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ACT II: IN THE BEGINNING - Enlightening
Scene 1: A Glimpse at Happier Times That Establishes Very Little
"He's too beautiful. He's too much twisted steel and sex appeal. I can't be with a guy that looks like I won him in a raffle." - Always
I once read somewhere that people look to movies to escape from their own lives. The article went on to talk about how we love dramas because it's fun to watch others fumble around and fail and lose-we bask in the knowledge that it's the characters and not us. It makes our job review look less horrible in light of a character's debilitating disease and the soulmate she leaves behind. That said, if this statement is true, at the moment, I'm in need of a good tragedy.
I decide that everything would be better if I sat down and watched Love Story. It's one of those movies I hate myself for loving. It's so saccharine-filled and mushy, but when I'm in a certain mood, it's the only antibiotic my system can handle. It will alleviate my woe-is-me mood and remind me that there are people who have it much worse than me. Besides, Ryan O'Neil in his heyday was one goodlooking guy.
I'm the type of person who always worries and I don't know why. It's not like I grew up in a household with parents that were mentally unstable. I've never lost anyone in some sort of tragic accident which forced me to cope by wincing every time a phone rings at night. I'm even the baby in my family, the youngest of three-I should be crazy, adventurous, and reckless, not a worrywart.
But I am. I go right for the most horrific, implausible story in my mind, and I think what throws me is that I'm not like this with anything else in my life. If a person looked up rational or logical in a dictionary, I'm betting there would be a nice profile picture of me. I tend not to jump to conclusions or get carried away with fiction…until a friend tells me they'll be by at ten and doesn't show up. Then she's been kidnapped by a serial killer emulating Ted Bundy's homicidal styling.
I'd like to blame this all on Justin, convincing myself that meeting him when we were eleven has fused our minds together in some way and it causes me to react dramatically to the simplest things-like someone being fifteen minutes late in bad weather. Hell, I'd even settle for putting this solely on the shoulder of the movies I love to watch, believing that people like Lynn Cheney are right (blasphemy!) and ours are impressionable minds. Except, contrary what Justin might tell you about me, I don't take to violent tendencies or blowing things up. Instead I choose to panic and think up terrifying scenarios for those I love.
I wonder if I can be medicated for this sort of thing.
I used to be much less vocal about my anxieties. Accidents have always been a phobia of mine-knowledge that life is short and constantly changing- and I've never been able to get my mind around the idea of not having that sort of control over things…but it was only recently that I started sharing my creepy nervous tendencies with the masses. It's like I hit twenty-one and decided that a broken neurosis is okay to share with the world around me. That or I'm turning wishy-washy in my old age. I prefer to think I'm crazy and proud of it. Let's leave the girly behavior to someone better suited for it, someone like Justin.
Justin…he's late.
Thirty-five minutes late and he hasn't called and the weather is atrocious. Tropical storm, my ass, I think, as I climb onto my window loft and look out at the evening sky. This is why I hate Florida. Well, one of the numerous reasons actually-there's the year-round tourist problem (No, I don't want to take your picture in front of McDonalds, you mullet-loving freaks!), the traffic congestion that is further impaired by the fact that there is only one way to any place, and the weather. If the sun's not beating down on my back, giving me an unhealthy dose of ozone, the clouds are rolling in and creating monsoon-like rains. And the bugs-I'm pretty sure that one of those evil brown beetles ate my pet rabbit when I was seven. I can't believe people purposely retire here. I can't wait to be back in New York City, where the same problems seem much less intrusive to me.
I sit there, watching the cars roll past. Square headlights with tiny beads of water shimmering across the hoods continue down my street into the distance of the blackened sky. It's very film noir, causing me to half expect a guy in a long coat to hop out of a Cadillac and light a cigarette while rain pelts his hat. More cars pass and I decide that God is taunting me (He has nothing better to do, of course) because none are Justin's. Where is he?
I run the mental checklist. Calls, no. Meetings, no. Justin was hitting the golf course this morning with Chris and then spending some time with his mother before meeting me. That was thirty-six minutes ago. Where the hell is he? I pull my legs to my chest and shut my eyes against the horrible images running through my head until it gets so bad that I'm about to start a search team.
