Deprivation of something perhaps not utterly crucial, but pretty important nonetheless, can cause a person to crave that thing with a somewhat sick passion. Take dieting for example; personally, I don’t see what the big hoo ha about chocolate is, but for some women it’s the most important thing in the world. When they try to wean themselves off of it to shed a few pounds, the second you wave the tiniest cube of the stuff in front of them they respond like a pack of ravenous wolves seeking out their unfortunate prey. It’s as though something is psychologically telling them they must have it. And for goodness sake, it’s not that amazing.
So perhaps sex is my chocolate. It’s not that I’m a compulsive neurotic who has to be having sex day and night, but if it there to be had and I’m not grasping the opportunity with both hands, then that bothers me. Why? I have no clue. Maybe I’ve associated sex with how successful my relationship is; if there’s suddenly a drought in that aspect, I think something is horrifically wrong. Not that I think that sex is the magical solution to every problem, but…well…it is.
Trying my hardest to be as gentle as possible, I inch my hand along Cat’s waist as she lays in bed beside me, shuffling every now and then to get comfortable. My fingers skim slowly over her skin, just barely touching her, and it’s only when she gasps as they reach the top of her panties that I know she can feel them.
“Justin…” she starts in a cautious tone, placing her hand on top of mine to stop it continuing its pioneering trek underneath her babydoll.
“What?” I whisper into her ear as I press my torso against her back, ready to start an assault of kisses on her neck. Look, I’m a guy, okay? It’s in my genes to be sex crazed.
She shivers slightly, and the hand restraining mine softens slightly. “You’re very eager,” she says weakly, and I smirk.
“What can I say? I’m a sexually frustrated twenty four year old male.”
She scoffs and turns on her side to face me, subtly removing my hand from her hips. “Your age and gender do little to mask the fact you’re clearly an addict.”
“A week is a long time.”
“No it’s not.”
I pause and bite my lip in concentration, before replying triumphantly, “One hundred and forty four hours of solitude is a long time, babes.”
She smirks and slides out of the bed, picking up the black satin robe hanging on the back of the vanity table chair and slipping it on. “A hundred and sixty eight hours, actually.”
“Shut up, nerd,” I roll my eyes, sitting up in the mass of blankets and pillows that embrace my bed. “And where are you going?”
“Just the bathroom,” she says over her shoulder. “Why don’t you sit here and, I don’t know…”
“Think sexy thoughts?”
She closes her eyes in annoyance for a moment, before looking at me with amused condescension. “Sure, why not.” I grin at her and watch the white bathroom door click shut gently, shielding her from my view.
Thank the Lord above some of that icy exterior coating her from me this past week is gradually being melted away, leaving kind, cuddly Cat in its wake. She’s sort of like a hot drink when you’ve spent the whole day in subzero temperatures; she’s warm, soft, and, if wants to, spreads comfort from your head down to your toes. But when she’s in a bad mood, the nice hot chocolate side of her turns to ice cold bitter coffee, and all I do is wait for her to go lukewarm again. If that makes any sense at all.
I’m sure tonight is all we need to make things better.
--------------------------------------------
I’m sure tonight is the final straw in the journey of my psyche from relatively sane to utterly mad.
What the hell am I going to do? There’s no possible way to deal with this without it resulting in Justin thinking I’m an insanely emotional woman who spontaneously triggered a touching phobia within herself. Or, in other words, a psycho.
It’s not that I necessarily don’t want to have sex; in fact, it could alleviate some of the worries that have been weighing on my mind lately. But that’s cheap, and severely undermines the importance of our relationship. Having sex to momentarily escape the real world is surely the intention of a one night stand, or that whole ‘friends with benefits’ concept that Trace calls “a great idea”.
