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ACT I: THE MIDDLE
Scene 1: Her Side - Wherein Things Go Slightly Awry
"She's disillusioned, where's God, etc. Completely suicidal. And one day she snaps. She wants to kill herself but realizes teen suicide is out this year. And homicide is a much healthier therapeutic expression." - Scream
I'm convinced that there is a sociological reason that romances which occur in horror movies are usually destroyed by the villain. No one wants to see happiness all the time. It's sickening and unrealistic. We want to see bloodshed and death. Don't Sydney's boyfriends always bite it in the Scream Trilogy? Don't the guys (the happy-go-lucky type that no one would ever suspect) whom the big-breasted heroine cares for in such masterpieces as Popcorn and Cutting Class turn out to harbor a hard-on for killing in gratuitous fashion? A horror movie's philosophy on relationships: couples and all the lovey-dovey crap that goes with it are cuter when you know one of them will die horribly.
Wouldn't that be a great philosophy to bring into our daily lives? If you go into a relationship under the delusion that love conquers all, you'll be handed a heavy dose of metal cutting through your flesh. If you ask me, the villain is performing a mercy killing. Death by evisceration or dreamwalking off a skyscraper is much less painful than what we do to each other in the name of love.
And I'm no different. Love sucks and today is Justin's day to face the wrath of Melanie Jane Stanton. I'm going to kill him. Hurt him. Make him cry like the little girl that he is. Put the word out on the streets to have all Justin's overzealous fans say their goodbyes now because Laney is on a rampage. That's right. Laney's snapped-college, cameras, and Justin's recent overuse of those Ode-to-Enrique-Iglesias hats and obscenities have finally driven her to plot his demise and talk about herself in the third person.
I'm tired, I'm cranky, and I'm going to kill him. Justin, this is ALL YOUR FAULT!
It's not easy when your best friend is famous. It's even harder when that best friend is also your boyfriend and your mere existence is under constant scrutiny simply because of who you love. It forces every underlying insecurity, no matter how irrational, to boil to the surface, erupting into homicidal urges that make Michael Myers look like Marcia Brady. I'd like to think that I'm beyond such things, but there are several occasions where I want nothing more than to smother some bitch of a girl with her leopard thong as she shoves her tongue down Justin's throat in front of me. As if I don't exist.
Sometimes I wish that I didn't exist, at least not here, in his world. It's not a fun place for a girl like me. I'm not drop-dead gorgeous, I'm not so anorexic that my body eats away at what little brains I have, and on most days, color me crazy, but I'm not a big fan of furry clothing. Justin complains that I don't give his lifestyle a chance, and maybe he's right, but our two worlds orbit in different galaxies. I'm battling with GRE's, my future after graduation, and holding onto a college internship with the latter being my most trying problem of the moment. The political arena where discretion is the ticket to success can be a tough row to hoe when your face is plastered on the cover of some teen rag with the caption "Justin Swears Oath in Blood to Lifelong Girlfriend." (Ew! While it sounds a bit crazy and stalkerish, both of which apply to Justin, it's not exactly the way to sweep me off my feet.) Add to the equation a boyfriend who doesn't understand the meaning of discretion and well…
I'm going to kill him dead. I'm going to grab him by his chicken legs and throw him off a skyscraper, or if I'm channeling my inner Tarantino, I'll slice off an appendage while dancing about the room with a smile. Justin Timberlake, you are a dead man.
I realize I'm being a bit redundant, but I've always found redundancy to be a necessary evil where Justin's concerned. He's one of those guys that women go nuts for. The type who never got enough attention from his mother and now has to make all women love him. Except his mother paid him plenty of attention (one could surmise too much from the ego he sports at times) and for some inexplicable reason, he doesn't even try to make the women swoon-they simply do it. It's sickening.
Even more sickening is my inability to stay mad at the boy. He does these stupid, stupid things like show up to my Political Statistics and Polling class with a bouquet of lilies and proceeds to regurgitate bad renditions of classic movie monologues. It wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't as easy to spot as Gorbachev's birth mark, drawing attention to himself and me. In front of half the university. He thinks it's a romantic act of whimsy and when I try to push him out of the limelight he's so fond of, he gets annoyed with me, spouting out hyperbole and criticizing my lack of spontaneity. As if I'm the problem in this relationship.
I'm mad at him, continuously repeating that I'm going to kill him, but what am I doing? I'm about to knock on the door of his hotel suite and attempt to halt a sulk midway through. Friends have warned me not to chase after him, to make him come to me, but they don't know Justin-his pouting abilities have been marveled time and time again. Besides, though I hate to admit it, with all our recent spats, I'm worried about providing him with too much harping time. It must say something about my sanity, or lack thereof-like what four years of college and three years with Justin has driven me to is a lengthy stay at a mental ward.
I knock on the door and hear a loud groan, followed by some incoherent babble. His footsteps reverberate on the door and it squeaks open slowly. Justin's eyes peek out the small opening that the safety chain allows for. He's still upset. It radiates off him, blinding me like one of his old bedazzled bandanas.
"Laney, what the hell are you doing here?" he asks, blinking several times as if he could wish me away.
Yes folks, this dithering poltroon is the man I've chosen to spend my life with, prompting me to wonder what is with these inner masochistic tendencies of mine. I ask, "Are you going to let me in?"
"Depends," he pauses, surely searching his brain for something clever only to him, and tilts his head to the side. He does this frequently since we've started dating, as if I'm a fun house mirror that distorts images, and I've yet to figure out why. He adds, "Do you know the password?"
