*Alisan*

Justin Randall Timberlake is an asshole. A cocky, arrogant, self-centered, egotistical asshole. Funny thing is, he knows it. When he tries to be normal, he somehow ends up being more cocky than ever. And yet, he's my best friend and I wouldn't change anything because of that.

Sure, there are times when I want to smack him and tell him that women are supposed to take longer in the bathroom than men, but I don't. I wanna ask him how much products he's putting in the little hair he does have, but again, I don't. I'd also want to ask him why he primps and moisturizes more than any woman I know.

But I don't.

So, as I'm standing here, looking down at the many face and hair products that take more than 3/4 of my counter up, I feel the need to. I hear him in his room singing some song I despise (rap, ugh) as I tap on his door gently, he pulling it open fully and giving me a big grin as he turns away and continues singing, turning so he was facing me and throwing himself on the guest bed, hands underneath his head, eyes at the ceiling. He looked happy.

I swallowed, looking around at all the luggage that the car had brought after us, sighing deeply. Nine suitcases. I don't think I even have nine suitcases worth of clothes to fit in six, let alone nine. Mind you, these suitcases could probably shelter us from a storm if we tossed his precious cargo out and threw it over us, but that's beside the point. "J," I finally say, looking over at him as he doesn't budge, not even an eye blink. "Justin," I groaned, trying to keep the smile from spreading across my face as I crawled from the foot of the bed towards his face, putting my chin on his chest as I study him. He's knocked out from exhaustion and there was no way I'd get him awake ... the boy would sleep through a huge ass earthquake and know nothing.

I jutted out my lip, rolling off of the bed and left the room, trying to keep quiet (though I knew it wouldn't matter, anyway). I figured a dinner for one was in order yet again, taking mental notes to call my supervisor again tomorrow to confirm all that the contractor had told me, and then to shop my little heart out as I usually did when things didn't go my way.

Going down the stairs of the small home (well, shoebox-sized compared to Justin's) home I owned, my fingers grazed the picture frames of friends and family from back home. It'd be a lie if I said I didn't miss it, because I did ... a lot. And if it weren't for Justin's constant reminders that I'm here to make a name for myself, I would have moved home a long time ago. I'm a homebody, a family-oriented woman who always dreamt of one day getting married and becoming part of a family all her own. And here I am, 25 and still single.

My love life was always one that would not cause a spark in anyone's interest. Two, maybe three boyfriends came and went ... and there was only one man I had ever felt close to loving. He was a few years older than me, a senior while I was a freshman, and although we stayed together for nine months, it ended just as randomly as it began.

I've come to the conclusion that while everyone around me is falling in love and having these amazing lives, I am going to be the lone one who settles on furthering her career because that is all she could do. I'll be the old spinkster woman with a billion dogs (I hate cats) and an old rocker sitting on the porch and yelling at kids because I'm angry I did not get to have any of my own.

Can you tell I've already planned that stage in my life out?

I had what people would call, an infatuation of sorts for Justin's close friend, JC for quite some time. To be honest, it was really up until a few weeks ago. There isn't really a reason as to why I don't feel for him anymore, it's just that I realized he and I were better off as friends because, let's face it, that's all I'd ever be to any man I'd fall for. My kind doesn't get the attention the other kind does.

I was a dancer for twelve years of my life. I had the definition of dancer's body, too: long, muscular legs, lean torso, barely there breasts, and a great posture. After falling and fracturing my ankle and tearing quite a few ligaments in my knee as a result of this fall, my career would never be the same. Instead of trying to even salvage what I had left, I quit. Long gone was that body, in place of it a somewhat defined lower body with a trick ankle that tends to give out at the least opportune times, a soft stomach that gives me hips I never knew I had and breasts that my mother (who is a full figured D, maybe pushing that) jealous of. I see no jealousy in this aspect. In fact, I hate them and the 30 pounds I gained from my new found time and boredom. On a normal, 5'6" or so body, give or take a few inches, that would look amazing - but, at 5'1", and a size 10, sometimes 12, it really doesn't.

But I'm not ashamed of my body. After seeing so many girls throwing themselves in eating disorders growing up, I took care of myself. I call this my 'fasting' period: 'Fast food, fast eating, fast weight'. And it came on quickly. Well, no. 30 pounds in nine years or so isn't that bad.

Maybe this would explain my love life lacking romance?

I tried everything to lose weight: Jenny, Weight Watchers, a place called Bariatrics, Bally ... none of it seemed to give me the results I remembered from dancing. Maybe that was my answer, though I refused to believe it since my body gave up on it so many years ago. Well, both my body and my mind. I did miss it though. A lot.

