My right foot anxiously taps the hard wooden floor, my eyes flying between the elevator and the bent head of the secretary as she calmly types into her computer. Cold air filters out from the air vent unnecessarily, filling the already cool room with a chill. People rush back and forth, their eyes set forward, avoiding eye contact, avoiding communication, avoiding each other…because they’re just too damn busy.
I hate offices.
It’s times like this I can clearly see my popularity decline in modern pop culture. If I had been called into a meeting a year or two ago, before I even took this break, the very moment I stepped into the building I would have been politely escorted to wherever I had to be by a stuttering, star struck assistant, and then had some guy twice my age walk on eggshells to please me. But now, I was waved off by the secretary and told that I would be, “seen to shortly”. The last secretary had a crush on me and would swing in her chair as she talked to me, blushing as I complimented her. But this new one is a total bitch. I hope she gets fired.
“Mr. Timberlake?”
“Yeah?” My head snaps up to see the secretary standing over me, her thin eyebrow raised.
“They’re ready for you.”
They’re ready for you… This is a business meeting, not Judgment Day.
“Thanks,” I smile, rising from the scratchy material covering the seat. Yeah, thanks…bitch.
“Second floor, third right,” she says curtly, pointing towards the elevator with a finely manicured hand.
Beaming at her, I put on my most jovial voice. “Thank you very much!”
A few heads turn in my direction, but the secretary nods and returns to her fort at the entrance of the building.
If only Cat was here. She’d already have compromised a stunning list of faults for the woman already.
I would have loved to have Cat here, actually. She’d have made the whole thing a whole lot easier, with her insults that I’d have to shush because people were looking at us, or her loud remarks about whether dyed blonde hair could ever look natural. But she had work, and the longer I can keep her away from the record company the better. The last girlfriend I had was summoned in for an “evaluation” to see whether it was wise to let the public see her as my girlfriend, and she came home crying because they told her it would be better if she lost weight.
It sounds unbelievable people could possibly treat another member of the human race like that, but publicity and the handling of my image is almost as important as the music itself. Publicists are heartless, ruthless, cruel people, in my opinion. They scrutinize you until you can barely live in your own skin, they don’t hesitate to remind you of every flaw you have, and they won’t stop until you’re perfect.
Unfortunately, they do the same for the people around you. They did it to my ex girlfriends, they’ll do it to Cat. They used to tell Britney that she was too heavy, and although Cat isn’t fat, she’s no Britney. They’re going to crucify her. They’ll attack her weight, her hair, her job. Nothing about her will be left untouched. Hence the reason I'm slightly reluctant to tag her along to any of these horrible meetings.
Despite the whirlwind of thoughts stirring in my head, my feet carry me up the elevator and along the corridor, to the third door on the right. Frowning, I feel the butterflies twittering around in my stomach, reminding me that for the first time in a long while, I’m nervous.
But why? Normally I have these guys wrapped around my little finger. I control all the meetings we have because they know that if they lost me, there’d be trouble, and I’d easily get snatched up by another label. The moment I stepped through the door they would launch into a chorus of, “Oh, how lovely to see you Mr. Timberlake…” and practically cower in my presence. Rather amusing, in fact.
However I have the gnawing suspicion that this time, I won’t be met with such gracious hospitality. I’m not on the top of my game at the moment, I don’t own the number one album in the country under my belt anymore. I’m just…a someone. A famous someone, sure, but I’m not their most important client any longer. I’ve been replaced by other acts, other Justin Timberlake’s. Not to mention they’re probably pissed as hell that I have ignored them for so long. The very fact they’ve come all the way from their sophisticated LA offices to backwater Tennessee fills me with dread. Whatever they want, they want it now, and there’s no way I can wriggle out of it.
Resting my hand on the silver doorknob reflecting a skewered image of myself, I gently ease the door open, preparing myself for whatever they have to throw at me.
An oblong wooden table meets me, with three men and a woman sitting at its varnished edges. I immediately recognize one particular man, with his shaven head covered by a New York baseball cap and his broad back covered by a navy polo shirt. It can only be Johnny Wright.
His head swivels to see me, a broad grinning adorning the face I’ve come to know so well. “Justin!”
“Johnny!” I cry, holding out my arms to embrace him in a quick hug. “How you been, man?”
“Good, good,” he smiles, patting my back. “And you?”
“Can’t complain,” I shrug, beaming at him.