I roll my eyes and guess, "Justin's a big girl?"
"Funny," he says, slamming the door shut. For a brief instant, I wonder if he's going to let me in or if our differing ways of existing on this planet have finally become too much of a strain for the two of us, but I hear the turn of the dead bolt and the door flies open. Justin's arms are crossed over his chest and again with the sideways glance. "Can I help you with something, Laney Jane?"
"All the way over here I had a plan of action, Justin."
"I'm guessing it involves grabbing my legs and pleading for my forgiveness," he says. His hand finds its way to my cheek and he pats it before adding, "Now remember, my legs are part of the Justin Timberlake experience, so be gentle."
"I'll give you gentle as I toss your sorry ass off the balcony," I respond, hoping to alleviate the awkwardness between us. I'm not used to unease in our relationship. There's that brief period of time when Justin went mental, proclaiming his love for me to my boyfriend and inundating me with annoying (if not slightly endearing) gift boxes and Candid Camera-esque evenings, but we're over that. We're solid and it's because we understand how each other works. He seems like himself right now. He's acting like the guy I've known my whole life, but earlier, he was frightening. Smiling and winking and attempting to kiss me in front of the entire university, as if what I need while attempting to convince my Department Head (A man who thinks what the federal government needs is a Mussolini fascist to really rev things up-and he's my advisor too. Double Trouble!) that I've got what it takes to work on a gubernatorial campaign, are whispers of popstar loving making the rounds. Politics is a nasty business and Justin doesn't seem to get that.
If Justin picks up on the discomfiture, he doesn't let on. Typical Justin. Ignore what you can't fix and hope it works itself out. What's it he says? Whatever works, Laney Jane. He steps away from me, picks up his beer, and plops down on the sofa. He flips through channels as if I'm not even there-King of the Sulk is making it blatantly obvious that I have wronged him-until it gets so bad that I stand in front of the television in order for him to acknowledge my presence.
He smiles as if he doesn't realize I am still in the room and says, "I'm sorry, did you want something?"
"You're being a brat."
"And you're pissing me off right now, so I thought it best-"
"To what? Blow me off?"
He leans forward and clicks the television off. He folds his hands on his knees and glances around the room, "Sweetheart, last time I checked, you were the one doing the blowing off."
"Justin," I say, but it's more of a sigh.
"What?" he questions and when I don't respond fast enough, he repeats, "What? For Chrissakes, Laney Jane, what do you want from me?"
It's so quiet in the room, I can hear my own pulse. It's deafening, the sounds of cars honking and the swirl of sirens from the city filtering between us. He asks me what I want from him, but as I stare at Justin, I realize one thing-that for the first time in a long while, I'm not sure what the right answer is. I look at him, this guy that I've known all my life, "two halves of a whole" as his mother is fond of saying, but there is a strangeness surrounding us now. I don't recognize him anymore. We're together, but not really, more alone than anything, growing into adulthood separately and every so often pulling a Humpty Dumpty as all the king's horses and all the king's men try to piece us back together again. All the arguments and lengthy quiet on the phone and distance-damn distance-has led us down this strange path. Uncertainty. It's not a place I expected to venture with Justin and, though I hate to think it, a small part of me wants nothing but all of this craziness to stop.
"You've got your own life, Stanton. It might not be any of my business, but I look at you and I imagine you in five years…wasted greatness," Frankie said to me recently. I blew him off at the time, yelling that he should worry so much about his own life and leave me to mine.
Now I can't get his voice out of my head. Repeating it over and over and over and spending hours upon hours mulling over the truth in it. The whole way here, when I wasn't busy plotting out a death scene to rival that of Boromir in Lord of the Rings, I feared the truth in Frankie's words. Am I heading down the road of a never was? Things are so much simpler when love doesn't enter the picture.
"I don't want anything, J," I lie. I know Justin can read me better than that. No matter what is going on with us, Justin senses when I'm not making a full disclosure, but there is no right answer to his question. He wants to pontificate and fix things, fix me I think, and I need to let him. He has to get this off his chest and one of my job duties as girlfriend-along with never asking for directions when he is driving no matter how lost we are and allowing him to continuously explain the importance of basketball to me-is to act as his sounding board. I'm just not used to it being something like this.
"What does that mean, Laney?" Justin finishes off his beer and tosses the empty bottle into the wastebasket next to me. He's waiting, I know; waiting for me to make sense of everything that has happened during the last few months. "Maybe he's right about us," Justin mutters. He removes his sweatshirt and throws it haphazardly across the room. I stare at him. He's got a white shirt on, but with the current lighting I can make out the curve of every muscle. It's a land that I can traverse with my eyes closed, aware of every freckle and mark, falling asleep to the melodic lull of the way his chest rises and falls. I love the way his heart sounds when I rest my head under the nook of his chin, how the palm of his hand presses into the small of my back and his breath blows through my hair and tickles my neck. It's bliss and we need to get back to that somehow.
"What?" I reply.
"Nothing."
"Justin…"
He stands up and walks to me. He places his arms on me, setting his steely blue gaze on mine, and it reminds me of my father. It's the way my father looks at me when he's disappointed or feels the need to lecture me about something. Justin has that look now, the faux-concern-in-order-to-berate glisten. He asks, "Are you happy, Laney?"
"At the moment? No. I'm trying to understand what you were thinking today."