Casual sex is meaningless and fun, and a pleasant vacation from the real world. It’s not as though you can talk to a one night stand about what’s been bothering you, because chances are they’ll take a run for the hills wondering why they managed to pick up the only unstable, depressive person at the bar. There are no feelings towards you brief companion ; you might not even know them, so there’s no reason to feel guilty if you’re just using them for a bit of pleasure. But there’s no way you can treat someone you love like that, otherwise who’s to say you love them at all?
Oh, but you can lie to them and mislead them into thinking everything’s peachy keen when it’s really on the brink of disaster? Nice morals Cat; now I have hypocritical to add to my ever growing list of flaws.
I wish I could just speak to him. Sit him down, tell him gently that I’m gradually driving myself insane with worry, and see what his response is. Or, better yet, I wish I wasn’t in this situation at all. I wish it was two weeks ago, when my main concern was ensuring Trace never beat me at Scrabble again and idly pondering whether I should go to the gym. It seems years ago that my days were so carefree, but in reality time has just been moving very slowly for me.
A cough from the other side of the door breaks my train of thought, and I sit down on the edge of the toilet seat, anxiously biting my lip. Justin’s no idiot, and the longer I put this off, the worse it will be. Why don’t I just go in there, force my mind to temporarily detach from the functions of my body, and get it over with? That might be faintly plausible, if I weren’t so terrified he’ll pause in his many ministrations and say, “Baby, what’s that?”. I just need to keep his hands away from my breasts. But what explanation can be behind that?
“Unfortunately, because of hormonal reasons Justin, my breasts are a no-go zone tonight. Is that cool? Great. I’m so glad we’re on the same page.”
Somehow, I don’t think that particularly ingenious excuse is quite going to cut it.
“Hey, let’s have sex without you touching me. What’s that you say? That’s like trying to run when you have no legs? Yeah, I can sort of see your point there.”
Hmm…I don’t think that one’s all too good either.
“Is everything okay in there?” a voice calls from the other side of the bathroom door, followed by the shuffling noises on the bed. He’s getting restless.
“Just a second!” I reply, my eyes quickly darting around, expecting to see the answers to all my problems lying before me. Well really, what advice can I extract from a tube of toothpaste?
I stand up and begin to twist the silky material of the bow on my robe around my finger, racking my brains for some sort of conclusion to my jumpy thoughts. Sex would be the simple solution…if I inflicted a no touching rule. No sex would not only piss Justin off, but heighten his already aroused suspicion. This leaves me up that familiar creek without that darn paddle yet again.
Suddenly, my finger stops in its pointless actions and slowly disentangles itself from the knotted bunch of satin it had created. Untying my robe, I pull the long belt from around my waist and stare at it thoughtfully as it lays flaccid in my hands. Is this a potential “eureka” moment? Or am I just about to make a complete idiot of myself?
There’s only one way to find out.
----------------------------------------------------
What is she doing? Powdering her nose at eleven thirty at night? I saw her brush her teeth, so I know it’s not that…
“Hey,” comes a quiet voice from the doorway of the bathroom. Her figure obstructs the beam of light, causing a curvaceous shadow to fall over the bed. The shadow allows the robe to slip from its shoulders and fall to the floor in a nice little pile of silk.
“Hi,” I say cheerfully, watching as she hangs the black robe on the hook at the back of the door. “I thought you’d fallen in.”
She smiles weakly, approaching the bed slowly as one hand tucks hair behind her ear and the other plays with what looks like about a yard’s length of black material. “I was…brushing my teeth.”
No she wasn’t.
“Anyway,” she carries on, her eyes shifting to her fidgety hands. “I have an idea.”
I raise an eyebrow and sit up in the bed, my bare back against the headboard. “An idea?”
“Yeah, like…like a game,” she says quickly, her eyes flying up to mine briefly to gauge my reaction before returning to the floor.
Confusion strikes me momentarily before a slow, cocky smirk creeps onto my face. “A game?” I repeat huskily, my eyes traveling down her body on their own accord. “You mean…a sexual game?”