He turns to the other members of the room that have risen on my arrival. “Justin, this is Melinda Lorenz,” he says, pointing to a woman of about forty, dressed in a restrictive business suit.
“Justin Timberlake,” I reply, holding my hand out to her with a smile.
She sends me a polite, tight, “I don’t really mean this”, smile in return. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you know Sonny and Tony,” he says, motioning to the other two men.
Of course I remember Sonny, I can’t look at the guy without getting that Cher song in my head. You know, the “I got you, babe” thing…never mind. As for Tony, well…the guy is a true asshole.
Decked out in only the finest Armani suit, Tony is the typical music business bastard, with a thirst for money and a disregard for human emotion. He’s the guy that told Britney she had to show her stomach otherwise her records would never sell, he’s the person who told Christina the chaps were the only way people would stop singing Genie in a Bottle, he’s the prick that told me going back to Nsync would mean the end of my career.
He’s the Simon Cowell behind the scenes. The difference is, Simon Cowell gets paid millions of dollars for his insults, this guy is just a dick naturally. It kills me to admit that half of his predictions are right, and that if it wasn’t for him a lot of careers would have never taken off. I hate him, but I would be nothing without him.
“Hey Tony,” I greet curtly, dropping his hand quickly, as though his touch burned me. “Sonny,” I mutter, my eyes still fixed on Tony.
“Sit down, Justin, sit down,” says Johnny happily, pointing towards the seat beside him.
Sliding into the slick black leather, I sit opposite Tony, casting a critical eye over him. He looks no different from when I last saw him, he still has the same perfectly highlighted hair, he still has that wonderfully fake all year round tan, he still carries that air of arrogance about him, there’s still a sparkling Rolex on his left wrist. All I have to see is whether his tone is still quite as condescending.
“Justin, how are you?” he says, sending me a smile that I can so clearly see is forced.
“I’m well, thank you,” I reply shortly. The easiest thing to do with these people is to just keep your distance. It gives them less ammo to attack you with.
“Did you have a nice break?” asks Sonny cheerfully, momentarily cutting through the slight tension in the air.
“Thanks, I’ve been having a great time.” I don’t miss the fact he was speaking very much in the past tense, but it’s hard to dislike Sonny. He’s just a middle-aged man with three kids and a wife at home, who always has cute anecdotes about the wild antics of his children. Tony may be out to get me, but Sonny isn’t.
“And how long have you been absent from the music scene?” asks Melinda, her pen perfectly poised to jot anything I say down.
What am I, giving a statement for a murder? This is ridiculous. “I’ve been absent,” I mock, couldn’t she just say ‘away’? “For about a year now.”
“Over a year, isn’t it?” prods Tony.
Thanks a lot Tony. “Perhaps.”
“Do you wish to return to it?” asks Melinda again, her brown eyes settling on me.
Cut to the chase, why don’t you. “Maybe,” I reply simply.
“Have you got any material?”
“Some.”
“Have you been in contact with any producers?”
“Sort of.” Elusiveness is a wonderful thing.
“Who have you been in contact with?” asks Tony impatiently, his pen tapping restlessly on the dark hue of the table.
I shrug, revving up another wonderfully minimalist answer. “Just a few friends.”
Johnny taps my foot with his own under the table, shooting me a warning gaze. I know I’m being the cheeky pupil in class who just loves to push the teacher that little bit further, but the idea that I’m even slightly affecting Tony fills me with immature satisfaction.
Pulling down my defensive walls slightly, I sigh. These guys are paying for me after all. “I’ve been in brief contact with Chad and Pharrell, but I’m not sure whether that’s the sound I want to go for.”
“What kind of sound are you interested in?” asks Sonny, genuine interest coming through in his question.
“It can’t be too different, Justin. You have a staple audience that we want to keep,” reminds Tony.
Piss off and die, Mr. Perma-tan Man. “Well, yes, but I might appeal to a whole new audience with a different sound.” How good it would feel to add, “asshole” to the end of that sentence.
“What kind of sound?” he asks wearily, as though I’m just another spoilt pop star bitching about his music.
“Something more…organic, perhaps. More raw, acoustic guitars, less dance beats. Kind of…John Mayer-y.”
He chuckles, rolling the pen between his fingertips. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Why not?” I demand.
“Because raw, acoustic crap isn’t what’s in now,” he says bluntly, placing his pen back on the table. “I think you’d be better sticking with the pop-y sound you had on your last album.”