"Not-are you happy with me?" Justin asks, his eyes sliding over me, top to bottom and then back up again. He tries to smile but it comes off more like an evil leer.
"Where is this coming from, Justin?"
"Why does it have to come from somewhere else? Can't I have my own thoughts on us or is intelligence reserved for the other people in your life?"
"I'm beginning to wonder," I snap. It's one of those things I say, not because I mean it, but because I know it will sting. That's one of the downsides to being with someone that you know so well. We both know all the buttons to push, the subtleties to each of our personalities, and if given the opportunity, we could totally annihilate one another. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I dated a virtual stranger, a guy that isn't so self-assured about what I'm thinking. I worry that we have no magic or mystery to our relationship like all books and movies lead you to believe is a requirement for true love to succeed. And sometimes I think any relationship is too taxing to bother and I'd be better off living like Carrie Bradshaw from Sex & the City, moving from one hot guy to the next. Then I think about the ramifications of a decision like that and I can't fathom giving up Justin or pretending the amazing feeling of having someone who truly gets where I come from isn't important to me. So I roll my eyes, bite my tongue and say, "Sorry. That didn't come out right."
"Whatever, Laney."
I take a restorative breath and state, "I'm not trying to be a bitch, Justin, but you're acting weird and you have been for the past few weeks. I want to know why-what happened to make you behave this way? Is it the solo project? Did something happen with your album?"
He scoffs at me like I exclaimed that there was a monster creeping up behind him and shoots off, "Maybe nothing needs to happen to make me act this way. Maybe this is the new and improved me…and you've been too blind to notice. Too caught up in your life."
"Whatever, Justin."
He removes his hands from me, as if it hurts him to touch me, and he ducks his head toward the floor, hiding his face behind the palms of his hands, and grunts, "I don't want to fight anymore. I'm just-it's too much right now."
"No kidding."
"I don't even know why-it's stuck in my head on repeat and I can't get rid of it, Laney Jane," he states. I have no idea what he's talking about. I fear this one of those things I should know about him. One of those soulmate things he babbles on and on about? Maybe he's right and I do suck as a girlfriend. His hand grazes my arm and he says, "I'm going crazy, Laney."
"Can't say I disagree."
"Maybe you should leave-"
"What the hell is going on, Justin? You're like two different people-which Justin am I talking to right now?"
Justin shrugs, "Do you wonder if we're not supposed to be doing this?"
"Huh?"
"You and me."
"Still don't follow."
"Laney, I'm serious. Are we happy together?"
"And we're back to this."
"If you mean me asking you a question that you don't want to answer 'by this', then yes, we are."
"I'm not unwilling to blather on about a person's, or more accurately my, quest for happiness in this world, but I can't comprehend where your sudden desire to analyze my every action is coming from."
"Those were a lot of words to say that you don't care."
"Oh, for the love of God, Justin! Don't put words in my mouth. Of course, I care about you, jackass."
His stoic gaze falters momentarily, the shadow of smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but he stops himself from displaying any emotion. I offer a small smile of my own, to try to coerce it out of him, but this lump of man is no longer my Justin. He lets out a loud hiss-like sound, air decompressing out of a balloon, and says, "Maybe you should start proving it then."
I'm flummoxed. I didn't come here anticipating an in-depth study of our relationship-Justin doesn't do in profundity on a whim. "Proving what? Am I supposed to walk around with I-love-Justin tattooed on my face? Is my entire existence supposed to be about your needs? This isn't the 1950's and I'm not Harriet Nelson!"
"Now who's putting words in someone's mouth?"
I fold my arms, more to keep myself from shaking or indulging in a nervous breakdown. This is so cliché-we can't even be original in our arguments, as if our love of movies has skewed our perspectives and we're forever doomed to strive for something heartbreakingly beautiful that comes out banal. I ask, "Why do you keep harping on this?"
"You're the brainiac in this relationship and you want me to spell it out for you?" Justin snaps. He kicks at the invisible wall between us and walks back over to the sofa. His movements are weird and off-putting, like we're acting out a very bad piece of performance art, moving in and out of the shadows. He clutches his head and says, "Maybe you should go."
"Not until you explain yourself, Justin. First, you show up at my school and make a huge scene-"
"A scene?" he snorts incredulously, spinning around to face me. "Is that what you call it?"
"I won't repeat what I call it because I'm trying to be nice."
"Nice isn't in your vocabulary."
"Touché." I take a few steps closer, but stop short of being near him, afraid that he'll pull an Ode-to-Exorcist and start spitting up pea soup, complete with head spins, at any given moment. I add, "You know what I'm talking about, Justin. My class. I was in the middle of getting a dissertation on the wonders of political pitfalls from my evil advisor and you show up. Why would you do that?"
"Do what exactly? I got to town earlier than I expected. I missed my girlfriend and thought it would be a very romantic gesture on my part. Most girls-"
"I'm not most girls, Justin. My life is complicated enough without this."
"Jesus, Laney. Three years. Three fucking years and you're still not over this. What am I supposed to do? Live like a fucking priest because I'm famous? Not be involved in your life or let people know that I exist to you because it would be simpler for you? Do you have a clue as to how that makes me feel? I didn't ask for this."
"You're full of shit. Didn't ask for this? Ha. You live for it, Justin. You love every minute of being who you are-and I don't blame you. I love who you are too…and I love that you would choose to be with me, even though everyone knows you're better-"
"Do not finish that sentence, Melanie Jane. I won't forgive you."