I head down the stairs and my sister rolls her eyes. She's onto me. I never could hide anything from Dana and she's become convinced that Justin's broken me. I can't really say I disagree. Who knew that agreeing to love him meant I would have to worry. Ick. I push back the curtain to the windows surrounding our front door and I hear my mother call out from the kitchen, "A watch pot never boils, sweetheart."
I never really understood what that meant, but it's best not to get my mother started. Her excessive use of clichés is not to be argued with-it's like accusing a pastry chef of utilizing a Betty Crocker ready-made mix. I sigh, "Yeah, yeah."
"He's late?" Dana questions. She puts down her book, most likely something about analyzing psyches of uninterested parties, and walks over next to me. She peers out the window and says, "How late?"
"Thirty-eight minutes."
"Wow," she replies. Dana shoots me one of her appraising glances and says, "You really are lame, aren't you?"
"Shut up."
"It's okay. I get antsy sometimes when Kevin is late picking me up."
"You do?"
"No, not really. I was trying to humor you, make you feel not so…lame," she responds with a laugh. She pats my shoulder, scurries out of the room, and I hear her talking in hushed tones with my father.
My father appears as I open the closet door and reach for my jacket. I have no real plan and it's not like I truly believe that standing outside on the driveway while rain soaks through my clothes will make Justin suddenly appear. I simply react and my father frowns upon that sort of thing. He folds his newspaper and slaps it against his opposite palm, studying me carefully, before asking, "What are you doing?"
I put my coat back without a word and mutter, "Nothing."
"I can't hear you when you mumble into a coat closet, honey," he says in his military tone. My father often acts like he's still serving in the army. He'll talk to us like we're the new batch of recruits in camp, but he'll add a "honey" or "sweetie" at the end because he thinks it's less scary that way. It's not. My dad will always slightly frighten me.
I turn around to face him and say, "Justin's late."
"I realize that."
"Oh. Okay."
"Have you tried calling his cellphone?" My mouth tightens and I look around helplessly. My father smiles, "That's what I thought."
I hate it when my father is right. It's second only to when Justin is right-at least my father doesn't do a freaky little dance. I retort, "Who has time for logic in times of possible catastrophe, dad? One day when a house falls on your head, you'll be thankful I didn't stop to call your cellphone before getting you help."
My father stares at me for a moment before hitting me in the shoulder with the newspaper and joining my mother in the kitchen. I've often prided myself on the fact that no one can scare my father out of a room quicker than I can. He's decided that I'm a cracked nut recently. Not only am I "damn liberal" with "no respect for our military or Jesus" (How the two go together, I don't know, but lately I find myself imagining one of those old Catholic school paintings but with Jesus dressed as Rambo.), but I'm strange to him. I worry too much and ponder too long. My father never overthinks anything while I'll overanalyze and spin it around in my head until it's immobile. Justin's the same way: don't think, just do.
We're not an emotional family. We tend to avoid things like overdone sentiment, or any sentiment at all, but lately, the more I worry, the more I think about possible bad things happening, and that means the more I feel the need to say things like, "I love you" or "It hurts me when you take the last chicken wing, dad."
It makes me appear crazier than I am and my father's sure that I've been indoctrinated into a celebrity cult where people sit around and talk about feelings at great length. And it's all thanks to Justin. Don't get me wrong. On a good day, my father likes Justin and thinks he's a courteous young man (obviously he's never been cut off by Justin on the road) except for the flaw of being a popstar. Because of this one thing, my father views Justin as less-than-trustworthy and believes that Justin has introduced his little girl to the evils of sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll.
If you haven't figured it out, my dad has never actually listened to any song that Justin has recorded.
I make my way back upstairs and pick up my phone. I dial his number from memory and after about the fourth ring, he picks up. I don't know whether I should throttle him when he arrives or kiss him.
"I'm late," he says. Justin attempts to counteract my anger with admissions of his guilt. Ha. As if I'm that rational in my anger.
"No kidding."
"There was a back-up on the road. I was stuck, Laney Jane. Not dead."