Pop-y? Pop-y? That was no way pop-y, you complete prick. It was much more R’n’B. “I won’t completely abandon my roots,” I say slowly through gritted teeth, trying to calm myself. “But the fans won’t buy the same thing again. I have to do something different.”
He shakes his head as I speak, which by the way, really annoyed me. “No, no, no, Justin. You have a core fan base which we wouldn’t want to lose.”
“I’m not saying it would be the complete opposite of Justified, I’m just saying it would have a more mellow sound to it.” Why the hell this guy even cares, I don’t know. I doubt he even listened to my album, he probably just signed a few papers and paid for my studio time.
He tilts his head back, as though he’s contemplating it, before shaking his head again. “I’m still not sure.”
“I think it could work,” cuts in Johnny, receiving a thankful glance from me. “The whole dance thing isn’t really in right now anyway.”
“I agree,” says Sonny, smiling at the grateful grin I send him. “But, at the same time…I’m not sure about a John Mayer sound. I’d say it’s definitely leaning more towards the direction of R’n’B or rap. You got people like Fifty Cent, Eminem--”
“But they’re always popular,” points out Melinda. “And they’re music is nothing like Justin’s. That would be too radical a change.”
Don’t you hate it when people talk like you’re not even there? “That’s true,” says Johnny thoughtfully. “But I still think that last album’s stuff isn’t what’s popular right now.”
“Pop is always popular,” says Tony disapprovingly. “There are millions of teenage girls ready to rush out and buy another album about love and trials and all that stuff.”
“How different do you want it, Justin?” Sonny asks, his gaze resting on me.
“Nothing too crazy. Tony’s right,” I admit unwillingly. “I have a signature sound that I have to stick to, but there will just be a few changes. I’ve grown up, it’s inevitable that my music has too.”
“Okay,” Tony relents, sitting forward in his chair and placing his elbows on the table, his contempt seeping through his words. “Why don’t you lay down a few tracks and we’ll see how we like it?”
“So you want me to start work on it now?” I strangle out, realizing I had inadvertently been discussing a matter that shouldn't even be on my mind yet. I was so busy defending a different style of music, I didn’t even realize the point of the meeting was whether I was even going to do an album in the first place.
“Isn’t that what you want?” says Sonny.
“So soon?” I stutter helplessly.
“What do you mean, ‘so soon’? It’s been a year for Christ’s Sake,” snorts Tony, running a hand through his bleached hair. “You should be thankful we’ve not dropped you.”
My mouth falls open in shock. What did he just say to me? “What the hell are you talking about?” I spit angrily.
He shrugs nonchalantly. “You haven’t been an economic asset to the company.”
“That’s because I was the only economic asset for three years,” I retort furiously. “I was the best client Jive fucking had!”
Johnny places a steady hand on my arm, pulling me back down slightly. “Justin, he didn’t mean that.”
“Justin,” begins Tony, his blue eyes blazing as he clasps his hands together. “I understand your reasons for taking a break, but it is my personal opinion that your return to work is long overdue. You can’t expect us to be happy about your sudden departure from the music scene because, as you said, you were our best client.”
Does he honestly think that a forced business like manner and a clipped tone are really going to make me less angry? “You try working for eight years straight,” I snap.
“Justin, do you want to do another album or not?” Sonny interrupts us, casting worried glances between Tony and I. “We can’t go any further until you answer that question.”
Sighing, a hand runs its way through my hair. “Yes,” I say quietly, as though I’m admitting it to myself.
I do want to make another album. I do want to go out and perform songs that I’ve written, and see legions of fans singing along to every word. I do want to go out and get utterly trashed with all of my friends at some high brow club, dancing on the tables and the whole shebang.
But I don’t want to do all of this at the cost of Cat.
“Then what’s stopping you?” says Tony impatiently.
“You seem slightly hesitant,” adds Sonny, raising an eyebrow.
Groaning, I shrug. “Well, it’s just…there’s something, or someone, that I have to take into consideration before I sign or do anything…” I ramble, not particularly keen on going into detail of what is bothering me.
“Is it a girlfriend?” asks Johnny.
“Um…well, yes…”
“A girlfriend!” Tony exclaims, as though I had just told him I had brutally murdered a group of innocent nuns with a chainsaw. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Shrugging, I take great pleasure in inspecting my nails nonchalantly, just to piss him off. “I didn’t feel the need to. She isn’t involved in this side of my life.”