I sigh. It's what I'm good at these days. The Gone with the Wind sighs of a woman fawning over a man. This is not the life I pictured for myself. I'm twenty-one and the world is my oyster, but I'm enduring petty arguments as half of an old married couple. I'm still figuring out what I'm supposed to do with my life and there's Justin with his whole world planned out for him. He knows where I fit into his scheme of things, but those things have never come as easily for me. I'm not sure what I'm doing most of the time and there's Justin who keeps dwelling on things, telling me that I need to decide what I'm doing next year and where I plan to follow my path so that he can be with me…and it excites me, the idea that we'll have a real life together. But it terrifies me even more because I don't want to be that girl who gives up her entire existence for the guy, even if he is undoubtedly the love of her life. I sigh one more time for effect and reply, "When did everything get so screwed up?"
"I don't know."
"I was being rhetorical."
"We're off, Laney Jane."
"It's been a long few months. We're both stressed," I offer. He's right. We are off and I'm grateful that he's the one to broach the subject first. Let him be the bad guy for awhile.
"That's not it."
"I'm sorry about earlier," I say. I don't mean it. I'm not really sorry for kicking him out of the building and sending him away. He should know me better than that.
It's Justin's turn to sigh. He doesn't look at me, focused on a stain embedded into the carpeting, and he says, "We fight all the time."
"We always fight, J. It's what we do."
"This is different. We're not arguing about which of the Harry Potter movies are better-"
"Second one. Even if they did cut out half the book."
"Laney-"
"It's true-"
"I don't care," he replies, his voice raising a few octaves. He punches the air and exclaims, "I hate this. I fucking hate it." Justin clenches his fist together and sends papers flying off the small coffee table, muttering incoherent nonsense under his breath. "I don't want-fuck, fuck, fuck."
I almost run out the door. Icky love emotions aren't my forte. I know that my feelings for Justin are real. I love him, but it's such an intangible thing, an unquantifiable, mind-altering emotion that I feel tangled half the time. Not the most glorious of feelings, especially not when things aren't making sense or working out the way you hope. I resist the urge to placate him, tell him whatever he wants to hear to simply make it go away, because I know if I do, it will only haunt us. We need to figure this out, as if every debate regarding love and life will be solved if I can simply discern Justin's motivation for all this insanity.
I should beat it out of him. Justin's such a drama queen that if I egg him long enough, he'll crack and spill out whatever it is that is making him behave like a lunatic. Instead, ever the coward when it comes to my feelings, I comment, "Very articulate. No wonder girls swoon over you." He shoots me a look that says not to go for mocking humor and I glance away, tightening my hold on myself until I appear to no longer have my arms crossed, but to be hugging myself. I thought for sure I would come here, appease Justin's ego, and we would be fine. But he's right. We do fight all the time and I get what he's saying-the tone is different. It's not banter, it's hurtful, and I don't know why. I respond, "I didn't know visiting me on campus meant so much to you. You've always been fine with how I prefer things up until recently."
He laughs at me-not with me, at me-in this abrasive tone and looks upward before replying, "Christ, Laney, if you think that's what this is really about…forget it. It doesn't matter."
"Apparently it does."
"No, it's not-you don't want me on campus because I'm not the person you envisioned for yourself and you're afraid all your intellectual buddies will think less of you if they find out that you're dating me."
"That's not true."
"Sure."
"There is a big difference between not wanting your boyfriend to flaunt around your school because he's a famewhore and being ashamed of him. I try to compromise with you, Justin! I go to those award shows with you and I let you babble on in song about how you love brains and whatever else. We keep your business separate from us. That's yours-school is supposed to be mine. My future is too important to screw up because you're in a particularly histrionic mood."
"Your future. Not ours-but then again, why would you want to have a future with a famewhore? That is what you called me, right?" he counters. His hands are clutched into two small balls at his sides, and he's squeezing them so tight that no blood is flowing to his fingers.
"You heard me."
"But I'd like you to repeat it…so it can truly sink in what the girl I've known forever really thinks of me."
"Justin!" I say loudly. He's got to be as sick of this as I am. Everything is a struggle. We've never been cruel to one another before. I once again look to the door, to the balcony, to the windows, basically to any exit to prepare my quick escape. This is an emergency if ever there is one. "Maybe I should leave. Call you when you've calmed down."
"I'm not going to calm down, Laney," he says. His eyes finally find mine, a buzz of thought behind them, but he looks away quickly as if I'm blinding him. "Do you remember what you said to me that day in the limo? I told you how much I loved you and you kept going on about how different we were, that it would never work. Maybe you were right."
"Oh," I muster. I don't know what to say to that. What do you say to that? My heart is racing at the speed of light, beating so loudly that I'm positive Justin can hear, and it makes my head hurt. I don't do well with trips down memory lane-it's depressing, sentimental, or a bit of both-but I'm ensconced in it now. Memories. Fleeting feelings of doubt and truth bundled into one. And I remember the deal I made with myself a long time ago: don't sacrifice yourself for anyone. Is that what I'm doing now? Clinging to someone because it's impossible to picture a life without him in it? I mean, you can't just say my name anymore. It's always Laney of "Justin and Laney" or "Justin's girlfriend, Laney" and, while I don't clamor to the spotlight, there are things I want for my life aside from being Justin's girlfriend. I'm having trouble balancing the two me's-the Laney who is with Justin, and career-oriented Laney who wants to one day write speeches that make Sam Seaborne (fictional or not, he's my role model) mad with envy-and for the first time since we started down the romantic road, I'm doubting the possibility of having my cake and eating it to.