I stopped at a picture at the bottom of the staircase by the landing, a smile forming on my face. It was my last year of dance, and the instructor had chosen me for the encore finale, me being one of his best students. I was in the middle of a fan kick, head turned downward, arms at the sides of my face and my leg was in the opposite direction of my stance. It made a local newspaper, my mom calling to get the proof so that she could make copies. There, in front of me, was one of them.

Sighing deeply, I stepped down off the landing and shook my head. Somewhere, there was an even more beautiful picture and I just had to accept that my life is what it is - nothing was going to change, so I better get used to it. I pride myself in some aspects, I suppose. I do have a great smile, it being the most complimented feature I have; I have what my mom calls 'amber' eyes, though they aren't necessarily that light, and wavy hair that Justin envies. To hear a man say he wants your hair is slightly bothering, but coming from Justin, it's the hatred of his own curly hair and longing for a better 'do that comes out.

Justin says I'm a dreamer; that my head is in the clouds too much, imagining all that is good in the world but never fully embrace that if there was no bad, the good would never seem as sweet. I suppose he's right, but I can't help that I like to see the good in everything ... even Justin. I supposed that I probably would have fell for him, if he had been the good that I envisioned just like JC tended to do a lot more than he had. I know JC isn't perfect, I've heard stories, I've witnessed him ... but he is the sweetest, most caring and inspiring people I know. He is handsome in an almost unconventional way (his eyes take the cake) and he's modest about his looks, but when he's on stage, he oozes sexuality.

That is probably why I'm attracted to his type.

Justin, on the other hand, knows that women everywhere want him, so he's always thinking he's Mr. Sexpot. When we're in public, he walks with his nose high in the air and this way too confident gleam in his eyes. It's almost as if the world owes him something, rather than he owing the world. Outside of the little glass exhibit that the public had put him in, he is one of the sweetest guys I know. In fact, probably too sweet. He doesn't show it often, but he'll let you know when he cares about you. Recently, he's been a lot more like this than Mr. Egotistical that I've had to put up with.

He's also still unsure of who he is as a man. Obviously, he knows he's a man and he knows what kind of woman he wants, but as for finding himself on a deeper level, it's slow coming. The best thing I can say about him, is that he never once put me down just because he could. He has always been a postive influence, never once making a comment that he knew I'd take offensively. He's sensitive towards me, but what I don't understand, is his insensitivity to other women he had been around; they fell victim to his slight criticism when it should be me.

He did make me feel beautiful. I know I'm not exactly his type (okay, not at all), but he always make sure to compliment me when I have something new on, or I smell good. He's always supoorting me and being that ear when I need advice or a second opinion. He's always put my best interest in front.

I hear him moving from upstairs as I peered behind me, hearing his footsteps slowly descend the stairs. "Hey," I called, hearing him mumble a response. "Short nap?"

"Not tired," he grumbled, he looking down and scratching the back of his head as he said that. "I mean, I am, but it's the delirious tired that doesn't let you sleep, it just makes you feel like you are, but then again, you wanna run a thousand laps." He brought his face up to look at me, smiling. "It was a good, small power nap."

"A very small one," I laughed, glancing around the kitchen. I always kept the cabinets and refrigerator stocked, but nothing seemed to jump out at me to make for dinner. "What do you want to eat?"

He thought a moment, eyes casting a far off look in them as he went somewhere other than this world. Almost as quickly, he snapped back into reality and gave me a big grin. "I know!"

For figuring out what to have for dinner, he was way too excited. "What's that?"

"Madison Avenue."

"I don't carry Madison Avenue in my cabinets."

He rolled his eyes at my lame attempt at a joke, a smile playing on his lips. "C'mon, San; we haven't been out to dinner in a long time."

"Argh, all right," I laughed, giving in as he smiled wider. "I guess I gotta go change then, huh? And possibly shower."

"Yeah, stank ass."

I hit him playfully, running a hand through his short buzzcut. "Someone should not be talking," I teased, he grinning right back at me. "I'll go get ready ... let me know when you wanna go."

"Oh, I will ..."

I started to walk away, turning my head slightly to look at him. There was something written on his face that I couldn't figure out. It looked devious, like he was cooking up a plan, yet, in the midst of that, his face looked like he had just heard the worst news in the world. How those two came to a mix, I'll never know; now, I'm a little worried.

Maybe going to Madison Avenue wasn't such a good idea.