“She’s involved, whether she likes it or not,” Tony scoffs.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I shake my head. “No, she isn’t. I have no desire to expose her to this,” I repeat, gesturing to my surroundings.
Tony rolls his eyes at me, shaking his head in frustration. “How can you claim she’s got nothing to do with this when she’s the one holding back another album?”
“She's not holding back the album. That’s nothing to do with her. That’s about me and where my priorities lie.”
“And where do they lie, Justin?” Tony spits spitefully. “In your career, or your girlfriend?”
My jaw clenches as I ponder a response. “In both.”
“You can’t have both.”
“Why not?”
He glares at me. “If you could, then why aren’t you touring right now with your girlfriend in tow?”
Silence envelops the room, everyone’s eyes landing on me. I try to conjure up a witty, sarcastic reply, but I can’t.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re going to have to make a choice Justin. The career that you’ve worked hard for, or some girl you’ve been seeing a few weeks.”
“I’m not going to give up either,” I protest.
“Then you’re girlfriend is just going to have to accept the fact that there will be a few changes.”
Feeling a wave of fatigue wash over me, I nod helplessly. “Fine. But the less we ask of her, the better.”
“Justin, we’re not giving trying to give you an ultimatum,” Johnny says comfortingly, sending Tony a piercing glare. “You’ve had girlfriends before. I don’t see why this poses a problem.”
“She’s…different,” I struggle to explain. “She would hate being in the public eye.”
Johnny shrugs. “We’ve dealt with that before also. You just have to be careful.”
“No, no, Johnny, I mean she really hates it,” I stress anxiously, my voice lowering as I discuss something a little more personal. “It could cause huge problems for our relationship.”
“Couldn’t it with any relationship?”
“This one in particular.”
“Is that the only thing holding you back?” asks Melinda, and for a moment, I had forgotten she was even there. It isn’t really any of her business, but I suppose if I’m going to make a “return”, I’d better get used to people I don’t know prodding me about my private life. It’s sort of like going to the doctor, you have someone you don’t even know seeing and knowing things you haven’t even told your own mother.
“Yes,” I admit. “She’s supportive and all, but I’m just unwilling to risk everything I have with her for…” I trail off uncertainly.
“Justin, it’s not a black or white situation,” says Johnny comfortingly. “You’re thinking far too negatively. Just because you get back into the music scene doesn’t necessarily mean the end for you and your girlfriend. It just means slight adjustments.”
“Such as?” I ask, feeling slightly consoled by his words.
Johnny leans back in his chair, shrugging. “The same adjustments we always make. A few appearances here and there, you’d have to move out of Tennessee…”
“See!” I interrupt. “There’s a problem right there. She won’t just up and leave her home to suit me.”
“Have you discussed it with her?” asks Sonny.
“No, but trust me, she won’t just give up everything she’s built here for me,” I say, dread filling me as realization hits me. Cat won’t leave Tennessee at the drop of a hat, even if I say pretty please. She has a whole life here.
“Well, you can’t make an album here,” points out Melinda. “Producers will be extremely unwillingly to come all the way down to the South to work, even if it’s for you.”
“I know I was,” mutters Tony, but I ignore him.
“Where would I go?”
Johnny smiles. “You have property all over, Justin. You decide.”
Grinning slightly, I shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, I do want to make music again, it’s just…” Sighing, I rap a knuckle against the table impatiently. “I have a great thing going here, you know? But then again, I do miss recording..." Conflict is a bitch.
“Why don’t you just try it?” offers Sonny. “You can have a trial period in LA, or New York, or something. You can see how you and your girlfriend adapt to the change, and we can see whether we like the new style you go for.”
Tapping my chin thoughtfully, I nod. “That is a good idea.”
“Yeah, just a few months in a city, sort of get back into the swing of things, and then we’ll see how it goes.”
“But whether she’ll come with me is still a problem.”
“Why don’t you sort out your personal issues, and we’ll deal with studio times and producers?” says Tony, leaning back in his seat and giving his wrist a shake, probably just so I’ll look at his watch. Who wants to bet he bought it for ten dollars at a flea market?
“Fine,” I reply in a clipped voice. “I’ll get in touch when I’ve sorted it out with her. Until I do though, don’t make any arrangements.”