"It's like you said. We're at two different places…" his voice falters and he rubs his hand over his face before continuing, "I'm about to launch a solo album, Laney, and it might be a good idea for me not to be tied down."
I'm not going to cry. Crying is for babies and girly girls and I'm neither of those. I won't cry. I'll kill him. I'll scream at him. Go on about how much I put up with because he's important to me, and that if asking for one thing-privacy at school-is too much, than screw him. Instead I sputter out, "If that's what you want." I think my heart stops beating. My arms are numb. I think I'm having a heart attack. Hopefully, death will claim me before I humiliate myself.
"It's not that…" Justin steps away from me. Back in the shadows again, his face is almost translucent against the darkened area. His breathing is ragged and he continuously clears his throat. It sounds like he's searching for the right words. I've witnessed this before. He would stand in front of the mirror and throw out colloquialisms, words that he meant only in the moment, whatever it took to get him off the hook. He used to do this sort of thing all the time with every girl in his life before me. God help him if he employs the same speech with me. I will hurt him badly. "Laney Jane, I don't-I'm so-" He gulps.
Chickenshit. Jackass. I hate you, I think, but I'm not sure who I'm mad at-him or me.
"It's not you, it's me," Justin says finally.
"Don't you dare," I snap. I hope to sound anything but what I'm feeling, a chaotic whirlpool of boundless anger, agony, and paralyzing fear. I shake my head as if I have water in my ears and if I do it long enough, he won't be saying this to me.
"Laney Jane-"
"Don't-" I meet his gaze and Justin looks more confused than me. His tongue moves from side to side, puffing up each cheek, and I realize that he's trying to figure out how to handle me. I'm about to be handled and there are only two reasons I can think of for that: he's either up to something or he's hiding something. I try to remain calm even though I feel like a large chunk of my world is crashing down on me, and question, "What's really going on, Justin?"
"I told you," he replies, focusing on anything but me, and I'm more convinced that there is more to this story than he's letting on. "I need space."
"Says the guy that calls me three times a day when we're apart."
"So this should make you happy, right?"
"Why would-this is out of the blue, Justin. I think I deserve some sort of explanation."
"It's really not, Laney. It's been going on for months."
"And you've never mentioned it before? I usually can't get you to shut up about every minute detail of your day, but you've kept feelings of this magnitude to yourself?" I pause for a second and when he doesn't respond fast enough, I state, "I don't believe you, Justin. Something's going on."
"Do you think I want to admit something like this, Laney? You were my soulmate. You were the girl I was going to spend the rest of my life with."
Again, I reiterate to myself that I will not shed one tear or harp on the fact that he's using past tense. I don't cry for anyone, dammit. "You're lying to me."
"Laney," he breathes out. It's monosyllabic garble and it becomes strikingly clear that things are forever changed between the two of us. I begin the "if only" game in my head. If only I hadn't come by this evening, if only I didn't react like Laney-monster at school, if only I listened to Frankie at the beginning of the semester and done the dumping first, if only I had never gotten involved with Justin like this. It's one thing to lose your best friend and quite another thing to lose the most important person in the world to you. He's become so essential to my existence, a required vitamin dosage that keeps me from withering away into oblivion. I've always worried about it, but not enough apparently, and I find myself resisting the urge to bang my head against the wall in hopes of alleviating this whatever-the-fuck-I'm-stuck-in. I should've known better. I should've known better. Best friend, Schmest Friend. True love is a fairy tale and Prince Charming turns out to be a prick in the end. Never fails.
I don't say anything. I stand there like some sort of mannequin for the profoundly stupid, and Justin says, "Laney Jane? Please say something."
"Not until you tell me the truth."
"What makes you think I'm not? Is it so impossible to believe that I'm not ready to settle down?"
"There's a bit of a chasm between not wanting to get married, which we've never even talked about mind you, and going our separate ways, as you put it so eloquently."
He shrugs and it makes the urge to hit him even stronger as he replies, "I've been doing a lot of thinking about this. We don't have anything in common anymore. Our lives are going in completely different directions and I'm-I'm barely holding myself together worrying about this album and I can't worry about us too. What was it Frankie said to you? Didn't he tell you that you were too good for me?"
"Is this about Frankie? For the last time Justin, nothing is going on. We have a few classes together and he's my partner on mock trial."
"It's not about Frankie."
"Can you say that while looking at me?" I ask, feeling some relief wash over me. If this is Justin's insecurities about us surfacing, I can work with that. I know how to handle overstressed-and-freaking-out-about-everything Justin. I allow him to get weepy, order Chinese food, and suffer through a fiftieth viewing of Pretty Woman-garnering positive results since 2000-and everything goes back to normal. It's this other stuff I have no idea how to counteract. There's no known cure for the itch to find something better.
Justin doesn't respond at first. He concentrates on the specks of the frail autumn sun strolling in through the windows before night pushes them away. His feet dance across the small patterns of light on the floor and he remains silent. The only sound comes from the stupid television rattling off a list of murders in Queens. Finally, he glances at me. It's a calculated stare. He rolls his eyes and stares at me, his eyes practically ripping me open, and says, "This has nothing to do with your friendship with him. It's no secret that I don't like the guy and that he's always had feelings for you, but-"
"That doesn't matter to me, J."
"BUT this is about us."
