If only I hadn’t slept with Freddie. If only I hadn’t rejected his offer to stay for breakfast. If only I hadn’t rushed out of the apartment so quickly. If only I hadn’t agreed to Trace’s suggestion to go for coffee. If only Trace and I hadn’t found a few glowing embers left in the ashes of our friendship.
If only I hadn’t done all those things, then Trace wouldn’t have put me in the awkward situation of having to reject the invitation to his birthday party.
Trace’s twentieth fifth birthday had been the last thing on my mind; and I’m sure inviting me had been the last thing on his. If I hadn’t seen him on the sidewalk that day over two weeks ago in Queens, then I doubt he would have called me to say that Suede, a club in New York that he and Justin had shares in, was the venue in which the beautiful and famous were pouring in to celebrate his special day.
“Trace, are you being serious?”
I suppose the invitation wasn’t totally out of the blue: we had been in touch since our day at the coffee house when he started an inane text messaging relationship that I couldn’t help but participate in. Who can resist responding to a text saying, ‘I think I just slept with someone with eleven toes, for shiz.’
“Why not?”
I sighed down the receiver of my cell phone. “You know why, Trace. Justin will be there.”
“So? There’ll be about two hundred other people there as well.”
“But you just know I’ll run into him; that’s the way karma works.”
“And what’s the biggie if you do? Man, you’re two adults who are ignoring each other like a pair of eight year olds. It’s pathetic.”
“He wouldn’t want me there, Trace,” I continued relentlessly, envisioning Justin’s displeased, cold stare when he saw me. “And I wouldn’t want to make a scene.”
Trace exhaled loudly, in that way frustrated people do when they think you’re being immature. It’s something I often had to resort to with Trace and Justin when the three of us were living together and whole hours were spent arguing who got the TV remote.
“Okay, so this is how it’s always going to be, is it? Me, caught between you and Justin and not able to have a normal friendship with either of you just because your relationship bit the dust?”
I recoiled slightly, hurt. “Well, kind of Trace. That’s what happens when two people break up and they share the same friends. Things are awkward.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to call it quits, Cutie, because I can’t keep on doing this.”
“Trace, it’s just a party; I doubt you’re crossing all the friends who RSVPed no off your Christmas card list so quickly.”
“But it’s not just the party,” he stressed. “It’s that you won’t make the extra effort to be involved in my life when I’ve been trying my damndest to worm my way into yours. Fuck, I even wrote to your editor after reading your first article.”
“You did?” I replied in a saccharine tone.
Freddie had stuck to his word and squeezed me in as a political correspondent on the newspaper he worked on. I hadn’t even remembered he worked in the media until he called me up one day to ask if I had time to write a four hundred word article by five o’clock. My first article was published last week; an introductory piece chronicling our actions in the Middle East with the customary cynicism and regret most Americans feel. Sure, the article had been reduced by a hundred words and the editor refused to give me a cubicle in the newspaper’s office until I proved to be popular with readers, but it was a start on getting my career back on track.
“Well, I got a eleven-toes to email him from my blackberry. You know I’m fuckin’ shit with words.”
I laughed down the phone. “Inarticulate, maybe?”
“Whatever,” he had replied, but I knew he was smiling too. “C’mon Cat, it would mean a lot. And I’m tellin’ you, Justin doesn’t have a problem with it.”
“Have you even asked him?”
“Hey, it’s my birthday – if I wanted to invite his mom and pay her to take off all her clothes, there’s nothing he could do about it.” The weird thing is, Lynn probably wouldn’t even need as much convincing as money. “But, trust me, he won’t mind. He’d probably be pleased to see you.”
Trace had paused, as though he expected me to read into that statement. I chose not to.
“Fine Trace,” I conceded. “I’ll come. But only to say hi, and then I’m going home to alphabetise my book collection.”
“Can’t wait, Cutie.”
And so, following the results of the phone conversation, I am faced with something far more awkward than rejecting Trace’s party invitation: actually having to go to the damn thing and worry the whole time about seeing Justin.