"You will be."
"I'm sorry. I should've called, but I really didn't think I'd be so late," he says. Again with the attempts at subterfuge.
"Fine."
"I'm glad you worry."
Wrong thing to say. I growl, "I'm not" and hang up the phone. I toss my magazines off my bed in a semi-tantrum. There used to be a time when I didn't concern myself with Justin's well being. I cared about him and didn't want anything to happen, but it didn't interfere with my regular life. Now it's one of those things-how would I deal with it if something bad did happen? I don't think I'm that strong. It's an act you see. I come off as a bitch who doesn't give a crap about things because it's the only way I can manage to get through a day without locking myself and all my loved ones in a fall-out shelter for the rest of time.
I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. It's an old game I've played since I was little-counting the small indents in the paint and then connecting the dots-and it helps to take my focus off the ticking clock. I go back and forth on my plans for the evening. There's something I think I should tell Justin, but I haven't been able to all summer. I keep stalling and putting it off and…well, I'm making a bigger deal out of it than I should (further proof that Justin has worn off on me).
I didn't get the internship for the fall that I was hoping for. They went with someone "more equipped to handle the lifestyle", whatever that means. The truth of the matter is that I wasn't that upset about it. Justin had invited me to spend the summer with him while he was recording his album and, at the time, it sounded great, like what I needed.
Now, I'm two days from beginning my senior year of college and am most assuredly screwed. It reminds me of every lecture my father has ever given me-every choice I make has a consequence.
There were other opportunities I could've pursued for the summer, other ways to improve my resume and prove my worth, but I chose not to. What does that say about me? I typify the idea of the lost twenty something and I'm barely out of my teens.
I'm confused-all the voices in my head drown out my own. I need to escape them. Right now. I flip on the radio, NPR rattling out some news piece on the war on terrorism, and I close my eyes to try and calm myself down before Justin gets here. He can read me too well sometimes and the last thing I want is him taking on my failure as his own. The least I want to maintain is my own mistakes.
I must fall asleep because my eyes flutter open to Justin hovering over me with a stupid grin on his face. He kisses me quickly on the lips and says, "Hey."
I look around, attempting to get my bearings, and rub the sleep from my eyes. I glance at the clock and say, "You're late."
"We've established that, Laney Jane. Try to keep up."
"Oh, push your luck, why don't you?" I reply groggily. I stretch out my arms and slide over to give Justin enough room to sit down. I ask, "Were you watching me sleep?"
"Maybe. Why?"
"Because that's kinda creepy, no matter how close two people are."
"You think so?"
"Yes. So if you do things like watch me sleep, well, I'd prefer not to know about it," I state, trying to take my mind off all the horrible things I had imagined while I was waiting for him. I sigh and say, "Sorry for overreacting."
"Dare I say, it's sweet?"
"You can dare to say it, but you might not live."
"Fair enough," he replies. He sits down next to me on my bed and wraps his arms around me, pulling me against him. I rest my head on his shoulder and revel in the moment. This is definitely Justin's doing. I never used to be a "moment" type-of-girl, but I find myself thinking about that type of thing a lot these days. Maybe it's because our time together is limited or maybe it's one of those awful side effects of love, the way new parents feel the need to overwhelm random strangers with pictures showing how cute their kid is when drooling.
I break the silence after a few minutes and say, "I've decided I'm coming unglued and need to be stopped."
"Nah, I like you the way you are-completely neurotic."
"Gee, thanks, J. You never cease to amaze with me your gift for charming women. You should write poetry."
He shrugs and responds, "Some people refer to my songs as poetic."
"Some people think they've been abducted by aliens too."
"Seriously, I've got a talent for wooing girls through song."
"Well, I know I've never been able to resist you when you sing the line 'would you be my girlfriend?' I practically melt," I reply, nudging him in the side. It is my job to keep his ego in check. If I didn't, I don't think anyone else would fit in a room with Justin.
He taps the bottom of my chin and says, "No need to worry. You're the only girlfriend and there's enough of me to go around." I roll my eyes. Yeah, he's fine. I start to stand up, but Justin pulls me back down and says, "We don't have to move."