She hesitantly nods. “Um yeah, yeah you could say that.”
“Well come on, lemme hear it,” I reply eagerly, a broad grin etched across my excited features. It’s certainly not every day Cat Saunders willingly suggests having a little nastiness thrown in between the sheets.
“You can’t laugh,” she warns, looking at me fearfully.
“Of course not.”
“Wait, I have to check we still have them,” she suddenly mutters, frowning in concentration as she heads to the a drawer and starts sifting through its contents. Whatever it is, she doesn’t want people to see it, as it lives in what I like to call the “Goody Drawer”. The Goody Drawer, so called after the special snack drawer my mom had when I was younger that was always full of candy and chocolate, contains any kind of potentially erotic thing she owns. If I buy her a sexy set of underwear or Trace gets her something overtly naughty to embarrass her, she puts it in that drawer to hide from public view and only brings something out if she’s particularly happy with me or perhaps drunk and in the mood to have some fun; these occasions are rare to say the least, but joyous nevertheless. See why I call it the Goody Drawer?
I crane my neck, trying to get a peak over her shoulder to see what she’s pulling out. That pearl thong I bought her which she didn’t stop blushing over for three days? The whip that Cat found and innocently asked whether it had anything to do with horse riding? It’s those edible panties I insisted on buying when we were shopping for that bachelor party, isn’t it?
“Here we go,” she says, pulling something that looks oddly fluffy from the drawer and turning her back on me to fiddle with it.
“What is it?” I ask excitedly, crawling over the bed and kneeling at the edge impatiently, like some little boy on Christmas Day hoping to see the limited edition Power Ranger figurine. Well, that’s what I wanted for Christmas anyway.
She spins around abruptly, her hair flicking her face as she keeps her hands behind her back. “Sit down,” she nods towards the bed, telling me to restrain my enthusiastic position.
I obediently slump back into the pillows, steadying myself against the headboard again and waiting patiently.
“And close your eyes.”
Biting my lip to prevent the telling grin exposing my rows of white teeth, I close my eyes, my last view being Cat standing at the edge of the bed in her little black slip, watching me. Immediately, all my other senses substitute for the lack of sight, and the light crunching of the sheets as Cat climbs onto the bed and slowly crawls towards me seems deafening. After what feels like an age, the comforter covering my legs is pulled back slightly, and the texture of skin against skin jolts my system as she nestles on my lap. Before I can reach out to rip off the stupid babydoll that forms a silky partition between my body and, the thing I want most, her body, her fingers wrap around my wrists.
“No moving,” she orders, letting go of my wrists after a moment and letting them fall to the side. “And no touching me.”
“What?” I protest, my eyes snapping open. “That’s not fair. Where’s the fun in it if I don’t get to touch you?”
She raises an eyebrow mysteriously, her blue eyes holding a spicily tempting mixture of cute playfulness with captivating allure . “You’ll see,” she replies quietly, her voice no more than a soft whisper.
The ready objections waiting on my tongue suddenly fizzle out uselessly as she stares at me intently, a piece of brown hair cast over her face. She looks so…sexy. Her hair is tousled, her eyes are bright, her body is covered in a film of black silk, her tongue keeps on running over her bottom lip, in anticipation or just because she feels like it I don’t know. The air around her seems different; more mature and adult, like an experienced temptress that could handle anything you threw at her, because she’s already done it before. Suddenly, those nice little black creations that she and millions of other women wear to bed every night don’t seem so standard and of the norm, but rather contribute to an overall portrayal of sexy confidence.
Like I said, tonight is going to be…awesome.
She reaches behind her and picks up the black material I saw her toying with early, and runs it through her fingers. “This is to ensure no cheating,” she smiles, bending forward to tie the sash, which I recognize as the belt to her robe, around my eyes. The light fails to put up a fight against the dark material as my vision is shrouded by the belt. Or perhaps I should call it a blindfold.