I take one final look in the mirror. To my horror, Trace told me it’s a themed party: vintage gangsters, along the lines of Fat Sam and Bugsy Malone. I borrowed a dark red velvet dress with a jewelled bust line from Carolyn, which she assured me would make me look like Jessica Rabbit’s twin sister. The dress is fine, doing what a good dress ought to do (push up the boobs and suck in the waist) and the few curls I add to my hair are somewhat Jessica Rabbit-inspired. Not that I’m all that concerned about looking jaw-dropping – I plan to find Trace, down a shot in his honor, and then scoot – but, in the likelihood that I do see Justin, I want to look avoid looking like a complete wreck.
I can’t help but criticise the more-recently filled out look to my face. I’ve been trying desperately to re-evaluate my relationship with food and my body after that day when vomiting after eating seemed a plausible approach to losing weight. In the past week, I’ve been eating more meat and even allowed myself a hot chocolate on the morning my first article was published, just to prove to myself I don’t have the beginnings of an eating disorder. It’s almost funny: people think eating disorders only affect those that are under ninety pounds, not those oscillating between one fifty and one sixty. Anybody passing me on the street would still think I was a little chubby if you asked them offhand.
I put weight from my mind. Not tonight, Cat; don’t think about it tonight. Just think about how quickly you can get to Chelsea and back without incurring too much damage to yourself.
----------
I was waiting for her at the door before Trace suggested we stop meeting and greeting people and go sit at the head table.
When Trace told me Cat was coming tonight, I shrugged as though I could take or leave this little nugget of information. He had added an unnecessary, ‘Hope you don’t mind, buddy’, with a grin on his face to let me know that he was fully aware that I was excited to see her. The last time I saw Cat was when she came to pick up her stuff from my place, and I’d been a bit hostile towards her. I don’t know, I was still hurting and seeing her only made it worse. But now – it’s been a full month and a half since I broke things off: I’ve really, really missed her.
The club is full of people: all of Trace’s friends, some from school and others that he’s met through working for me; some southern relatives that look decidedly out of place in their swish surroundings; his old-girlfriends and a few one-night stands, who stand in a cluster near the ladies’ restroom, constantly re-entering to check their make-up. There are a few minor celebrities lurking that I’m sure Trace doesn’t know and are only here to be photographed by the paparazzi stationed outside the entrance. In any case, the estimated number of two hundred people is a laughable memory as hundreds of bodies fill the space available.
But I still haven’t seen Cat’s.
I sit at a table with Trace and about ten other people, where five bottles of champagne sit on the oval table and a banner, reading ‘Happy Birthday Trace’, hangs on the wall above our heads. At least if I stay here there’s no way I can miss her, as she’ll have to come over and say hi to the birthday boy.
I don’t know what I’m going to say to her or how I’m going to act. I broke up with her, and yet it feels as though she has the upper hand throughout this whole thing. She was the one that did all the changing while I stayed exactly the same; just as ridiculously in love with that girl I met in Shelby Forest General Store a year and a half ago. In the end, I was left looking like a fool while she did all the moving on before we even broke up.
I don’t see Cat being led through the crowd, weaving between the dancing gangsters and dolls with their trilbies off to the side of their heads. All I see is one of the guys dealing with the guest list standing in front of our table, one hand rudely pointing behind him.
“Here she is, Mr Ayala.”
Trace grins, stands up and shuffles around the table with a spare glass of champagne in his hand. “Hey Cutie, what’s up?”
That’s when I see her. Cat, in all her velvety, curly-haired glory. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, plasters on a smile that only a drunk person would find genuine, and puts her arms around Trace. Her dress hugs her figure perfectly, showing off slimmer arms, a more shapely behind and a far flatter stomach. She looks fantastic; but I can’t help but miss that slightly podgy mid-section that I used to rest my head on.
“Everyone, this is Cat,” Trace announces to everyone at the table.
The table is already too involved in its own separate dialogues to pay her much attention. They murmur a response and Trace returns to his seat, leaving Cat standing awkwardly at the head of the table with a champagne glass in one hand and her clutch in the other, looking like she doesn’t know what to do. She hates situations like these: Cat isn’t one of those people who can ease their way into conversation; she has to have someone familiar to guide her in before she can relax.
With this knowledge, I move over and pat the spot beside me. “C’mere, take a seat.”
I don't intend to come off so friendly, but it's instinct to save someone when they look out of place. Even if it is the woman that you loved and lost somewhere along the way.