"I'm afraid so."
"Not yet. This is peaceful and who knows when we'll be able to do this again."
I roll my eyes again, "We won't be able to do anything if my father walks up the stairs and sees you anywhere near my bed. He'll dismember you and bury the pieces in the backyard." That's all it takes for Justin to jump off my bed. Apparently I'm not the only one my father frightens.
Justin extends his hand to me and pulls me up off the bed. He leans down and kisses me again before replying, "So what's the plan?"
"I'm starving."
"There's a new Chinese restaurant we can try. I've heard good things about it."
"They must have a VIP section."
"No," he replies. He takes my hand and starts walking toward the stairs. He stops before going down and adds, "A separate room that they let JC use before, so I'm guessing we're gold."
"Whatever Ponyboy."
"Otherwise, it's a romantic dinner for you, me, and Toddy," he replies.
I grab my coat and wave haplessly in the direction of the kitchen before hurrying out the door to Justin's car. The minute I open the passenger door, the smell of Burger King and sweat overfill my nostrils. I gag and say, "What is decomposing back there?"
"I don't know. It's best not to question it."
"Dear God," I moan. I wave my hand in front of my face trying to push the aroma away from me. I slide into my seat and as I'm buckling, say, "Your mother will kill you."
He revs his engine and pats my leg before replying, "That's why I'm waiting to ask her to get my car cleaned until I'm in Europe. I think that's a safe enough distance, don't you?"
"Never underestimate the power of a mother scorned."
"I thought it was woman scorned?"
"Same difference."
"Yeah, you're right."
I'm starting to feel like myself again. The stupid nervousness and panic are fleeting away into the evening sky except for a small pinching feeling in my gut. I glance out the window and watch cars speeding by us. I glance at Justin's odometer and he catches me. He states, "I'm doing forty. I swear."
"Sorry, force of habit."
"It's all good, Laney Jane."
"I don't think it is."
"What?"
"I think I'm having a nervous breakdown," I reply simply. I don't mean to make it sound like life and death, or like I'm planning to jump off the roof of Cinderella's castle anytime soon, but the look on Justin's face makes it seem that way.
He puts his blinker on and coasts off to the side of the road. He flips on his hazards and turns toward me. He asks, "What's going on?"
"I'm hungry, J. Can't we talk about this later?" I reply. It's my own fault for mentioning it, especially to Justin. He'll be going on Laney-watch if I don't play this carefully.
"No. Let's talk about it now."
I could tell him. I should tell him; let it slip off my tongue. It's not a big deal. It's really not, but it's like I've let it go so long that it's bound to come across as one. I know Justin and I know that this will suddenly be all about him, when in reality, it has nothing to do with him at all. I take a deep breath and lie, "It's nothing."
"Then why are your hands shaking, Laney Jane?" he says, his eyes darting to my hands with this smug, you-can't-fool-me glimmer.
I immediately shove them into my pockets and say, "This wasn't necessary."
"Humor me," Justin replies. He reaches across the console and twirls a piece of my hair, braiding it with his fingers. He says, "You've been in a funk lately and, as of now, you are officially freaking me out."
"It's nothing," I repeat. I hope to make my voice sound strong, but it comes across much less self-assured than I would've liked. I sound like I'm unable to convey any emotion. I meet Justin's gaze and attempt an explanation, but it's hard to do when I'm not sure why I've been acting this way. "Really. I'm sure it will pass."
"What will pass?"
"Life. The fact that mine sucks," I respond. I see his face twist up-he's so damn sensitive-and I quickly add, "Except you-I mean, you know what I mean."
"Enlighten me."
I sigh in frustration and trace my fingers over my leg. I don't do exposed and needy well, even with Justin. It's something I'm ill-coped to handle when I get like this. I force myself to meet Justin's gaze, repeating that he's friend, not enemy, but sometimes the two get so mixed together anymore. I won't tell him this, but there are times when I wonder if we made the right decision when we chose to be together. It's a fleeting thought, nonsense when I think about it in context, but it sneaks up on me every now and then. I offer a weak smile and say, "I feel stuck. I'm apparently an adult now, but I rarely feel like one-and everything else is a bit…all over the place right now."
