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.”
Story Tags: Be the first to add a tag to this story