"Then why did you bring him up?" Justin doesn't say anything. He walks over to the television and changes the channel manually, placing all his attention on the scores scrolling across the bottom of the screen. "Justin? Don't think you can ignore me until I go away. I'm not as stupid as your past girlfriends-I actually want answers."
"There are no answers, Laney."
"Bullshit."
"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to explain that I'm trying to create some sort of image here, working my hardest to achieve this dream of mine…and you're so different from that. You're wholesome and innocent and-"
"Stop making me sound like Liesl von Trapp, Justin. I wasn't born yesterday. I've always taken how your PR people and Jive choose to represent you with a grain of salt. I've never once interfered with any of that."
"That's not the point, Laney."
"Do you have one? Do you even know why you're trying to end things?"
I watch his chest rise and fall. He's not saying anything. Justin is a master brooder, but this is beyond anything I've ever witnessed. It's like dealing with an insolent child. He rests his head on the television's armoire and says, "There's not always some mystery to uncover. Sometimes things end and you've got to accept it. It's over, Melanie Jane. We want different things out of life and it's better for both of us this way."
"That's not good enough, Justin."
He peeks out at me and replies, "You should leave now."
"Justin-"
"Don't make me call security. This doesn't have to be ugly."
I'm not sure what the protocol for this sort of thing is. There should be a class on love and how to react when your best friend dumps you and refuses to illuminate on why. I squeeze the strap on my bag and try not to forget where I am, who I am, but it's how the moment goes. One second it's all about pride and maintaining a modicum of dignity despite the questions I wish to scream-why and how did this happen when you promised it wouldn't-and one second later, I'm lost in it...who I am...and who I've lost.
A small cry escapes and I rush to the door. I will not cry over him. I will not do it. But all it takes is that one slip in composure, that nanosecond where I let myself go, and then I can't stop it. It's a torrent of remembering, what I picture death to be like, but more painful because there is no end in sight. As I open the door, I raise my free hand to muffle the guttural sound about to escape from my throat, reminding myself that Justin no longer gets to witness my vulnerability.
A tiny piece of me is holding out hopes that this is some sort of sick joke--Justin's been known to have the most skewed sense of humor (aka-not funny at all)-so I allow myself to slow down at the door, my hand resting on the cold steel for a small lapse of time. I rest my forehead against the grimy doorframe, and as I do, his words play over in my head, "This doesn't have to be ugly." I feel like a stalker, an intruder in his life that he's trying to mollify with meaningless words.
He calls out my name, "Laney Jane" but I don't stop. The disbelief in the words that I know just came out of his mouth is slowly fading and the realization that I've been dumped hits hard. I rush out into the sanctuary of the hallway, a weatherless atmosphere that is only a small notch above a hospital in its blandness, and make my way to the elevator. Justin, being Mr. Can't Have Anyone Hate Me Even When Dumping Her Pathetic Ass, follows. His hand rests on my shoulder and he turns me around to face him. I won't look at him. I can feel his eyes on me; I always can. It doesn't matter if it's a crowded room, one of his concerts, or half-way around the world, I know every time without fail that his eyes are trained on me. It has always been a comfort, but not anymore. His eyes are small daggers slicing me open and everything around us is tainted with anguish. I can't look at him. I won't, I won't, I won't, I holler at myself.
Of course I do. I'm a glutton for punishment, I swear. His eyes are reflections of my own, only adding to my confusion, and I almost reach out and hug him, stopping only seconds before my hand grazes his neck. Instead I do one of those lame, pretend-to-be-stretching moves that no one ever buys. I'm so obvious and pathetic. Justin is the one pushing me away. He's the one that's made this huge decision and won't tell me why. I should hate him. I need to hate him.
I ask, "What now?"
Justin's eyes are still fixed on me as he says, "Let me get someone to drive you home."
"Screw you, Justin."
"Getting yourself killed to prove a point-"
"I'm a big girl, Justin. I can take care of myself."
"This doesn't-just because we won't be together, doesn't mean I-"
"I'm not listening," I say. Now I'm the insolent child.
"-I still care about you. That could never change. Hurting you was never my plan."
The air is still, and the silence surrounding us is unbearable. The anger, the confusion, even the pity I can tolerate, but the silence is about to be my downfall. I push on the elevator button again. I glance at Justin. Our gazes lock and I feel like things are how they used to be where we know what the other is thinking, except I have no clue what is running through his head. I can only hope he can still read me as I try to let him know that I can't do this right now and that he needs to leave me alone before I go crazy without uttering a sound.
"I'm fine." My voice breaks the silence, not defiantly as I wished, but in surrender. The pain is smothering me and I'm able to resist the tears less and less. No, I yell at myself. I won't lose control. I won't let him do this to me. I swore he would never do this to me. I keep repeating it, but my eyes don't appear to get the message and a fresh wave of tears slide down my face. I curse myself and hit the button again, "I'm just fine."
"Laney Jane-"
"You don't get to call me that," I mutter. God only knows what it comes out sounding like, but I don't care. I don't care. Really.
Justin's face scrunches up like I hit him in the face with a lead pipe and he replies, "What?"
"You heard me."
"I'm not doing-"
"You don't get to do anything to me again. Go live your life as the happy, on-the-prowl popstar that I've been hindering you from becoming."
"But…" He starts to say something and there is a weird inflection-hysteria, sorrow, anger-to his voice that I force myself to ignore as the elevator doors open on cue. I shuffle inside as quickly as possible, slamming my hand against a few different buttons-not caring where I end up as long as he's not there-and shutting my eyes until I feel the floor below me lurch. I feel my knees tremble as my legs give out completely and I slide to the ground. How can something like this be for the best if it hurts so damn much?