Justin's fingers undo the small braid he made and he begins again. I wonder if that's a metaphor for something-the fact that I see redoing and redoing a waste of time while Justin finds solace in it-but the thought quickly passes when his hand slides down my arm, along my leg, and rests on top of my hand. He squeezes it, never taking his eyes off mine, and he smiles sympathetically, "That happens from time to time to us normal folk, Laney Jane. It's called stress."
"A man that dresses like he skinned Cookie Monster for clothing shouldn't refer to himself as `normal'."
"Ha, ha. You're a real comedian," he replies. He caresses my cheek and says, "Lucky I love you, smartass."
"So you remind me," I respond dryly, smiling as sweetly as I can muster.
He leans across the seat and kisses me. It's quick and carefree and those are the best kind of kisses with Justin. He runs his fingers over my bottom lip and he says, "You know you can tell me anything, right?"
"I know."
"So?"
"Let's get dinner. I'm hungry."
"Laney Jane…"
"We'll talk at dinner, J. It's like you said-stress. I'm starting my senior year of college next week and I have no clue what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. Everyone expects me to have things figured out-people are counting on me-and I'm faking my way through all of it."
"That's not-"
"Drive," I order.
Justin looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he focuses his attention on the car. He puts the car into drive, pulls back out onto the road, and peeks at me out of the corner of his eye from time to time. After a few minutes of silence, he says, "I think you're doing great."
"You have to say that."
"No, I don't."
"Yeah, you do."
"Have I ever lied to you?"
I laugh and point out, "Says the man that told me he never watched a porno."
"That wasn't a lie," he insists. He chuckles under his breath and says, "Because technically what I said was that I've never owned a porno-and I haven't. Who needs to own one when you're friends with Joey?"
"You're disturbed."
"And if memory serves me correctly, I couldn't get a straight answer out of you on the topic."
"No, J, I don't own any porn," I say with a roll of the eyes.
"But you've seen one, haven't you?" he glances at me and grins. He nods, not even waiting for an answer from me and comments, "Laney Jane, you naughty girl."
"Yes, it's true. Mine is a decadent and wild lifestyle. When I'm not busy studying my ass off in Comparative Politics, I hang out in nudey bars and I'm quite fond of a good fetish club too."
"I'm a very lucky man then."
I hit him and giggle. He rubs his arm and I say, "Let's get off this topic. It's getting mildly disturbing."
Justin smiles at me. He turns on the radio and starts singing along to a GooGoo Dolls song on the radio. Justin gets caught up in the music and, as he croons to himself, I sit there staring with a mix of amusement and envy. He's so damn good and he knows it. He has never had any doubts about his future. I'm not talking about the celebrity aspect either. Fame, that's something he can't control. It can be fleeting, more fickle than I am about my celebrity crushes, but knowing you're talented-Justin will always be content because he knows that music is his vocation. I loathe him sometimes because of it. The way you hate someone you really love and wish you could emulate and prove your worth too. I want to be so secure in my future and my own abilities.
As if he's reading my mind, Justin turns to face me at a red light. He narrows his gaze on me, one of those inescapable leers that tend to unnerve me as if he sees my every thought, and says, "I have no doubts about you, Laney Jane. You're going to be fine, just fine."
"I hope so."
"I know so. You're top of your class and-"
"My internships suck in comparison to other seniors in my field," I respond without thinking. Okay, I've started down the road-just tell him. It's not big deal, but I'm making it one. Why am I doing that? Why didn't I tell him from the beginning? Why am I letting him think I'm so brilliant when I can't even get the internship I want? I ball my hand up in a small fist and say, "My friend, Frankie-I told you about him right?-well, he interned for Hilary Clinton this summer, Justin. There's a girl in my major that spent her summer studying the history of the Parliament at Oxford. These are my supposed to be my peers, but while I was spending my summer with you, they were networking and making connections."
"Hey now."
"I don't mean-I loved being with you, you know that. It's not about that."
"Then what is it about, Laney Jane? You can tell me."