“As I was saying, the rules are; no looking,” she gently runs a hand over my blindfolded eyes, “And no touching.”
Just as I was about to question how she was going to do that, her fingers close around my wrists gently, as though she’s frightened she’ll snap them if she presses too hard. A moment later, something else closes around my wrists, and it takes a moment for my skin to recognize the ticklish texture as a fluffy, fur-like material.
“Baby, have you…handcuffed me?” a confused but nonetheless delighted question escapes my lips.
Her lips softly meet mine. “Can’t have you cheating now, can we?”
“But what are you going to do?” I ask, fighting the urge to punch my fist in the air and scream, ‘Now this is what I’m talkin’ about!’. This is obscenely out of character for Cat…but who am I to argue?
A throaty chuckle meets my ears and a fingernail grazes over my chest, before dragging itself down my torso, resting at the band of my boxers. “Whatever I want.”
I try to separate my wrists, only to find them tightly bound and constricted. “Cat, what has gotten into you?” I say in delight, my grin stretching across my face unashamedly.
“You don’t want to know.”
And before I can argue, hot breath followed by kisses trailing down my chest forces me to shut my mouth completely, only opening to gasp as Cat’s lips start doing things I can’t remember her being so good at.
I may not know where this is coming from, but I sure hope it stays.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Sex is an emotional thing. Of course it is; it’s possible the closest act (both physically and psychologically) one can share with another person. Whether it’s your husband of five years or a cute guy you picked up at a bar, there’s always a churning feeling in your stomach afterwards that dictates your feelings on the situation. Sentiments range from guilty to happiness to sadness to regret to just about anything.
But oddly enough, I’ve never felt like a whore before.
Justin may as well have gone to some seedy brothel and picked up the first cheap girl he laid his eye on; whatever they did together would hold as much meaning as what happened last night. We were like two drunk Spring Break-ers thrown together for one crazy night of wild sex, not a couple that have been dating for near on ten months. There was no difference between us and a prostitute acting out her client’s wildest fantasies for a few dollars.
Of course, Justin thought it was great. Well he would; his typically prudish girlfriend suddenly offers some light bondage and generosity on a platter? Who would refuse? By the time he had actually removed the handcuffs and torn off the makeshift blindfold, he was too feverish to seal the deal with his night of fun to pay much attention to any other part of my body except the part that, he thought, would bring us both pleasure.
It was horrible, just horrible. Not that he was doing anything wrong; he’s Justin Timberlake, wrong isn’t in his vocabulary, but for me it was like a constant reminder of what a horrible person I am. Have I really gone to such great lengths to keep my secret from Justin and keep his suspicions to a minimum that I’m really willing to degrade myself and my principles? Every thrust, every kiss, every touch…it was as though they were all weighing down on my body, suffocating me until I couldn’t breathe. I almost screamed for him to get off of me I just couldn’t bear it so much.
But I can’t tell him now. He’d just ask why I hadn’t told him sooner, and why I had lied to him for so long. It’s as though every word out of my mouth digs a little deeper into the grave of trouble I seem to have placed myself in. I’m almost afraid to immerse myself in idle chitchat with him. What makes it even worse is that he’s utterly oblivious to any of the trouble going on around him, and thinks last night was a fun but beautiful blessing, when it was really me flogging myself to stop him asking questions. God, I can’t even look in the mirror without hating the deceitful, lying, shameful reflection.
Flicking the brush stick over my cheeks in a desperate attempt to inject some color into my pale, drawn face, I try not to look up as the bathroom door opens to reveal a semi clad Justin, fresh from his shower. Before I can dart for the door and run downstairs under the pretense of a sudden craving of toast, wet arms wrap around my torso and a nice big kiss is planted on my cheek.
“There’s my sexy girl,” Justin whispers in my ear, resting his head on my shoulder and catching my eye in the reflection of the mirror as I sit at the vanity table. “How are we this morning?”