I think about the movies like Better off Dead or Pretty in Pink and how break-ups always have a way of resolving themselves within ninety minutes and I pray that applies to real life, though I know it won't. I create a list of movies in my head that accurately portray why women are better off not even bothering with stupid males and their defective Y chromosome.
Flatliners - Billy Baldwin's character is voyeuristic, pervy,
philanderer who cheats on his fiancé with dumb girls and films it.
Then he has the audacity to be shocked and amazed when his fiancé
doesn't forgive him for his blatant stupidity.
Very Bad Things - While a very funny movie in a deranged way,
it proves that all men are infinitely dumb. They do things like kill a hooker
after sex (is it really a big problem in society? Too many hookers getting
off'd by rambunctious clientele?) and then try to cover it up like the cowards
they are. And somehow the woman ends up the bad guy in the whole thing-go
figure. Men suck.
Fatal Attraction - A guy would argue that this movie makes
the woman look bad, but I disagree. Michael Douglas is the adulterer who
hooks up with Glenn Close. He only thinks of himself and when Glenn Close
wants something from him in return, he acts as if he's the wronged party.
If Mr. Affairs-R-Us simply kept his fly-zipped that pet bunny would still
be alive today.
Fast and the Furious - Guys will always care about their cars
more than you. Enough said.
I'm With Lucy - Proof that even the ones a girl thinks are
a great catch turn out to be insane and frightening. David Boreanez is in
this movie as a wealthy doctor, who appears totally committed to a relationship
with the leading lady, and you think perfection. Except Mr. Hotness has anger
management issues and substantiates my claim that no man is without severe
dysfunction.
Rain drops pelt me on the face and I curse myself for rushing out without an umbrella or a coat with a hood. The water slides down my cheeks and hits me from different angles, dripping down my back and soaking my socks. I deserve to drown in it, if such things are possible, because I did this to myself. I claim to know Justin better than anyone, but I never saw this coming. I was ill-prepared for tackling coupledom. I've always thought of love as a game. To win a person has to play hard, think fast, and always follow the rules. Except now the rules have changed, the game has changed, and I've never been one of those go-with-the-flow-adapts-well types. I lose, which makes me a loser.
I don't know how I find my way home. It's one of those instinctive things like how people end up driving to work without meaning to go there. I live six-blocks off campus in a two-bedroom apartment that I share with two other girls-Marisa and KiKi (Unfortunately, that is her real name and worse, she was a cheerleader). It's what in most cities would be classified as a dump, but in New York City, it's golden. I love that about New York. Squalor is sophistication. I remember when I first moved in. Justin looked the place over with this horrific expression hammered onto his face and said, "Well, uh, it's awful brown, Laney Jane." I knew it wasn't spectacular-you could probably fit our entire apartment into Justin's bedroom-but it was mine. Something I paid for (sort of) and therefore it was magnificent.
As I open the door all I feel is Justin's presence. He's only been in the apartment a handful of times, but I smell him the minute I enter. He's a part of everything, from the stupid espresso machine he bought under the pretense of a gift for me (even though I don't drink coffee and he's a caffeine addict) to the picture of the two of us at some soiree that sits on my computer desk. I can't be here right now. The lack of colors and the smell of recently-cooked-chicken and…god, everything…make my head ready to explode.
I rush to my room, ruffle-ized and rose, like Laura Ashley threw up the décor. It's nothing more than a mirror-image of my room back home except it has a "big-girl bed" and less closet space. The wind whips against the windows, creating a loud rattling noise and causing the frames to shake and cover my bed in chips of paint. It seems that everything is crumbling in around me. I slam down the picture frame of happier times mocking me from my bureau and grab a duffle bag from the closet. I don't know where I'm going yet, just somewhere not here.
It's not until I'm packing up a few things that I notice it. I don't know how I missed it before now-it's dead center in the room and huge. I walk toward it slowly, wondering if I'm hallucinating, and touch the card attached to the large box. I finger the bow and allow it to unravel on the floor around it, too afraid to open the card.
I jump when Marisa appears behind me and whines, "My boyfriend never does anything like this for me."
I'm about to explain that I no longer belong to the couple-club when I absorb her words and ask, "Huh?"
"Justin. It's for you, proving once again that you're the luckiest girl on the planet to have such a great guy."
Lucky this! He didn't just dump your ass. "What?"
Marisa frowns and says, "Stop rubbing it in. You've got the dream guy and I've got Gary."
"No, but, it can't be from Justin."
Marisa crosses her arms and says, "I let him in to drop it off, Laney. It's from Justin. Did you even read the card?"
"But he-we're-" I stumble for words as I try to make sense of this. I might not have large amounts of experience in relationships, but it seems a bit odd that a guy would hand-deliver a gift and then dump you without provocation. I look to Marisa for advice. She is the relationship guru, who reads Cosmo and dumps guys for drinking light beer, and she'll be able to sift out any implications in Justin's gift. I fall down on my bed and ask, "Are you sure it was Justin?"
"Laney, even if I hadn't been your roommate for over three years, I would recognize Justin Timberlake. Justin came in and put the gift right where it is. He said he wasn't even going to mention it. He wanted to surprise you."
"Oh, it's a surprise alright," I reply, kicking at the box, expecting a bear to spring from its confines and claw me to death.