"It's-politics is all I've wanted to do with my life since the first time my father took me to vote with him. It's like I got it into my head that politics was the only career for me and went with it. What if tenacity and lack of options are the only things keeping me doing it? What if it's not what I'm meant to do? It can be ruthless, demanding, and require a degree of thinking outside of the box-I'm not really an outside-of-the-box type of girl, Justin. What if I don't have it in me? What if everyone can see that and that's why I didn't get offered any worthwhile internships?"
"Melanie Jane, this is you freaking out. I understand the emotion very well. I get like this every time I begin a new project and it passes."
"But-"
"It passes. You're one of the smartest people I know and I have no doubts that you can do anything you set your mind to," he states matter-of-factly. I wish I believed in myself the way he does. He smiles at me and continues, "No matter how it turns out, you tried. What else is there to life except trying?"
I sigh. I know Justin means well, but I'm not sure he understands what I'm feeling. The uncertainty of my future and whether or not I've been doing the right thing this whole time…I'm inundated with a paralyzing fear. I think about the girl I was when I was eighteen and the woman I'm becoming now three years later-we're such different people and I worry sometimes that this new version of me has different aspirations than the eighteen-year-old girl. Justin can't fathom something like that. He's always been the same-an old soul, my grandmother calls him-and he's one of those people things naturally work out for. Justin doesn't realize that it's not necessarily the case for everyone.
I want to explain that to him, but I don't know how. Considering how much I love the English language, it tends to abandon me whenever I have something important to say. I decide it's best to appease him otherwise he'll spend all night worrying about me. He always worries about me. Maybe it's time I worry about him and stop harping on my own craziness.
I look over at him and smile, "I guess you're right, J."
Justin glances at me again and asks, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah."
"I only ask because you told me I was right about something."
"Don't get a big head. It was bound to happen eventually-law of averages and all that."
"Did you ever think I'm right a lot more often than I let on, but choose to placate you?"
I laugh and punch him in the arm lightly, "You're funny."
"Ow."
"Baby."
"Bully."
"Big Girl."
He pauses and scrunches up his forehead as if he's searching his brain for a retort. Finally, he gives up and says, "I couldn't think of anymore 'B' words. Well none that wouldn't get me smacked anyway."
"Good choice."
"See. Me placating my abusive girlfriend," he replies with the smuggest of smug grins ever. He pulls up to the valet attendant at the restaurant (I'm always impressed by valets at the oddest locations-when we were in Los Angeles this summer, Justin used valet to run into the grocery store.) and hops out of the car. He comes around, tosses the keys to the attendant like some wannabe-playa, and opens the door for me. I must admit that's one of the things I love about Justin. He's one of the classic gentleman from Victorian novels and old movies-always opens the doors, pulls out the chairs and says things like, "After you, sweetheart." It weakens the heart of even this staunch feminist.
We walk into the restaurant and follow the hostess back past the main dining area to a private room. Justin pulls out my seat and then sits down across from me. He looks over the menu and asks, "Why do you even bother with the menu? You always get the same thing."
"No, I don't."
"Laney Jane, I've known you for ten years and you've never gotten anything other than beef and broccoli with a vegetable eggroll."
"I might be feeling whimsical. You don't know."
He crosses his arms and smirks at me, "Fine. Prove me wrong."
"I don't feel the need to prove myself to you, J."
"Because you know you're frontin'," he responds in this annoying sing-song voice that makes me want to punch him. This might be what he's talking about with the "abusive girlfriend" thing. Oh well.
"Sometimes I dislike you immensely, Justin," I reply. The waiter appears and I know Justin is watching me intently from beneath the safety of his menu. I order my usual-much to Justin's amusement.
Justin winks at me before ordering the same thing and reaches across the table for my hand. He says, "Knew it."
"This is me disliking you at the moment, Mr. Know It All."
"One would think you'd be moved that I know how your mind works. It's like in the movie Mirror Has Two Faces-"
"Justin, I always worry when you start talking about Barbara Streisand movies. Is there something you want to tell me?"