When her eyes land on me, they widen with surprise. Perhaps at seeing me, perhaps because I'm being so nice to her. Nevertheless, she shoots me a grateful look and I want to kiss her all over.
“Thanks. I –”
“Hate these things, I know,” I smile at her, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees as I twirl my champagne glass between my fingers. “Nice dress.”
“Oh,” she looks down and brushes down the velvet material, “It was the best I could do at short notice. Nice trilby.”
I laugh and pick the black trilby off my head, showing her the shaved surface underneath. I remember she used to hate it when I wore hats, because apparently ‘men in hats are either bald or gay.’
“Bald, not gay.”
“Well, thank goodness,” she takes a gulp of champagne and almost drains the glass. “Thought I’d put you off women for life.”
My mouth opens a reply but David, Trace’s cousin and the person on Cat’s left, suddenly swirls round and sticks his hand out. I can’t decide whether he’s saved us from a potentially awkward situation, or ruined my chance to tell her that the only reason she’s put my off women for life is because I only compare them to her.
“Hey, I’m David.”
“Um, hi. Cat,” she replies, shaking his hand with a confused expression. Her confusion seems to wane slightly when it becomes clear that guy is already drunk beyond any sense of propriety.
“You lived with Trace, right? And you two,” he motions between us, his southern drawl elongating the embarrassment.
“Well, no, not any-... used to,” Cat answers uncomfortably, making a point of not looking at me. I wish she would, just so I could telepathically warn her David is looking at her like a piece of meat.
“Now that’s a mighty shame, because you are fi-ine.” David winks in a horribly lecherous manner and I’m pleased to see Cat’s eyebrow arch in disapproval.
She turns to me in one swift movement, putting her back to David and all her attention on me. It’s as good as giving the guy the finger. “Want to go get a drink?”
Ha, sorry Davey, better luck next time. “Sure.”
The moment we leave the table the bodies press in against us; Cat and I are instantly separated by a couple that are making out and two girls accidentally-but-quite-on-purpose stumbling into me. I steady them with my hands, reach around the couple and grab Cat’s hand to lead her towards the bar.
It’s amazing how quickly our hands find their place in each other. My hand shapes around hers protectively, just like it used to, and her fingers grip mine as she is jostled in all directions by people taller than her. I’m heading towards the bar until she taps on my shoulder, mouthing something that I can’t hear over the pounding bassline of the song playing.
I motion that I haven’t heard her. She mouths again. I shrug, as if to say, ‘Nope, not that time either. Isn’t it annoying when that happens?’
She rolls her eyes and moves forwards, suddenly pressing the full length of those curves against me. “Wanna head outside for a second? It’s packed in here.”
--------
“Sorry, it was just too busy in there,” I explain, fanning myself in the cool night air.
“Yeah,” Justin agrees. He casually hooks his thumbs into the belt hooks of his pinstriped pants. “Is this how you got in?”
I look around the quiet parking lot, which has been quarantined from the press’s invasion and contains only a few smoking club-goers. “Yeah, this is where the non-celebrity entities were allowed entrance.”
“Cool,” he laughs, and it suddenly feels very quiet between us. “So, how have you been?”
I shrug and rub my bare arms in the cold. “Fine. I got a job. At a newspaper.”
“That’s great,” he smiles. “When’s your first article out? I’ll have to read it.”
“It was out last week; Trace has a copy of it.”
“Oh.” His voice expresses some shock. “So you guys have been keeping in contact?”
“Only recently. I bumped into him a few weeks ago –”
“In Queens? He mentioned. What are the chances?”
Is that supposed to be some reference to Freddie? I never asked Trace whether he told Justin the circumstances under which we met; however Justin’s face shows little sign that he has any idea I’ve had sex since we broke up.
“It was surprising to see him.”
Justin looks uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand and staring at a cigarette butt on the ground. “I’m glad that you two...I’m glad your friendship wasn’t ruined by what happened between us.”
I pause for a moment, wondering how open I’m supposed to be in this kind of situation. “To be honest, I didn’t really want to come tonight. I didn’t know whether you’d want me here.”
“Cat,” he sighs and looks up, meeting my gaze straight on. “I can’t turn off my feelings for you in a flash; I still care about you.”
My heart had skipped a beat, only to be disappointed by hearing about all the ‘care’ Justin has for me. I want to smack that trilby off his head and tell him to love me again, but there’s no point.