“Alright,” agrees Melissa, punctuating her final sentence and gathering her papers. What the hell has she even written about? “I don’t mean to rush you, but if you could get in contact with one of us within the next few working days that would be great.”
“Of course,” I say, giving her a smile and wondering exactly how long I’m going to wait before I call her. “So no contracts?” I tease, knowing Johnny hates to just do something out of the blue. He much prefers to have something set in stone, or at least written down on some sort of legally binding piece of paper. To have loose agreements flying around the table must be killing him, but I refuse to rush into this. I’ll speak with Cat again, beg her to move out of Tennessee, and then it’ll be all systems go.
I can’t wait to be back in a studio again. To feel the spongy material of the headphones covering my ears as a producer nods at me through the transparent glass, to have the nights of lounging around in the studio, trying to think of that one thing that would piece together a song. It’s been too long since my finger toyed with all the various switches and buttons on the mixing board, messing around with beats and coming up with something crazy until that euphoric moment when I know I’ve gotten it just right.
But not until Cat says it’s okay.
He smiles. “No, no contracts.”
I shake hands with Melissa, Sonny and…ugh…even Tony. The child in me came out and I held his hand in a vice-like grip before letting it go and delivering a saccharine sweet smile. Serves him right, the orangutan.
“This girl must be really special for you to be so precautious, Justin,” comments Johnny as I quickly hug him.
“Trust me, she is,” I assure him, patting his back.
“She’s turned you into quite the emotionally alert man I always knew you were.”
“You calling me whipped, Johnny?”
“That I am,” he laughs.
Rolling my eyes, I suppress a smile. “Trace says the exact same thing.”
“He’s right.”
“I’m not whipped, I’m just…I swear, I was just having this conversation with Trace two days ago.”
“Don’t worry. Your pitiable state is endearing.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“No prob.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Do you think if you attached weights to the end of your hair, it would grow faster?”
Frowning slightly, I turn to Trace. Knowing him for a year should have prepared me for his streams of consciousness, but clearly, I can still be astounded by the undeniable crap that tumbles out of his mouth. “Excuse me?”
“Well, I read it in a Babysitters Club book once, and I always wondered…”
“Which brings us onto a more pressing issue: Why in hell were you reading The Babysitters Club?” I ask, closing my book with a confused expression on my face.
He shrugs. “My little sister used to give me books to read on plane rides, and she was apparently an avid fan of the whole Babysitter phenomenon, so--”
“No excuse,” I cut him off, tossing my book to the side. “And anyway, no, I don’t think attaching weights to the end of your hair would make it grow faster.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied, before looking at me again. “Do you think I should try anyway?”
Rolling my eyes, I heave myself off the couch, hopping over my discarded work shoes I had kicked off upon arriving home for my lunch hour. “Sure. I can always use a cheap laugh.”
He laughs and follows me into the kitchen, going through his usual ritual of opening every cupboard door and peering into it for food. “We got any chips?”
“No. I thought you and Justin were going to go to the store?”
He shakes his head vigorously. “Ever been grocery shopping with Justin? He won’t buy anything unless it’s on special offer or has a discount.”
“Because he’s just so poor,” I mutter sarcastically, pouring some milk into a glass. “I’ve always thought Justin was generous with money.”
Trace shrugs and settles on the counter. “He’ll go out and buy a car in a second, but he still refuses to spend an extra dollar fifty on the bread with the little seeds on top.”
Laughing, I pull out a chair and slide onto it, my thoughts traveling to Justin. “I wonder how his meeting went.”
Trace shrugs. “He said he’d be back around one, and it’s only twelve thirty.”
“What could they be talking about?”
“Stuff,” replies Trace offhandedly. “Whether it’s the right time for him to go back, what style of music he’s going for, which producers he wants.”
Crossing on leg over the other, I sigh tiredly. “So he’s definitely going to do it?”
Trace remains silent for a moment, staring at his swinging legs. “He wants to, but I think he’s just a little scared to be going back into it.”
“Is he…” I trail off, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “Different? You know, when he’s working and in the public eye?”
Trace pauses again, looking at my cautiously. “Honestly? Yes, he’s different.”
“How?” I ask timidly, almost afraid of his answer.
Trace sighs and shrugs. “It’s hard to say. He’s a little more confident, a little louder, he’s always the center of attention and he loves it…sometimes, he can get a little too caught up in everything, but other than that he’s fine.”
“Not too arrogant?”