At first, he appears clueless to my question and then he kicks me under the table, "There are some straight men that can appreciate a Barbara Streisand movie, especially when it makes his usually caustic girlfriend a weepy pile of fluff."
"You must have some other girlfriend I don't know about."
"I know better. You'd kick my ass."
"True, but still, certainly, you're not insinuating that I cry at movies."
"Then how do you explain Tomb Raider?"
"Okay, fine, what I meant to say is that you're not insinuating that I cry at movies unless they are horribly boring and badly-acted."
Justin shakes his head emphatically and states, "You cried at the end of that movie, proving that even the most hardened girls love a good romance."
"Did you have a point? Or are you babbling merely to expunge my character and ensure that you never have sex again?"
"What I was trying to get at before you tried to act like you're not a…weeper…was that every woman wants a man that knows her and pays attention to the detail. Remember the scene in the restaurant when he told her that he knew exactly how she made the perfect bite and how she cut her food? Her character was moved by that; like you're moved by my ability to guess your order," Justin replies.
I cross my arms over my chest defiantly and say, "Nope. Sounds like nonsense to me."
"You lie, you lie, you lie."
"Are you taunting me?"
"Yes."
I can't help but laugh. All my worries are gone and it's the two of us in the moment. We're doing what we're good at-teasing each other and enjoying our time together. And then I'm sad because I know that come tomorrow it will be another week or so before I see him-not our longest separation, but it never gets easier.
"Laney Jane? What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
He doesn't believe me, but he chooses not to push it. I guess he figures I'm never good at keeping anything from him anyway, which is sickeningly true, so he'll find out soon enough. I say, "Enough about me. Are you ready for next week?"
"Performing on my own for the first time? Nope. Not looking forward to it all, but you'll be there, right?"
I nod and say, "Wouldn't miss it."
"Good because otherwise, I'll go insane."
"You'll do fine. You always do."
"It's all on my shoulders now. What if I suck?"
"You don't suck."
"But what if I do? What if something goes wrong with the microphone? What if I trip up on the choreography and end up in the pit?"
I laugh at the image and meet his glare. I raise me hand in surrender and say, "Sorry. Mental picture too amusing."
"Love you too."
"What's not to love?"
"I'm smart enough not to answer that question, Laney Jane."
"You are very astute."
"This doesn't change things for us. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"I'm serious."
"I know, J."
"Because you're still my girl, Laney Jane. No matter what."
I roll my eyes, but respond sincerely, "I'm glad, J."
After dinner, I find myself feeling jubilant. My moods these days make as little sense as a Paul Thomas Anderson movie. One moment I'm infinite, lost in images and dreams and the future. I picture myself back in New York City in a few days in my new apartment. I can see Justin and I lying across my bed, his head on my body as I run my hand over his head, and believing that everything is right with the world.
And then, as quickly as it comes upon me, it's gone, a murmur in the wind and I'm back where I started. It's a hard thing to explain away and make sense of, but sometimes I think that my relationship with Justin is rooted in the promise that his success is what will define us. As if each song he produces is a guarantee of our future together. One hit album equals house in the suburbs, two successes is a marriage, and three equals kids.
What does that mean for me in all of that? Will I one day cease to exist of my own accord?
Justin pulls the car into my driveway. He leaves the engine running idly and his hands slide up the length of me. He cups my face, leaning in and kissing me, and says, "Everything's gonna work out. I promise you."
I smile. It's a weird thing, my feelings for Justin…because prior to realizing the depths of my feelings for him, actually admitting them aloud, and the two of us getting together, I never pictured him that way. I guess it was boiling under the surface-sexual combustibility as Steph is partial to babbling on about-and bound to erupt sooner or later. For the longest time, Justin was just sorta there (I know better than to use the wall analogy ever again-he still harps on about that from time to time), but then it was more. It's weird because now I can't picture him any other way or remember a time when he wasn't the person I wanted to wake up next to.
I'm going to stop now before I make myself sick on all this emotional crap. The boy has broken me. All was right with my world before he decided to mush it up.
I kiss Justin back quickly and reply, "I believe you."
