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.”
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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.
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“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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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