I smile weakly. “I’m okay. You?”
“I…am…fan…tastic,” he replies, punctuating each word to a kiss at any available spot on my neck and shoulders. “You wanna know why?”
“Let me guess; they’re doing reruns of Sesame Street on the Disney Channel.”
“No,” he smirks, bringing his kisses up to my chin. “Because I have the best, most sexiest girlfriend in the entire world!”
“Actually, it’s grammatically incorrect to say most sexiest,” I reply automatically, setting the brush back on the table. “It’s either most sexy or sexiest; not both.”
“Cat,” he rolls his eyes dramatically, reaching down to hold up the deliciously small towel from falling from his hips. “You are such a nerd.”
“So you said last night,” I smile, picking up some more foundation and dabbing at it, knowing I’m running the terrible risk of looking extremely Oompa Loompa-esque if I apply more color to my face.
“I don’t think I said much at all last night,” he grins, once again looking at me in the mirror. “Apart from screaming your name and a few profanities.”
A deep blush, deeper than the Mac tint I had just added to my cheeks, leaves my face looking as rosy as Santa’s as I look down coyly. “Well, you know…”
He rests his elbow on the table, looking at me in admiration. “Seriously baby, last night was like having a little piece of heaven right here on earth, wasn’t it?”
I force a smile; I ought to win an Oscar for all these fucking happy emotions I’ve been pouring out lately. “Ye-yeah.”
“And you know what’s even better?”
“What?”
“Tonight, I get to do the same for you!” he proclaims cheerfully, placing one final kiss on my cheek before happily dancing towards the bathroom to shave, singing an animated version of I’m So Excited.
Resisting the urge to throw my head in my hands and liquefy into a pool of tears, I confidently stand up and trudge down the stairs, trying to concentrate on what I could have for breakfast. As my bare feet hit the bottom stair and are imprisoned by the soft carpet, a firm grip tightens around my elbow.
“Where’s Justin?” asks Trace urgently, his eyes widened as though he was an escaped mental patient.
“Upstairs shaving,” I reply, frowning as I shake my arm of his grasp. “Why?”
“Because this came for you today,” he brandishes an envelope in front of me, “and he can’t see it.”
“What is it? Your monthly subscription of Playboy?” I mutter dryly, following him into the living room and rubbing the red mark on my arm.
“It’s from St. Vincent’s Comprehensive Cancer Center.”
The bitchy words still waiting to pelt themselves at Trace dry on my lips immediately. His facial expression is one of sympathy as he hands me the long manila envelope and pats my arm reassuringly, as though he’s ashamed he has to be the one giving me the letter. As if in a daze, my eyes slowly drift down to the oblong paper in my hands, staring at the small stamp of St. Vincent’s, along with my name and address printed on it. Slowly, my fingers creep under the seal and gently pull it open, my heart pounding erratically in my chest.
My eyes scan the page, ignoring the obligatory “Ms C Saunders” and trying to find a date and time for my appointment. “But that’s today!” I cry, my heart flipping vivaciously in my chest.
“I know,” Trace says softly. “It probably came a few days ago; you know none of us every check the mail box.”
“Justin could have found this!” I exclaim, holding the envelope in my clenched fist and shaking it aggressively at Trace, as though it was his fault.
“I know,” he says defensively, his eyes holding an element of alarm at my reaction. “But would that really have been a bad thing?”
I groan softly, lowering the paper. “Not now, Trace.”
“When is it?” he asks, his eyes looking to the somewhat crumpled sheet in my hands.
“In about three and a half hours,” I mutter.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No. You stay here and keep Justin busy.”
He looks hesitant. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come? It might make it easier if--”
“I don’t need your help,” I snap, immediately regretting the harshness of my words as Trace’s chocolate brown eyes fail to hide his hurt.
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“I need to figure out where the hell this place is,” I proceed quickly, trying to ignore the guilt settling in the pit of my stomach as I peer at the address. “Do you know where this is?”
