me these feelings with pass over if I busy myself with Sean, or work, or Trace. I’m sick of lying to Sean, who doesn’t deserve this at all, but I can’t help but hold on to him and let my feelings for him grow every day. I’m sick of lying to Diane and Trace, who must be sick of my constant yo-yoing about what I should do about Justin, and tell me to admit my feelings for him, despite my claims I’m, ‘over him’.
But most of all, I’m sick of lying to him.
He doesn’t even know. He’s so blissfully unaware that his face has started to haunt my dreams, as well as my every waking thought, so it’s as if I can’t get away from him. He doesn’t know that one simple touch from him fills my entire entity with nervous desire. I wish I could tell him and just get it over with, rather then holding in this poisonous secret to myself and praying he never finds out.
Lying is a terrible thing. Before him, I never lied to anyone about anything. I was nothing special, but at least you could call me honest.
Now, what could you call me? A liar. A girl full of secrets and hidden feelings. I don’t want to be this girl anymore, but there appears to be no other alternative, other than salvaging everything Justin and I have for my stupid emotions.
I love him, so much that it hurts.
“Cat,” he whispers, and I’m startled to see his face mere inches from my own.
“Justin,” I plea, my voice coming out as a strangled cry. “What are you doing?” I ask, grappling at his fingers, which have circled and tightened around my waist. His hold on me is so tight, I can’t even shift along the bench away from him.
He’s so close, I can feel the heat from his body touching mine. I want to tell him to move away, but for some reason I can’t get the words to leave my lips.
“Please…please, just let me do this…even if it’s just once,” he whispers, his eyes scanning my face, as though I have a shred of desirability in me. Which I am certain I don’t, at least not to him.
I frown, his words throwing me into the abyss of confusion. “What?” I manage to strangle out.
And before I can stop him or myself, his lips crash upon my own
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