“So how are you? How’s your album?”
“Oh, God,” he rolls his eyes to emphasise how frustrating the situation is, “The label keeps putting the release on hold. Too similar to other albums on the market, or some junk like that.”
“So you have no idea when it’s going to come out?”
“Nope. But I’m not too crazy about the idea of going on the road right now, so maybe it’s for the best.”
I nod as the silence falls again. It’s a silence full of tension, one that I want to fill with apologies and proclamations of love, but the words die on my lips. I’m just too scared that I won’t hear what I want to back, and that would crush me.
“So, you seein’ anyone?”
The question takes me by surprise. “Oh, no, no.” I fiddle uneasily with my bracelet in spite of myself: Justin will instantly recognize it as a nervous habit. “There was this guy, Freddie, but it was nothing.”
He seems surprised, but if he’s hurt it doesn’t show. “Did you guys go on a couple of dates, or...”
I’m afraid, Justin, the answer is ‘or’. “It was really nothing.” I break his gaze and stare around the lot, looking for some distraction. I wish I had never said anything, but the words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t be asking you about your sex life.” Justin shrugs and smiles unexpectedly. “It’s been so long since I’ve had sex I’ve lost all etiquette on the matter. I've heard it's meant to be good."
The joke is enough to break the tension and I laugh, shaking my head. A quiet sense of guilt that I didn’t know I had is lifted when Justin shrugs off my fling with Freddie. It’s good to know that he doesn’t judge me for it, even though his opinion shouldn’t mean anything to me.
“I don't want to sound weird or anything...” he begins slowly, looking at me with a mischievous, almost flirtatious look that I haven’t seen in a long time. “But do you remember when we tried that stupid sex position?”
“Well, I don’t know Justin, we tried a few,” I reply bashfully, hiding the surprise that the conversation has taken this turn.
“What was it called? The Sleeping Tiger or some shit like that?”
I scramble through my memories, finally settling on one. Justin and I were watching an indie French film about a fifteen-year old girl from some sleepy town who was sleeping with her tutor in Paris, or something along those lines. We spent the whole movie wide-eyed at the graphic sex scenes, intricate sexual positions and frankly unnecessary close-ups of nipples. Apparently that’s how it’s done across the pond.
“That was ridiculous,” I snort, waiving the image of the naked fifty-year old professor from my mind. “Either my ass was too big, or your Magic Johnson wasn’t big enough.”
Justin laughs, a big, booming laugh that I love to hear from him. “Do you remember? We were lying down on our sides, and your legs –”
“Were not made to wrap around backwards,” I interrupt, putting my hands to my face in embarrassment. The position involved having sex, while lying down with my back to his chest, while spooning, while wrapping my legs around his, while trying to get the necessary stuff in the necessary place so that it could be termed intercourse. After two minutes we gave up and went missionary, thank goodness.
“Yeah, that was funny,” Justin finishes, smiling and rubbing his eyes, watery from laughing. “Sorry, I don’t know where that came from.”
I smile and shrug. “Hey, we got some funny stories between us.”
“Yeah,” he nods, “we sure do.”
“And I’m glad that we can talk like we used to.”
He nods, his eyes holding a sincerity that I find touching. “It feels like we haven’t talked like this in so long. Even before we broke up.”
In last five minutes, I had almost forgotten that Justin and I weren’t a couple anymore. We stay for a moment, looking at each other as if seeing things we hadn’t seen before. Looking back, Justin’s right; although our break-up was sudden, the final two months of our relationship - one spent together and the other with Justin in LA - were soured because we weren’t talking to each other properly. Even though that lump wasn’t cancerous, it had a malignancy that took its effect on our relationship to the point of it breaking down.
The awful thing is, when I look back and ask myself why I didn’t just tell Justin about it from the start, I don’t really have an answer.
“We should probably get back into the party,” I say, softly. I want to spend all night out here with Justin, but it’s not going to help any in my quest to stop harboring feelings towards him. “But I’m glad we talked, I really am.”
“Me too,” he responds, nodding.
I smile and turn to leave, wondering where Trace is so that I can say happy birthday and that I’ve had a good night, but it’s time for me to be heading home.
But Justin grabs me by the wrist, turns my body towards him, and presses his lips against mine.