“Not a clue. You should ask Justin; he knows New York a lot better than I do.”
His not so innocent suggestion echoes in my ears as my insides churn painfully, trying to ignore the prickly feeling in my eyes. “Don’t try to be fucking smart with me, Trace,” I say sharply, giving him a piercing glare.
“I’m not being fucking smart, Cat. I’m just telling you what the right thing to do is, because you clearly don’t have a clue.”
“I’m sorry, is this your problem or mine?” I retort sarcastically.
“If you’re sick, then it’s everyone’s problem!”
“Ugh,” I groan, shaking my head in despair and turning away from him to fold the letter and replace it in the envelope. “You know what? I don’t know why I even told you.”
“You told me because you knew you had to tell someone,” he responds, clutching my arm to turn me back around. “It was an act of desperation because you, whether you care to admit it or not, are in a bad place right now.”
“As if I didn’t remember,” I reply, rolling my eyes condescendingly. “You’re supposed to be sympathizing with me Trace, not reminding me of my current state of poor health.”
“I think what you’re doing is wrong!”
“And I think you should drop the holier than thou bullshit!”
“Guys, what the hell is going on in here?”
Our heads spin around abruptly to see a confused Justin in the doorway, frowning at us as our increasingly loud shouts linger in the air uncomfortably.
“Why were you two shouting?” he asks naively, his eyes dancing between my body and Trace’s. “I could hear you all the way upstairs.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, stuffing the letter away hastily.
Trace doesn’t respond, instead fixing his eyes in a hard glare towards me and crossing his tattooed arms across his chest.
“So?” pushes Justin in the silence. “What happened? What’s that?” He nods towards the white envelope in my hand as I quickly turn it over to hide the stamp of St Vincent’s.
Another awkward lull makes itself known as Trace stares at me pointedly, making it abundantly clear he has no wish to help me out in this situation.
“I…well, the thing is…” I flounder helplessly, any excuses fleeing my mind instantly.
“Yes?” Justin urges impatiently.
“Trace read my mail.”
Justin’s face falls into a puzzled frown as he looks at us obliviously. “Oh,” he says, clearly failing to see the relevance and offence in this, as there is none to see. “Um…why?”
“I don’t know,” I reply stupidly. “He just did.”
Justin nods slowly, doing little to hide the fact he doesn’t quite know how to respond in these circumstances. “Did you?”
I bow my head ashamedly, but nothing can throw off the feeling of Trace’s disappointed brown eyes on me, boring through my skin. Asking someone to lie to their best friend of their whole life is one of the cruelest things a person could do, and here I am doing it.
“Yeah, yeah I did,” he mutters, his voice almost regretful as he answers.
“Trace, Cat’s mail is her personal property. You have no right to go snooping through it,” he says maturely, sounding like a teacher calming two squabbling five year olds. “What’s so special about it anyway?”
“It’s…it’s a letter from my sister,” I answer feebly, unable to shake off Trace’s hardening glare.
“Dude,” Justin says in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d act like that. Grow up a little, man.”
I bite my lip as guilt tides over me, each wave stronger than the last. A hurt looks flashes over Trace’s face at Justin taking my side over his, and I half expect him to tell Justin his girlfriend is a heartless liar, as perhaps, he should.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he casts me one last pitiful stare, before shaking his head. “This is fucking bullshit.”
With that, he roughly pushes past me and Justin, only pausing to pick up his blue leather jacket before storming out of the front door, letting it slam behind him.
“What on earth is wrong with him?” Justin laughs slightly, staring at the shut front door. “I mean, why would he want to read that letter in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur weakly, unfiltered shame streaming through my body.
“So, what do you want for breakfast? I got Chad and Pharrell at one, but until them, I’m all yours, baby!”
“I’m not very hungry.”
My dark voice slices straight through his happy mood. “Oh…well, okay.”