He smirks. “You know Justin, he’s always arrogant.” I chuckle lightly, before he continues. “Sure, it can get unbearable at times, but you know deep down he doesn’t mean to get like that. It’s just a natural reaction to get a tad conceited when everyone who surrounds you is praising you and admiring you.”
“Do you think he’ll act differently around me?”
“He’s the same Justin, Cat. It’s just his…work act.” Trace shrugs. “Don’t you have a certain way you act at work?”
Thinking about it, I realize I do. At work, I’m relatively quiet and reserved. People like me, and every now and then I meet up with some girls from work to go out for a drink, but I mostly keep my head down and just carry on with my work. The only person who has any inkling of how I am out of work is Sean, and let’s not even go there.
“I guess. So you’re saying he’s just the same when he’s alone?”
“Of course,” he assures me. “Don’t worry about it Cutie, he’s not going to be a different person.” He pauses, eyeing me carefully. “You’re keeping your distance from the whole thing, aren’t you?”
“I most certainly am,” I snort, pulling out a few slices of bread to make a sandwich. “I plan to avoid every party, every public appearance, every launch, every interview, every press junket, every--”
“Yeah, I get you. Thanks for that list,” he groans, rubbing his eyes. “It was more than an adequate reminder of just what I’m returning to, thank you.”
“You don’t like your job?” I ask incredulously, taking a bite of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Excuse me, that is a perfectly mature sandwich preference, thank you very much.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” he sighs. “As I said, Justin sometimes gets a little involved in everything going on around him, and I’m just left in the shadows.”
Sitting down at the table beside him, I comfortingly pat his hand. “We all feel like that sometimes. At every family event I go to, everyone practically falls over themselves praising my sisters and then they turn to me and shrug.”
He laughs. “Even when Justin’s there?”
“Oh, of course no when Justin’s there,” I laugh, licking a bit of peanut butter that oozed out of the bread. “That boy’s the Golden Ticket.”
“You think they’re bad,” Trace snorts. “Wait ‘til you meet some hardcore journalists. Then you’ll see endless praise at it’s best.”
“Is it sickening?”
“Incredibly.”
Hearing the creak of the door, we both look up to see Justin standing over us, a smirk on his face.
“Did I just hear the word incredible? You guys talking about me again?” he teases, sliding off his jacket.
“Your ego, actually,” I reply, standing up to give him a quick kiss.
I don’t want to pounce on him and admit the only reason I came back on my lunch break was to interrogate him on his meeting, but I know I’ll be incapable of talking about anything but what happened. I have to know. I have to know whether he’s definitely, definitely going back to this whole world I know nothing about. I have to know whether the safety blanket of our relationship is going to be ripped away from me, leaving me cold and alone.
Stop being so dramatic Cat, and just suck it up and ask him.
“How was it?” I ask quickly, my words coming out in such speedy succession it’s amazing he can understand me.
“It was…alright,” he replies awkwardly, walking into the kitchen and putting down his keys. “It was…yeah, it was alright.”
Informative, Justin. “So, um,” I begin even more awkwardly, as Trace eyes the door with serious consideration. “It’s, um…on?”
It’s on? Could I sound more like a teenage boy about to embark on some stupid street race?
“No, not yet,” Justin replies, picking up an orange and throwing it between his hands a few times. “But as soon as I give them the word, it’s all set.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“You,” he replies simply as my breath catches in my throat.
“Me?” I strangle out. “Why me?”
“I don’t want to do anything unless you’re behind me 100%.”
Guilt bites at my conscience as I sigh. “I’m so sorry, Justin. I didn’t mean to make you feel as though you couldn’t--”
“You didn’t,” he interrupts. “I just know I won’t be happy unless you are.”
My heart melts at his words. “Justin…”
“Look, Cat, I need to be honest with you,” he says suddenly, halting my words.
A knot ties itself in the pit of my stomach as I try to calm myself. “What happened?”
He sighs. “As I was saying, a new album’s just waiting to be made, but…there’s just a few…adjustments that need to be made first.”
“Of course.”
“The main one being…” he trails off and clears his throat anxiously.
Spit it out Justin. You’re making me nervous.
“The main one being where we live,” he says quickly.
“Well, what do you mean?”
“I can’t make an album here Cat, it just wouldn’t work,” he begins apologetically, as I sense a big cloud of trouble on the horizon making itself known. “I’d…we’d have to move.”