"Have I ever been wrong before?" I give him my perfected are-you-for-real look and he replies, "Have I ever been wrong about this before?"
"I guess there's a first time for everything."
"Think about it, Laney. One more year of this trying-to-coexist-in-two-different-places thing and then we won't have to be apart as often."
This is a conversation for another day. I'm too tired to think about life after graduation any further. There is so much expectation. I force a smile and say, "Let's try and make it through September first, k?"
"Fair enough," he replies. He runs his fingers through my hair and mashes our heads against each other. He kisses my forehead and says, "Now get out of my car before your father catches me doing very inappropriate things with his daughter."
I laugh and think that maybe I should tell him now. Get it out in the open. Let him know what's going on with me and how lost I truly feel, but I can't bring myself to do it. He looks so carefree in the moment and he's got his own crap going on in the next couple of weeks. He doesn't need to be dealing with a girlfriend suffering through a two-decade life crisis.
Besides, it will all work out. I believe that. And if it doesn't, I've still got Justin, right? I can become one of those girls whose life is all about her boyfriend.
Okay, not the most pleasant thought to pass through my mind. I look at him and say, "I've decided something."
"What's that?"
"I'm going to stop worrying so much."
"You should. Ulcers are no one's friend," he replies with a laugh.
I roll my eyes and say, "The disturbing part is that you laugh because you're under the delusion that you're funny."
He ignores my last comment, and asks, "What about sarcasm? Are you going to stop with the sarcasm?"
"Me? Never."
"Okay, fine, I'll live with that. Too much change and you wouldn't be my Laney Jane, anyhow."
"Do you ever worry-"
"Ah, ah, ah," he says, wagging his finger in my face, "No worrying, remember?"
"Do you ever wonder what things would be like if we weren't the people we are today?"
"Huh?"
"We're still young, Justin, and people are constantly growing and changing."
"Doesn't matter. You could never change so much that I wouldn't love you," he says in this adamant tone, as if it's the easiest thing for him to figure out. Again with the being envious of his ability to exist within such extremes where things either are or aren't. He glances at me nervously and says, "Not planning to dump me and run off with Spencer are you?"
I roll my eyes, "First, I thought you were over this Spencer stuff-"
"There is no Spencer stuff. I harbor no worries at all. None. Nada. Zero--"
"I get it, Captain Redundant," I say. If I don't interrupt him now, he'll keep going on and on and on. "Second, he's engaged, Justin, to someone not me."
"The way I prefer it."
"So let it go already."
"Fine," he replies with a shrug. He kisses me again before pulling away and placing his hands on his steering wheel. He yawns and says, "You want to know what I think?"
"I guess."
"I think you're the only one who demands perfection from herself."
"You're one to talk."
"I know. That's how I recognize your aura of hyper-obsessive behavior in the quest for perfection. We're two peas in a pod."
"A demented pod."
"Whatever works, Laney Jane," he says with another yawn.
"It's nice to know that after all this time I can still hold your attention," I say dryly. I look him over and ask, "Are you going to be able to get yourself home?"
"I'm fine. It's been a long couple of days."
"I know."
"Get out of here so I can go home and sleep," he replies. He leans across me and opens the passenger-side door. He kisses my cheek and adds, "Call me once you get into New York and I'll see you next week."
"Okay," I reply. I hop out of the car and start up my driveway. I only stop when I hear him call out my name.
I spin around and he hollers, "It's all going to work out, Laney Jane. I promise you."
I nod and I hear him screech out of my driveway as I open the front door. I watch his car fade off into the distance, becoming smaller and smaller until it's microscopic. It's like the passage of time. I curse myself when I worry about him falling asleep at the wheel.
The new and improved me won't worry so much about things out of my control. Though I hate the idea of anything being out of my control, I'll try to accept things as they come. After all, things haven't been that bad so far, have they?
Author's Notes: Much love to Steph and Susie for the wonderous betaness that they do, for without them, things would be bad. Also, I do apologize because not much happens in this chapter really. It's more to set up Laney's mindset at the moment and how a certain character will be exploiting that to get Justin to react the way he does. mwahahahaha. It's fun to mess with my characters.
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