Marisa appraises me suspiciously and asks, "Who were you expecting it from?"
"Prince William would be a more likely candidate at the moment than Justin."
"Are you cheating on Justin?"
"What? No, Marisa," I respond with a scowl. I glare at her and add, "Remember we've had this conversation-Harlequin romances are books, not reality."
"Shut up. You're so busted."
"Doing what?"
"You're packing a bag," she replies. She inches closer to me, sniffing around me as if I'm smuggling drugs into the country, and exclaims with a finger-pointing in my direction, "And you've been crying! Ha!"
"Yes, it's true. You've caught me. I'm a ho-bag."
Marisa falls onto the bed next to me, "Really?"
"No, not really." I kick at the box again, still unable to open it, and shrug, "Well, you were right about the crying-though if you say anything to anyone about witnessing such things, I'll deny it and ramble on about your proclivity for men in lycra."
Marisa gasps-whether it's over my threat or the fact that I am, in fact, weeping, I don't know-and wraps her arm around me. We're suddenly roommates from those books Freshman Dorm. Roommates that are always there for each other and don't steal each other's sweaters without asking. She asks, "What happened?"
"I don't know."
"Laney, you can trust me, you know."
"It's not that I don't trust you. I honestly don't know what's going on. Justin drops this gift off here for me, but then I get to his hotel suite and he breaks things off. Tells me that he'll always care about me, but-"
"Ew. Not the but."
"There was definite but usage-it was like I was yet another one of those girls whom he got bored with."
"That's really weird, Laney," she concurs.
I shrug. Any intelligent thought has fled my brain for greener pastures. "It's over."
"Oh my God," Marisa says. She grabs my hand as if an epiphany has hit her full steam and she questions, "What if-what if Justin suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder and you're the only one who can save him? Maybe Personality One loves you and that's who the gift is from, but personality two wants to be single for awhile?"
Do you see what I put up with? I love Marisa. She's a decent roommate and we get along well enough, but honestly, sometimes she requires the patience of Job to get through a conversation. I roll my eyes and reply, "Yeah, but back here on Planet Earth it's more likely that Justin's just a dick."
"Probably, but what you guys had was special."
"Well, whatever made it special is gone now," I counter. The sadness of the statement hits me like arrows being flung at my chest. There aren't many words that evoke strong emotion from me. There's love, evil, hate…but I never thought of "gone" before. Now it feels like a swear or a hex, damning me to hell with those four simple letters-gone. Allé in French or ido in Spanish. The word sounds so much more elegant in other countries, fuller, not so harsh, not so real, not so…gone.
I stand up and go back to packing up my duffel bag. Marisa watches me intently, as if I'm some crazy person in need of constant care, and finally says, "You should open the box. Maybe it'll explain things."
"Did you ever think I don't want an explanation?" I reply in exasperation. I hate that I'm being snippy with her. It's not Marisa that I'm mad at. It's him. Justin. Bastard extraordinaire. "Sorry."
"It's all good, Laney," she says, rising from the bed and walking to the door. She asks, "Where are you going?"
"Frankie's."
"Oh."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"I heard the inflection in your voice."
"I'm not your mother, Laney. It's none of my business."
"Whatever."
"Be careful. Rebound hook-ups end badly."
I throw my sweater in the bag and scream, "There is nothing between me and Frankie."
"Then why are you going to him?"
"Because he's the closest thing to a best friend I have in the near vicinity that isn't Justin. Because Frankie has an extra room at his loft that no one is using and being around you and Gary or Kiki and her soup de jour is the last thing I need right now."
"If Justin calls?"
"Tell him to drop dead," I say. I swing the bag over my shoulder, rush out of my room, and head straight for the front door. I almost have myself convinced but curiosity gets the best of me. "Fuck," I mutter, dropping the bag to the floor and hurrying back into my room. I close the door, positive that whatever's in this box will harvest a reaction out of me that I won't want witnessed by anyone, and stare at the box for a good long while.
Finally, I finger the card and pull out one of those Hallmark Old Lady cards. It's Justin's scrawl, signed with, Thinking of you. Love you Laney Jane, your dumbass. I don't even bother to scold myself when the renegade tears slip down my cheek. I wad up the card into a ball and throw it against my wall. None of this makes any sense.
I pull the lid off the box carefully, still not convinced that it's not some horrific joke, a cosmic punishment for something from a past life, and a small sob escapes when I remove a large white teddy bear with a beret on his head. Pinned to the teddy's sweater it says, Didn't airport you this time. I hug the stuffed animal to my chest and sit there for a long time, not moving, barely breathing, wishing something would happen, maybe an angel appear in the sky who could explain what had happened.
I know the answer to that question, even before it crosses my mind, but I'm not sure I have it in me. I have to talk to Justin again. He's the only one who can help me with this. And who knows, maybe Marisa is right. Not about the D.I.D., that's simply inane, but about me being the only one who can help Justin with whatever is driving him to these drastic measures. Either way, I'm going to find out what's going on.
Tomorrow morning, Justin Timberlake is a dead man-though my motivation remains to be seen until we talk.
Author Notes: First, this story is not going to be quite as happy as Rhythm and Blues, seeing as this focuses on those ups-and-downs times that all relationships go through and such. Of course, there will still be plenty of Justin being a drama queen and Laney being overly-sarcastic to avoid getting hurt. Fun times. Much thanks to Susie and Steph for their beta-greatness.
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**For further of explanation of Justin's gift you'll have wanted to read the lost scene about it.