“To where?” I choke out.
He shrugs. “New York, LA…”
“But-but,” I stutter helplessly, amazed this never occurred to me before. “What about my job? My friends? I have a whole life here, Justin.”
“I know,” he says, his calm, slightly nervous voice contrasting to my gradually hysterical one. “And I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but--”
“It sure as fuck is, Justin!” I exclaim angrily. “I can’t just give up everything I have to follow you around the country like some lost little puppy! What if we broke up? Do you know where that would leave me, Justin? Exactly where I was when I first came to Tennessee!” I spit heatedly, narrowing my eyes as memory upon memory comes crashing down on me.
Matthew and I being the sweet teens too in love to comply to their parents’ wishes, traveling off to unknown lands to continue our glowing love…Matthew making promise upon promise that we would live happily ever after, that he would get a job good enough to support us both, so I needn’t work or further my education...Matthew and I just being so in love.
But then, suddenly, Matthew leaving me alone and helpless, feeling more stupid than I ever have in my life. All of his promises meant nothing to me. Nothing.
And now Justin’s doing it. For the first time in three years, I’m back on my feet again. The image of me in a Shelby Forest General Store uniform may seem like a distant memory to him, but it’s not to me. I worked in that place for two years, knowing it was barely enough money to live on, knowing I was wasting my intelligence, and knowing I had committed the most stupid crime known to women by obeying a man’s wishes at the click of his fingers.
I never realized we’d have to move. It just never entered my mind. I suppose I assumed Justin would just work here in Tennessee, or he would go to New York for a week or something, and then he’d be back in the Southern Belt. The possibility of leaving everything I’ve worked so hard for just…it doesn’t seem fair.
“Cat, calm down.”
“Justin! How can I calm down? Do you even realize the magnitude of what you’re asking of me?”
“Cat, you know I wouldn’t do that to you!”
“You can’t possibly control our future, Justin. Things happen, people change,” I exclaim, shouting across the table over an uncomfortable Trace, who sits between me and Justin’s standing figures.
“Would you please just stop writing off our relationship before it’s barely begun!” Justin scoffs. “And I think you owe it to me to at least consider it.”
“I ‘owe it’ to you? And how the hell is that, may I ask?” I spit sarcastically, placing my hands on my hips stubbornly.
“Why the hell do you think me and Trace stayed in this piece of crap town? There’s only so many times we could have visited our relatives. It was for you, Cat! We stayed for you alone!”
“You didn’t have to!” I retort, before realizing that was the worst comeback, bar the infamous, ‘whatever’.
“But we did. Stop being so selfish, and just think about it!”
Letting out a groan of exasperation, I rub my eyes tiredly. Doesn’t he realize how difficult it would be for me to just leave everything I’ve known for the past four years? Does he have any idea how many stupid, ridiculous, pointless articles on hamsters or festivals or plays that I did just so I could have a chance of doing more serious issues? Does he know how much I love the job I’m in right now?
Maybe I am being selfish by not even considering it, but every time I allow my brain to work for a second, all I hear is the sneer of, ‘you’re falling for this again? Don’t you ever learn from your mistakes?’ I can’t. I just can’t do that to myself again. It’s too risky. I have too much of a good thing going here to just give it all up because Justin asked me to.
“Justin, this is going to get us nowhere,” I mutter, closing my eyes and lightly kneading my forehead to ease the pressure in it. Opening my eyes, my focus lands on the small green digits displayed by the microwave, reminding me that I’m already five minutes late for work.
“I need to go,” I announce, picking up my purse from the dark gray surface of the counter. “We’ll talk about this when I get back,” I mumble tiredly, quickly picking up my shoes from the living room floor and slipping them on.
Justin sighs and leans forward, against the back of the wooden kitchen chair. “Alright. Bye.”
I run out of the house before another word can be uttered, knowing I shouldn’t have just left in the middle of such a heated discussion, but knowing I’ll have no job to give up if I don’t leave. Work will give me the chance to relax, and think without the pressure of Justin and Trace. Maybe I could even talk to Sean about it.
Sliding into the leather interior of my car, I rest my head against the steering wheel, reminiscing the argument that stemmed from an innocent conversation. I love Justin, but I love my job too. My job is secure, Justin isn’t. If I leave, I’ll have to give up my job, and I desperately don’t want to do that.
But at the same time, I don’t want to give up Justin.
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