“I think I’m going to go after Trace,” I say suddenly, gripping the envelope tighter and shoving it in my pocket. It’s scary how quickly the lies can roll off my tongue nowadays; of course I’m not going to go look for Trace. This is New York City, where the hell would I start?
Twenty five to one. That’s the time printed onto the paper, coldly informing me when my presence is expected at the clinic. Part of me doesn’t want to go; perhaps I’m secretly wishing that if I ignore the appointment, it’s a way of ignoring my whole predicament. I don’t want to hear what they have to say to me, be it good or bad. I just want to crawl into a corner and curl up into a ball, paying no heed to the forever spinning world in which I live.
But then I get angry at myself. Hundreds of thousands of people deal with cancer every day; they don’t get the chance to overlook it, so why should I? What makes me so special? I’m almost envious of their bravery; I wish I could have their strength, instead of just buckling in the face of something wrong like I always do. For all I know, I might not have cancer at all, and all this lying and worrying and stress has just been for nothing. Either way, I’ve managed to screw things up royally; I’ve lied to Justin, made him think things are even better than usual when really they’re falling apart, put a rift between him and Trace…what else could I do to make things worse?
Forcing myself to stop my tumbling thoughts before I burst into tears, I mentally shake myself. Deal with things one at a time; go to the clinic, see how things are on that front, and then resolve the intricate web of problems I seem to have built in my home life. But how did I do that? Why am I hurting everyone, when really, I was just trying to make things easier for them?
“Why? Trace’s just being moody; ignore him.”
But that’s just it. He’s done nothing wrong, and yet he’s bearing the brunt of my many mistakes. “No, I’m going to go look for him. I won’t be back for hours; you should just go to the studio.”
“I suppose,” he says slowly, slightly stung by my cold, offhand manner.
“Don’t worry about me; I’m just concerned Trace is out there angry and will go and do something stupid, like get crazy drunk in the middle of the day,” I say, rolling my eyes convincingly.
“Well…”
“Have a good day, okay?” I quickly carry on, trying my hardest to keep my face a blank canvas, hiding any of the simmering emotions inside of me.
“Okay, bye baby,” he moves forward to kiss my briefly, and I pull away before it can become anything more than a quick peck.
“Bye.”
Shoving my hand in the pocket of my jeans to feel the texture of the envelope cramped in it, my stomach knots itself up as I hurriedly leave the apartment, no doubt leaving a very confused Justin in my wake. If something is wrong, how am I going to explain it to him? Or would that be yet another impossible secret I would try to keep?
Maybe I should have just told him. At least it would be one less worry off of my mind. In fact, I can barely remember my reasoning behind not telling him…God, what have I done? Should I turn back now, run up the stairs and just let every secret I’ve held for these past few weeks just pour from my mouth? Should I let Justin hold me as I cry into his shoulder, releasing my fears and anxiety in my tears as he rubs my back and says everything’s going to be okay?
Or should I keep on walking with my head down and my eyes fixed to the sidewalk, emotionally cut off and barren, like everyone else in this city? Should I just tell myself to pull it together and stop acting like a whimpering mess? For goodness sake; here I am worrying about my boyfriend and my friend when my health is on the line here.
My feet pound the concrete relentlessly as I head in the direction of the subway, trying to figure out a route in my head. I hope whatever they do to me at the clinic won’t hurt; I’m pretty afraid of needles, and if I remember correctly I’m going to have a particularly big and lethal one stuck into my breast in a few hours.
I wish Justin would be there to hold my hand and tell me when to look away when they inserted the needle. I wish I could have his thumb rubbing in small circles over the back of my hand as we waited patiently for the doctor to tell us it was either a cyst or that he would have to do some analysis on it. I wish I could have him place a gentle kiss on my cheek and whisper reassuringly in my ear whenever he saw me getting scared.
But wishes simply don’t come true, and I kept on walking.
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